CHAPTER 58
Noeul woke sometime in the afternoon. He knew it was afternoon because the light coming through the curtains was too warm to belong to morning.
Time still refused to stay where it belonged.
He lay still beneath the blanket, listening.
Water running somewhere. The muffled sound of television from another room.
A cupboard closing. Someone walking past the door.
Ordinary noises.
Nothing happened. No one came in. No one touched him. He kept listening anyway. His eyes moved toward the door. Closed. Not locked. He remembered Duri showing him the lock earlier.
You can lock it from inside if you want.
Noeul had stared at it for several seconds before turning the small metal piece. Duri had simply nodded.
Okay.
Then he’d left. No questions. No attempt to convince him that he didn’t need it.
He shifted beneath the blanket. Pain answered immediately.
His body still felt unfamiliar. His head hurt less than the day before, but the rest of him seemed to exist in separate pieces, each carrying its own memory he didn’t want. Noeul closed his eyes.
A hand. A bed. A voice.
You belong to me.
His eyes opened again. “Stop.” The word escaped before he realized he’d spoken. The room remained empty. Noeul stared at the ceiling. No one answered. No one told him to be quiet. He took a breath. Then another.
Someone knocked.
Noeul froze.
Three soft taps.
“Hyung?”
Duri.
Noeul said nothing.
“I brought water.”
Still nothing.
“I’ll leave it outside.”
Footsteps moved away. Noeul listened until they disappeared, then waited another minute.
Maybe two. He wasn’t sure. Eventually, he pushed himself upright.
The movement made his head swim. He stayed still until the room settled, then stood.
His legs felt weak, and the few steps toward the door required more concentration than they should have.
Noeul unlocked it. A bottle of water sat on the floor. Beside it was a folded piece of paper.
He stared at it.
His stomach tightened.
Paper.
Beige.
Haneul…
No.
This paper was white. Ordinary. His name was written across the front.
Noeul hyung.
Duri’s handwriting.
He crouched carefully and picked it up. Inside were only a few words.
Water. Food whenever you want it. I’m in the living room. You don’t have to come out.
Noeul read it twice. Then a third time. He didn’t know why his eyes burned. He folded the note again and carried both it and the water back inside.
Later, hunger came. Not much. Just enough to make his stomach ache differently from everything else.
Noeul opened the bedroom door. The apartment seemed too large.
He stood there for a moment, one hand gripping the frame.
Duri was sitting on the sofa with headphones around his neck, laptop open across his knees.
He noticed Noeul immediately but didn’t stand.
“Hey.”
Noeul looked toward the kitchen. Duri followed his gaze. “Eomma made too much food.”
A faint sound came from the kitchen. “I heard that,” Yujin called.
Duri smiled. Noeul didn’t. But something about the exchange felt familiar. Normal.
Yujin appeared a moment later. She stopped when she saw him. “Good afternoon, Noeul.”
Noeul looked at her. “Kang…”
She waited.
“Yujin.”
Her smile softened. “Yes.”
He remembered.
Yujin pointed toward the kitchen. “There’s rice, soup, fruit and juk. Pick whatever looks least offensive.”
Duri glanced at her. “Excellent sales pitch.”
“I raised you. Clearly I know nothing about persuading difficult young men.”
Noeul’s mouth moved. For a fraction of a second, it almost became a smile. Duri saw it. He wisely said nothing. Noeul walked toward the kitchen. Yujin stepped aside to give him space.
“What do you want?”
He stared at the food. Too many choices. His thoughts slowed. Rice. Soup. Fruit. Porridge. His chest tightened. “I don’t know.”
“Then don’t choose.”
Noeul looked at her.
Yujin took a small bowl from the cupboard. “I’ll put a little of everything on the table. Eat what you want. Leave what you don’t.”
Noeul nodded.
He sat. Duri remained in the living room.
Yujin placed the food in front of him and then returned to whatever she had been doing.
No one watched. No one counted bites. No one asked whether he’d finished.
Noeul ate some rice. A little soup. Two pieces of fruit.
Then stopped. He stared at the remaining food. His stomach was already turning.
“Enough,” he whispered.
Yujin looked over from the counter. “All right.”
