That night was like torture. Minjun tossed and turned in bed, flipping from his side to his back again. The sheets were tangled, the pillow felt too hard. Every movement sent a nauseating wave through his stomach. His head spun so much that the ceiling seemed to float in the dark.
He pressed a palm to his lips, trying to hold back the nausea, but it returned again and again. His chest felt heavy, his breathing uneven. Even the glass of water left on the nightstand was repulsive.
This was not just that morning. For several days in a row, Minjun ate almost nothing. Any smell of food seemed too sharp, and a single bite would get stuck in his throat. He grew pale and weak, but he remained silent. A slight tremor in his fingers, the emptiness in his stomach, and persistent dizziness became his constant companions.
On the third day, the sound of the front door opening echoed through the house - his father had returned. His footsteps resonated on the marble floors, and everything inside Minjun constricted.
"Come down for breakfast," his father ordered curtly, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. His voice was flat, brooking no arguments.
Minjun obediently started to descend, holding onto the railing. Midway down the stairs, his head suddenly spun. The world blurred, and his legs felt like cotton. He squeezed his fingers so tightly that his knuckles turned white, but he managed to stay upright. He took one step after another until he reached the table.
His father was already sitting at the massive table. Neatly arranged dishes were in front of him. He ate calmly, methodically, as if every gesture was part of a strict ritual. Minjun sat opposite him.
On the plate in front of him lay an omelet and warm rice, but his stomach clenched at the sight of them. He tightened his grip on his knees, trying not to show his weakness.
The silence was suffocating. His father ate, occasionally looking up at his son. Minjun felt that gaze, cold and piercing, as if he were being scrutinized, but nothing was asked.
At the end of breakfast, Minjun's plate remained untouched.
Back in his room, he sank onto the bed. His heart was beating erratically, his breathing was uneven. But soon, the door creaked softly - the secretary came into the room.
He held a phone in his hands.
"You have a few minutes," he said reservedly, but his voice was softer than usual. "You can talk to Mr. Jeon."
Minjun's head shot up. His heart fluttered - this was too unexpected. He carefully took the phone, feeling his fingers tremble. The secretary remained by the door, pointedly looking away to give them at least the illusion of privacy.
"...Minjun?" Hyuk's voice was ragged on the other end, filled with so much worry and tenderness that Minjun's eyes stung.
"It's me..." he whispered, his voice almost breaking.
A pause. Only Hyuk's breathing could be heard.
"Where are you? I've been looking for you every day... Minjun, I... I'm going crazy without you."
Minjun gripped the phone tighter. The secretary was standing nearby, and he couldn't say anything extra - neither about his condition nor the baby. But even simple words now felt like a lifeline.
"I'm... I'm okay," he said softly, trying to put everything he couldn't say into those words. "You shouldn't worry."
"How can I not worry?!" Hyuk's voice broke, then immediately softened. "I... I miss you. So much."
Minjun closed his eyes, pressing the phone to his ear as if that could make him feel closer.
"I miss you too..." he exhaled, barely audible.
On the other end, a quiet sigh, full of tenderness, was heard.
"I love you, Minjun. Please, hold on. For us."
His lips trembled, and a tear rolled from his eye.
"I'll try..."
The call was cut off. The secretary gently but firmly took the phone.
"That's enough," he said.
Minjun nodded, unable to say a word. He sank onto the bed, pressing his hands to his face. But even this short conversation left a quiet warmth in his heart.
Hyuk was waiting for him. And that meant Minjun had to hold on.