Chapter 11 #2
Min-jun's letter was next. His handwriting was warm somehow, if handwriting could be warm — rounded letters that seemed to lean toward each other like they were seeking comfort. The paper smelled faintly of cedar and something herbal, like he'd written it in the kitchen while cooking.
Keira,
I don't know how to put feelings into words the way Jin-ho does. I've always been better with actions — with doing things for people instead of saying things to them. So I'll keep this simple.
I notice things.
I notice when Hwan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. I notice when Jin-ho hasn't eaten because he's too lost in his music. I notice when Tae-min is trying too hard to prove himself. I notice when Jae-won is carrying too much weight alone.
I notice, and I try to help. Food, mostly. Food is my language. It's how I say "I see you" and "I care about you" and "you don't have to carry this alone."
I noticed you too, even before Tae-min came home and told us about your conversation. I noticed how thin you looked in the photos Jin-ho found. How tired.
I've been cooking for you for days. Making things and storing them, hoping I'd eventually get to give them to you. The containers in your apartment right now — that's just the beginning. There's more whenever you want it.
Please eat. Please take care of yourself. And if you can't take care of yourself right now, please let us do it for you.
— Min-jun
P.S. The rice balls have a red bean filling. I remembered from an interview you did years ago when you were first starting out, before you stopped doing them… that you mentioned liking sweet things. I hope I remembered right.
The tears were flowing freely now, dripping onto the table, onto the letters, onto my trembling hands. He'd remembered. From an interview years ago, before any of this had started, he'd noticed what I liked and stored it away and used it to take care of me.
He pays attention, my omega whispered, her voice thick with emotion. He sees the small things.
One letter left.
Jae-won's.
I stared at the envelope for a long moment, my heart pounding against my ribs.
The pack alpha. The one I knew the least about, the one whose presence even in letters felt like something vast and powerful and slightly terrifying.
His handwriting on the envelope was bold and decisive, each character struck with confidence.
I opened it slowly.
Keira,
I've rewritten this letter six times. Every version sounds like either a threat or a stalker. So I'm giving up on elegance and just saying what I mean.
I'm terrified of failing them.
The pack. My brothers. I became pack alpha young — younger than most. The responsibility of it, the weight of making decisions that affect everyone, the pressure of being the one who can't show weakness because everyone else needs me to be strong.
.. it's a lot. Most days I handle it. Some days I don't.
Now there's you.
You're not just another responsibility. You're the center that our pack has been missing. The piece that makes us whole. I can feel it in the bond, even incomplete as it is — the way you fit into the spaces between us, the way you belong in ways I can't explain.
I'm terrified of failing you.
I'm terrified that I'll say the wrong thing, push too hard, not push enough. That I'll let my instincts override my judgment and cage you when you need freedom. That I'll be the reason you run again.
So I'm going to make you a promise: I will never command you. I will never use my voice to make you do something you don't want to do. I will never treat you as something to be owned or controlled or broken.
You are not a possession. You are a person. If you choose us — when you choose us — it will be because you want to, not because we forced you.
That's my promise. I hope it means something.
— Jae-won
P.S. The others don't know how scared I am. Please don't tell them. They need me to be strong.
I set the letter down with shaking hands.
He was scared. The pack alpha, the one with the thunderstorm scent and the commanding presence, was scared of failing. Scared of messing up. Scared of being too much or not enough.
Just like me.
They're all just people, my omega said softly, something like wonder in her voice. Scared, imperfect people who want to love us.
I sat at my kitchen table surrounded by food I hadn't asked for and letters I hadn't expected, and I cried.
Not the panicked, terrified crying of the past few days.
This was something different. Something that felt almost like relief.
Like pressure being released from a wound that had been festering for too long.
They weren't what I'd feared.
They weren't controlling or possessive or demanding. They were kind. Thoughtful. Vulnerable in ways that made my heart ache. They'd respected my boundaries, honored my request, given me exactly what I'd asked for without pushing for more.
Feel instead of push down, I reminded myself, letting the tears flow. This is what trying looks like.