She took the bowl away. Noeul watched her rinse it. “Thank you.”
Yujin turned. “You’re welcome.”
Ji-Woo woke late. He had spent most of the night on the sofa despite Yujin repeatedly telling him to use the guest room. When he saw Noeul sitting at the kitchen table, he stopped so abruptly that Duri nearly walked into him.
Noeul looked up.
Ji-Woo smiled. Too quickly. Too brightly. “Morning, hyung.”
Duri glanced toward the window. “It’s almost four.”
“Afternoon, then.”
Noeul stared at Ji-Woo. Something bothered him. “Did you sleep?”
Ji-Woo blinked. “Yeah.”
“Liar.”
The word left Noeul before he could think about it. Ji-Woo froze. Then laughed. A real one. Not loud, but real.
“There he is.”
Noeul frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Ji-Woo pulled out the chair across from him but stopped before sitting. “Can I?”
Noeul looked at the chair, then nodded.
Ji-Woo sat. For a while, neither spoke. Noeul’s gaze moved toward Ji-Woo’s hair. He remembered touching it. Maybe yesterday. Maybe years ago. The memory wouldn’t settle.
“Are you okay?” Ji-Woo asked.
Noeul almost laughed. Instead, he looked down. “No.”
Ji-Woo’s expression changed.
Noeul rubbed his thumb against his palm. “But I don’t know what that means.”
“You don’t have to.”
Noeul looked at him.
Ji-Woo leaned back. “You can just be not okay.”
That sounded strangely simple. Noeul nodded. His eyes drifted toward the window. Snow still covered parts of the garden.
“Did you call our parents?”
Ji-Woo hesitated. “No.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know if you wanted me to.”
Noeul stared at him.
Ji-Woo’s voice became quieter. “I can call them. Or not. You decide.”
The words made something tighten in Noeul’s throat. “No.”
“Okay.”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
Noeul looked away.
The shower took most of the afternoon to decide. Noeul stood outside Duri’s bathroom twice before walking away. The third time, Duri noticed. “Do you need something?”
Noeul stared at the bathroom door. “I want to shower.”
“Okay.”
Duri waited.
Noeul didn’t move. After several seconds, he said, “I don’t want…”
The rest disappeared.
Duri understood enough. “I can stay outside.”
Noeul looked at him. “Outside the bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“No one comes in?”
“No one.”
Noeul swallowed. “Lock.”
“You can lock it.”
Another pause.
Duri pointed toward the small stool beside the hallway wall. “I’ll sit here.”
Noeul stared at it. “You’ll stay?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Duri sat down. Noeul entered the bathroom and locked the door. For several minutes, he simply stood inside. His reflection waited in the mirror. Noeul looked away immediately. He removed Duri’s clothes slowly. Bruises emerged. Some yellowing. Some dark. Finger-shaped marks. His breath stopped. No.
Noeul turned away from the mirror and stepped into the shower.
The water hit his shoulders. He flinched.
Too warm. He made it colder. Still wrong.
He adjusted it again, then stood beneath it.
Water ran down his body. Noeul watched it disappear into the drain.
His hands began to shake. He reached for the soap. Stopped.
His breathing quickened. Dirty. The thought appeared without warning. Noeul squeezed his eyes shut. “No.”
Outside the door, Duri heard him. “Hyung?”
Noeul’s hand flew toward the tap. “Don’t come in.”
“I won’t.”
Silence.
Duri’s voice came again, softer. “I’m right here.”
Noeul leaned one hand against the wall. Water ran over his hair, his face, his shoulders. He didn’t use the soap. Not yet. He just stood there. After a while, his breathing slowed.
“Duri.”
“Yes?”
“Talk.”
Duri paused. “About what?”
“Anything.”
There was another pause.
“My music teacher hates my newest track.”
Noeul opened his eyes. “What?”
“He says the bass is too aggressive.”
Noeul rested his forehead against the tile. “He’s wrong.”
“Thank you.”
“You haven’t played it for me.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
A weak sound escaped Noeul. Almost laughter.
Duri continued talking. Music. His final school year. A customer who had tried to pay for a cocktail with a metro card. Noeul stayed beneath the water until it began to cool. When he finally turned it off, the room was quiet again.
