Min-Jae's POV
The first thing I became aware of was pain. Not sharp, not clean, but something dull and heavy, pressing into my bones like I had been buried under concrete. My chest burned with every shallow inhale. My legs… they felt strange, distant, as if they belonged to someone else. Then I noticed the beeping. A machine at my side, steady, intrusive, mocking me with every reminder that I was still alive. For a few long seconds, I thought maybe I was dreaming again — those strange half-dreams I used to fall into, where I was floating somewhere between memory and nothingness. In those dreams, voices blurred in and out, but they never stayed long enough for me to catch them. But this wasn't a dream. This was too sharp, too bright. My eyelids dragged open with effort. White ceiling lights stabbed into my vision. My throat was so dry it felt scraped raw. I tried to lift a hand, but my fingers only twitched against stiff hospital sheets. Hospital. The realization hit like a slap. Images from that night crashed back — headlights, screeching tires, the deafening slam of metal twisting. And then nothing. Black. A groan ripped from me when I tried to sit up. Pain shot through my back like a bolt of electricity. I bit down hard, breath hissing through my teeth. "ahhhhhhh". The pain I was feeling was too intense for me to handle. A nurse rushed to my side. Her voice trembled as she leaned over me, eyes wide with relief. "You're awake. Can you hear me?" Awake. Awake?? How long had I been gone? I forced out a rasp, my throat tearing from the effort. "…How… long have I been unconscious ?" Her eyes softened. She hesitated, then said quietly, "Almost a month. Three weeks and five days since the accident." Her words sank into me like ice water. A month. I had lost nearly a month of my life. My heart thudded painfully, not from the machines, not from my battered body, but from the realization of what that meant. A month where I hadn't filmed. A month where I had vanished from the industry. A month where everyone else had kept moving while I lay here, useless, broken. I tried again to shift, to lift myself, to prove I wasn't as fragile as I suddenly felt. But my body betrayed me. My legs remained dead weight beneath the sheets. A sickening panic surged through me. "My legs," I croaked. "Why… can't I move them?" The nurse quickly placed a hand on my arm. "Mr. Seo, please don't strain yourself. The doctors will explain—" "I can't move them." The words came out jagged, raw. She pressed her lips together, pity flickering across her face. I hated it. Pity was worse than pain. "You've suffered severe trauma to your spine and legs," she said softly. "It will take time. With rehabilitation, there is a chance of recovery, but… for now, you need to….-- I stopped listening. Her words blurred into a dull hum behind the roar in my ears. For now. Recovery. Chance. All the careful structures I had built, the endless training, the sleepless nights memorizing scripts, the grueling schedules, the sacrifices — all of it suddenly felt like glass, shattering into dust. My career wasn't just paused. It was dangling over a cliff, waiting for gravity to pull it down. I turned my head to the side, away from her pity, away from the suffocating white walls. My chest ached, but not from the accident. It was the ache of knowing the thing I had built my life around might already be gone. The door opened. I stiffened, half-expecting another nurse or doctor. Instead, voices filled the room. It sounded too familiar, too unwelcome. "Jae!" My mother's voice, shrill with feigned worry. I clenched my jaw. She swept into the room in designer heels that clicked too loudly against the sterile floor. My father followed, expression tight, not out of concern but irritation, like my accident had been an inconvenience to his schedule. And then Min-Young, my elder sister, face painted with overdone sympathy. Trailing behind them were the only two people I didn't instantly resent — Eun-byul, her wide eyes glistening with real relief, and Tae-ho, his usual calm presence anchoring the chaos. But then I saw her. Han Ji-Soo. My stomach dropped. She was the last person I ever wanted to see. She looked almost exactly the same — sleek hair framing her face, designer coat draped perfectly, lips curved into a delicate pout of concern. The same face that once made me believe in first love, the same face that turned away when I needed her most. And now she was here, standing in my hospital room like she had any right to. My eyes darted to Min-Young, who was practically glowing. Of course. My sister had always adored Han Ji, worshipped her like she was the daughter our parents actually wanted. "You're awake," Han Ji said softly, stepping closer. "I came as soon as I heard." Something inside me boiled. As soon as she heard? Where had she been all this time? Why now? Why when I was at my lowest? I wanted to tell her to get out. To scream it. But my throat burned, too raw to waste on her. Instead, I turned my gaze away, staring at the bland wall until my vision blurred. "Han Ji dropped everything to come," Min-Young said cheerfully, as if reading from a script. "She belongs here, Jae. Don't you think so?" I said nothing. Silence was all I could manage, but inside, hatred coiled tight. The room buzzed with voices I didn't