Eventually, the tears slowed. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, took a shaky breath, and reached for the container of soup.
The samgyetang was still warm when I opened it — a whole small chicken nestled in rich broth with ginseng and dates and garlic.
The smell alone made my mouth water, my stomach cramping with a hunger I'd been ignoring for far too long.
I found a spoon in my kitchen drawer and took a tentative bite.
It was the best thing I'd ever tasted.
Maybe that was the soul sickness talking, or the days of barely eating, or the emotional release of reading five letters from five alphas who were trying so hard to reach me.
But in that moment, sitting at my tiny kitchen table with tears still drying on my cheeks, Min-jun's soup tasted like comfort made tangible. Like care I could hold in my hands.
I ate until I couldn't eat anymore. Then I ate a little more, because I could almost hear Min-jun's voice in my head telling me I needed fuel to fight the soul sickness.
The ginger tea was perfect — just sweet enough to be comforting, just spicy enough to clear my head.
The rice balls were exactly as sweet as I'd hoped, the red bean filling melting on my tongue.
He remembered, my omega said again, contentment threading through her voice. He pays attention.
After I ate, I sat for a long time, staring at the letters spread across my table. I should respond. Should let them know I'd received everything, that I appreciated it, that I was trying. But what did I say? How did I match the vulnerability they'd shown with my own?
Start small, I told myself, echoing Jin-ho's advice to Hwan. You don't have to explain everything.
I found a piece of paper and a pen, and I sat there staring at the blank page for what felt like hours.
The afternoon light shifted through my window, turning from gold to orange to pink as the sun moved across the sky.
My body ached with the soul sickness, but the food had helped.
I felt more solid than I had in days. More present.
Finally, I started to write.
Hwan, Jin-ho, Tae-min, Min-jun, Jae-won,
I read your letters. All of them. I don't have words for what I'm feeling right now — everything is tangled up together in ways I can't separate. Gratitude. Guilt. Fear that's starting to feel less like a wall and more like a door I might be able to open.
I want to try something Tae-min suggested: being honest even when it's messy.
I'm still scared. Reading your words didn't magically fix twelve years of fear, and I don't think anything will.
But I'm starting to believe that maybe you're not what I was afraid of.
That maybe my mother's story doesn't have to be my story.
That maybe breaking and completing really are opposite things.
I'm not ready yet. I don't know when I will be. But I'm trying. Really trying this time, not just hiding and calling it something else.
The food was incredible. Min-jun, thank you.
I ate until I couldn't move, which is more than I've eaten in days.
The rice balls were perfect. I don't know what comes next.
But thank you for being patient with me.
Thank you for listening. Thank you for giving me exactly what I asked for instead of pushing for more.
— Keira
I read over the letter twice, cringing at some of the phrasing, wondering if I should rewrite it. But they'd asked for real. And real wasn't polished. Real was messy and uncertain and sometimes didn't have answers.
I folded the letter and tucked it into an envelope, writing SIREN on the front because I didn't know how else to address it. Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to get it to them. Maybe I'd ask Jeni for help. Maybe I'd leave it at Narvi Entertainment's front desk. Maybe—
My phone buzzed.
I glanced at the screen and saw a message from an unknown number.
Hi. This is Tae-min. Jin-ho got your number from the company files. Is that okay? We wanted to make sure you had a way to reach us if you needed anything. You don't have to respond. We just wanted you to know we're here.
Below it, four more numbers were listed with names attached. Hwan. Jin-ho. Min-jun. Jae-won.
They'd given me their personal phone numbers. Not their manager's number. Not a company line. Their actual, personal phones that probably only a handful of people in the world had access to.
They trust us, my omega observed quietly. They're showing us that they trust us.
I stared at the message for a long time. Then, before I could second-guess myself, I typed a response.
It's okay. Thank you for the food and the letters. I wrote you a response but I don't know how to get it to you.
The reply came almost immediately, like he'd been watching his phone and waiting.
I can pick it up tomorrow morning? Leave it outside your door like Min-jun-hyung did with the food? I won't knock or anything. Just pick it up and leave.