Tomi's pov
The night Ji-hoon messaged me on WeChat, I was lying on my bed, face down in my pillow, already half asleep. My phone buzzed once, lighting up beside me, and for some reason I opened it.
Ji-hoon: Let's go see a movie tomorrow. I'll pick you up by 5.
I stared at it for a good three minutes, the glow of the screen making my eyes sting. My first instinct was to type "No. Not interested. Leave me alone." But my thumb hovered uselessly over the keyboard. The thing about guys like Ji-hoon was that if you told them no directly, they twisted it into some game—"oh, she's just playing hard to get." And I was way too drained to deal with his ego. So I did the one thing I knew would drive him crazy: I ignored him. Closed the chat, locked my phone, shoved it under my pillow, and rolled to the other side. But sleep didn't come immediately. My head was buzzing with everything—classes, work, exams, and now Ji-hoon acting like we were in some school drama. I pressed my eyes shut and told myself: Focus, Tomi. You don't have time for distractions. The next few days I threw myself into routine. Classes, endless pages of textbooks, scribbled notes that didn't even make sense to me when I reread them, late-night ramen at the dorm kitchen, rushing to my part-time job at the café, coming back exhausted and collapsing. Still, avoiding Ji-hoon on campus was its own sport. He seemed to pop up everywhere, outside lecture halls, at the cafeteria, even once near the library doors. Every time I spotted him, I took a detour, pretended to be on a phone call, or suddenly remembered I "forgot something." It was exhausting. But what bothered me more was Sasha. She hadn't been in the dorm for two nights straight. Her side of the room stayed untouched, the sheets flat and neat, which was not Sasha at all. On campus, whenever I passed her, she suddenly had her eyes glued to her phone or started walking faster. She wouldn't even respond to a "hi." At first, I thought maybe she was stressed about something personal. But by the third day, the weight of her silence pressed on me. I decided I'd just confront her directly when she finally showed her face in the dorm. On a Wednesday evening, and I had just come back from my shift at the café, smelling faintly of espresso and milk foam. I tossed my apron on my chair, grabbed my laptop, and slumped onto my bed. My phone buzzed.A new notification. Instagram. When I opened it, my heart almost stopped.
@MinJae_official: hi Tomi
I blinked at the screen. Once. Twice. Three times. It had to be fake. Some random person trying to catfish me using his account. Min-Jae wouldn't send me a message right? Yes, the profile was verified, the blue tick glowing right there, but… no. Impossible. Min-Jae was unconscious. He had been for weeks. He couldn't be texting me. I sat there staring at the message, my chest tightening. My thumb hovered over the screen. What if it's real? What if it's actually him? But the other part of me, the part that panicked about everything said: What if it's not? What if you reply and whoever it is uses your words against him? Or worse, against you? Before I could overthink it further, I did what seemed safest. I blocked him. And then sat on my bed with my heart pounding like I had just done something unforgivable. That night, sleep didn't come easily. I tossed, turned, hugged my pillow, stared at the ceiling. What if I had just blocked the real Min-Jae? What if he had really reached out? The anxiety got so heavy I finally opened WeChat and messaged Tae-ho.
Tomi: Hi, sorry to bother you. I just wanted to ask… is Min-Jae still unconscious?
He didn't reply immediately. Those few minutes felt like forever. Then finally:
Tae-ho: No. He woke up about five hours ago. He's been very weak but conscious.
My breath caught.
Tomi: What??? Really?? I thought… oh my God.
Tae-ho: Yes. He can't move his legs yet, but the doctors said with therapy, he should be okay in three months. He's on crutches. We were very lucky.
I pressed my phone to my chest, tears stinging my eyes. He was alive. He was okay. Not completely okay, but alive. Then the guilt crashed in: I remembered I had blocked him. I quickly unblocked the account, my hands trembling, and typed a reply.
Tomi: I'm so sorry. I thought your account was hacked. I didn't believe it was really you.
For a minute there was no response. Then finally, the typing dots appeared.
Min-Jae: I thought maybe you didn't want to talk to me.
Tomi: No! Never. I just didn't want to risk someone impersonating you.
Min-Jae: It's okay. I'm glad you replied.
I let out a shaky breath, smiling for the first time in days. That night, we talked for hours. About little things at first, me telling him about how exams were frying my brain, him telling me about how boring hospital food was. He admitted he hated how weak he felt, how helpless. I typed back that he was the strongest person I knew. He said that wasn't true, that I was stronger for surviving in a foreign country alone. I was blushing all through our conversation. I didn't even realize how late it was until my phone battery hit 3%.
Tomi: Okay, I really have to sleep now before my phone dies.
Min-Jae: Fine. But promise you'll reply tomorrow.
Tomi: Promise.
I went to bed hugging my phone like it was some fragile treasure. I didn't want to stop talking to him and felt like the moment should last forever but it was late, I had classes the next morning and Min-Jae needed to rest too. Over the next few days, my world felt lighter. I'd be in the library, eyes drooping over notes, and then my phone would buzz.
Min-Jae: Studying again? You should eat.
Tomi: Yes, Eomma.
Min-Jae: Don't sass me. I'm injured. I deserve respect.
Tomi: Lol okay, sir.
Sometimes his texts were short, sometimes long paragraphs about how he was feeling. He told me the doctors had cleared him to go home in a week.
Min-Jae: When I'm discharged, I want you to come see me.
Tomi: Really?
Min-Jae: Yes. I'll ask Tae-ho to pick you up after school.
Tomi: I don't want to bother you.