want to hear. My mother leaned close, adjusting the blanket like she was performing for an audience. "You scared us, Jae," she said, her words brittle, rehearsed. "The doctors said it was touch and go. We almost lost you." Almost lost me. Her nails were freshly manicured, crimson, gleaming. The same shade I remembered from when I was twelve, when she clutched my arm too tightly during another one of their endless society dinners. Nothing about her was ever out of place. And here she was, talking about losing me like it was some distant inconvenience and not because she feared losing a son, but because of what it would have cost her reputation. My father remained silent, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone. When his gaze finally met mine, there was no softness, no warmth. Only calculation. As though he was already running the numbers on what my broken body meant for the Seo family's public image. Min-Young broke the silence again. "But it's okay now, right?" she asked brightly. "You'll recover. You're strong. And Han Ji is here to support you. She still cares about you, Jae. Don't you see?". Han Ji's hand brushed the side of my bed, slow, deliberate. "Of course I care," she said in that soft, honeyed tone she had always perfected. "You were… important to me. You still are." The words stung worse than the pain in my spine. Important. Past tense, present tense, it didn't matter. She had left. She had chosen her career, her image, her convenience over me. And now she wanted to reappear, wrapped in false sincerity, in front of my family? Rage boiled in my chest, pressing against my ribs until it hurt. I forced myself to speak, my voice hoarse and cracking. "…Get out." The room froze. Han Ji blinked, lips parting. "What?" "I said—" My throat burned, but I didn't stop. "Get. Out." For the first time since I'd known her, her polished composure cracked. A flash of offense flickered across her face, before she quickly rearranged it into hurt. "Jae, I only came because I care—" "Don't." My voice was low, ragged. "Don't pretend." Min-Young gasped like I had just slapped her. "Jae! How can you say that? She's here for you!" "No." My head turned, eyes cutting sharp into hers. "She's here for herself." Silence slammed down, heavy and suffocating. Han Ji's eyes glistened, but I knew it was performance, I knew it. She was an actress long before she stepped onto a drama set. "I'll give you space," she whispered, turning as if she were the one wronged. Her heels clicked out of the room, every step deliberate. Min-Young glared at me like I'd just ruined something precious. "You don't know what you're doing," she snapped. "She loves you. She always has." I didn't answer. I didn't need to. My silence said more than my voice ever could. Min-young stormed out and my parents followed. They just left without saying anything after. Later, Eun-byul came closer, her hand clutching mine. "Oppa…" Her voice trembled, not with pity, but with fear. "You scared me too. Don't… don't do that again." Something inside me softened. Eun-byul was the only one whose tears weren't a performance. I managed to squeeze her hand, weak but real. Behind her, Tae-ho stood stiff, his jaw set. His eyes met mine, full of questions he didn't ask in front of my family. Instead, he gave me a small nod, like a silent promise: We'll talk later. You're not alone in this. It was the only thing keeping me from breaking apart completely. Hours later, when the room was finally quiet and Eun-byul had returned, I stared at the ceiling, drowning in the silence. Every movement hurt. Every breath reminded me I wasn't who I used to be. My career felt like a thread slipping through my fingers, and no matter how tightly I tried to hold, it kept unraveling. But what gutted me most wasn't my family's coldness. Not even Han Ji's unwelcome return. It was the thought of her. Tomi. Her name throbbed at the back of my skull like a secret I couldn't say out loud. I remembered the way her laugh had burst out unexpectedly at the cafe, genuine and unpolished. I remembered the way she had looked at me without the weight of expectation, without the calculation I saw in everyone else. Just… human. I wanted to reach for my phone, to check if she had noticed I'd disappeared. To see if she had sent anything, even a small message. But when Tae-ho finally brought my phone, my stomach dropped. Notifications piled endlessly. Industry rumors, articles, fan messages, speculative gossip. And buried beneath it all, something worse. I searched her name. Tomi's profile. I finally found it with help from Tae-ho. I decided to send her a message. "Hi Tomi". Just something brief to start a conversation. It showed read and what followed after completely left me puzzled. "you can no longer send messages to this profile " I asked Tae-ho what that meant and he told me she blocked me. For a moment, my mind blanked. My chest tightened painfully. Why? Had I scared her off? Had she gotten tired of the chaos that surrounded me? Or was it something else, something I couldn't bear to imagine, that she had decided I was just another fleeting moment in her life, easy to erase? I stared at the screen until my vision blurred. The beeping machine beside me was the only reminder I was still alive. But in that moment, I wasn't sure what for.