“Still there?”
“Yes.”
Noeul dried himself carefully. He avoided the mirror, then dressed in the clean clothes Yujin had left for him. He unlocked the door. Duri was exactly where he’d promised to be. Sitting on the stool. Waiting. He looked up.
Noeul looked at him. “You stayed.”
Duri frowned slightly. “I said I would.”
Noeul stared.
That evening, Dr. Kim called. Noeul refused to speak to her at first. Duri didn’t push. An hour later, Noeul asked, “Is she still available?”
Duri checked his phone. “Probably.”
He called her back. This time, Noeul took the phone. “Doctor.”
“Hello, Noeul.”
Her voice was familiar. Noeul closed his eyes. “Do you know what happened?”
A pause.
“I know some of it.”
“Who told you?”
“Duri told me enough to help him get you somewhere safer.”
Noeul’s fingers tightened around the phone. “He said rape?”
Dr. Kim didn’t avoid the word. “Yes.”
Noeul’s stomach turned. He remained silent.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know.”
The answer came quickly. Noeul opened his eyes. Dr. Kim waited. After a while, Noeul whispered, “I don’t remember all of it.”
“That can happen after severe trauma, particularly when there has also been a head injury.”
“What if I never remember?”
“We don’t need to answer that today.”
Noeul looked toward the window. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Saying what?”
“Not today.”
Dr. Kim was quiet. “Does that bother you?”
“No.”
He thought about it.
“Maybe.”
Another pause.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with tomorrow either.”
Dr. Kim didn’t rush to reassure him. “What does tomorrow feel like?”
Noeul frowned. “Too close.”
“Then don’t think about tomorrow.”
“What should I think about?”
“The next hour.”
Noeul stared at the snow beyond the glass. “What if that’s too much?”
“Then ten minutes.”
Noeul’s mouth tightened. “And if that’s too much?”
“Then this conversation.”
For some reason, that nearly made him cry. He pressed his fingers against his eyes. “I don’t want to stay here forever.”
Dr. Kim paused. “In Duri’s home?”
“No.”
Noeul swallowed. “Here.”
“What does here mean?”
He looked around. The apartment. Seoul. The buildings beyond the window. The cemetery. The university. His parents’ house. Every street seemed to contain someone he’d lost or someone he’d failed.
“I don’t know. I just…”
He stopped. Dr. Kim waited.
Noeul tried again. “I want somewhere that doesn’t know me.”
Silence.
“A place where nobody knows Gong.” His voice cracked. “Or Haneul.”
Another breath.
“Or Chung-Hee.”
He looked down. “Somewhere I can wake up and not already be somebody’s brother. Somebody’s mistake. Somebody’s…”
He couldn’t finish.
Dr. Kim’s voice remained soft. “That sounds important.”
Noeul frowned. “I’m not saying I’m leaving.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I don’t even know where I’d go.”
“Then you don’t need to decide.”
Noeul leaned his head against the window. The glass was cold. “I used to want to travel.”
“With Gong?”
“With everyone.”
A faint smile came and went. “Ji-Woo and I used to talk about it.”
“Do you still want to?”
Noeul looked outside. For the first time in days, the question didn’t feel entirely impossible. “I don’t know.”
Dr. Kim waited.
Then Noeul whispered, “Maybe.”
That night, Noeul returned to Duri’s room. The lamp remained on. He had asked for that.
Duri slept on the sofa in the living room.
Ji-Woo had finally agreed to use the guest room.
Yujin had left another bottle of water by the door with no note this time.
Noeul lay beneath the blanket. His head still hurt.
His body still hurt. Memories came in pieces whenever he closed his eyes. So he opened them again.
He looked around the room. Guitar. Posters. Headphones. A jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. Duri. The room belonged to Duri. Not Gong. Not Haneul. Not Chung-Hee.
For a moment, Noeul imagined another room. Somewhere far away. A cheap hotel. A mountain cabin. A train moving through a country where nobody knew his name.
Noeul turned onto his side. Not yet a plan. Not even hope. Just the faint possibility that somewhere there might still be a life that belonged only to him.