Min-Jae: You'd never bother me.
Every time he said things like that, my heart flipped like a pancake. Meanwhile, the news spread quickly. Social media was buzzing:
"Actor Seo Min-Jae conscious after accident, will take 5 months off for rehabilitation."
I saw it on Twitter, Instagram, even in group chats. Everyone was talking about it. But for me, it wasn't headlines, it was him. The person texting me late at night about how much he hated physical therapy, how embarrassed he was needing help to stand, how much he wanted to just walk outside again. And I was there, sending him silly memes, typing encouragement, reminding him he wasn't alone. I wanted to stand by him through everything. The only shadow left was Sasha. I hadn't seen her in days, and it was starting to bother me more than I wanted to admit. Finally, one night, I asked Yuri and Nia about it. I figured they probably know her whereabouts. "Oh, Sasha?" Yuri said, brushing her hair in front of the mirror. "She took a leave from school. A week, I think." "Yeah," Nia added, scrolling on her phone. "She didn't say why though. Just packed a bag and left. We have no idea where she is." I froze. A leave from school? Without telling me? Without even a word? The thought gnawed at me long into the night. Sasha was supposed to be my best friend but I felt something was wrong. Yes, the four of us were really close and told each other everything, but I felt Sasha and I were different. We had the most classes together so we were much closer than others. I felt betrayed with the way she was treating me but I just decided to forget about it for now.
Min-Jae's POV
When I sent that message" hi Tomi" my hands were shaking more than they should have been. Not because of weakness, though there was plenty of that these days, but because it felt like pressing into something fragile, something I wasn't sure I had the right to touch. For hours, I had stared at my phone screen in this sterile hospital bed, wondering if she'd even want to hear from me. Wondering if she'd forgotten me already. But when I got 'you can no longer send messages to this profile' and realized I had been blocked by Tomi, it was like ice water dumped over my head. For a second, I just stared at the screen, my chest tightening, trying to figure out what I'd done wrong. Did she hate me now? Had my accident embarrassed her somehow? Or maybe she thought I wasn't worth her time. I tossed the phone aside, harder than I meant to. Pain shot up my side and I hissed, pressing my fingers against the hospital blanket. Every movement reminded me of how useless I was right now. Three weeks in bed, muscles wasting away, my once-strong legs refusing to obey me. A month ago I was running drills, rehearsing for shoots, planning tours. Now I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without help. The world kept moving, but I was stuck. The doctors had said it clearly: "With therapy, three months. Without discipline, longer." Three months felt like eternity. My career would bleed during that time, my name slowly pushed out of headlines, my face replaced by someone hungrier, healthier. But I was alive. It still felt strange, that word. I didn't feel alive at all. I felt trapped between the white walls, suffocated by the smell of antiseptic, watching sunlight crawl across the floor like a taunt. So when Tomi blocked me, I told myself: Of course. Why wouldn't she? She deserved someone strong, someone unbroken. Not me. But then, my phone buzzed again. It was a notification. She had unblocked me and sent me a message.
Tomi: I'm so sorry. I thought your account was hacked. I didn't believe it was really you.
I stared at it for so long my vision blurred. Relief spread through me, messy and uncontrollable. My throat tightened. My fingers trembled as I typed back.
Me: I thought maybe you didn't want to talk to me.
Her reply came fast: No! Never. I just didn't want to risk someone impersonating you.
For the first time since I woke up, a small laugh escaped me. Weak, but real.
Me: It's okay. I'm glad you replied.
And just like that, something shifted. The heaviness didn't vanish, but it cracked. That night we talked until my eyelids sagged. She told me about exams, about being so tired she sometimes fell asleep on her books. I told her about how the nurses always brought me lukewarm soup and how hospital rice had no soul. She teased me until I almost forgot I couldn't move my legs. She called me strong; I told her she didn't know what she was talking about. She was the strong one—living alone in a foreign country, building her life brick by brick. I didn't tell her, but I wanted to say: You're the reason I'm holding on right now. When she finally said goodnight, I lay in the dark, phone clutched in my hand, chest full of something I hadn't felt since before the accident. Hope. The days that followed blurred into a rhythm. Painful therapy sessions in the morning, endless stretches in the afternoon, doctors lecturing me about patience. But every buzz of my phone brought light.
Min-Jae: Studying again? You should eat.
Tomi: Yes, Eomma.
Min-Jae: Don't sass me. I'm injured. I deserve respect.
Tomi: Lol okay, sir.
I smiled at my screen more than I thought possible. She didn't see me as weak. She saw me as… me. Not the actor, not the patient, just Min-Jae.
One evening, I typed what I had been thinking all day: When I'm discharged, I want you to come see me.
There was a long pause before she replied: Really?
Yes. I'll ask Tae-ho to pick you up after school.
Her hesitation bled through the screen. I don't want to bother you.
You'd never bother me.
I meant every word. Meanwhile, the outside world finally caught up. News articles exploded everywhere: "Actor Seo Min-Jae conscious after accident, to take five months off for rehabilitation." My phone buzzed nonstop with messages from industry people, fake friends, distant relatives. I ignored them all. The only messages I wanted came from Tomi. Still, shadows remained. Han-Ji lingered too close. My parents pretended concern but only asked about my schedule. Min-Young texted me links of Han-Ji's photos like she was offering me a consolation prize. I wanted to scream. But then there was Tomi. Always Tomi. She didn't care about image or headlines. She just asked if I'd eaten, if I'd rested, if I was okay. And for once, even with broken legs and a broken career, I felt like maybe I could be okay.