Jay stood on the railing.
One foot already placed, toes curling slightly over the cold metal edge.
The night wind brushed past him, but he didn't feel it. The city lights below flickered, blurred, smeared into something distant and unreal. It was as if someone had slowly drained the color from the world, leaving everything washed out, muted, and far away.
He couldn't hear anything.
Not the wind.
Not the city.
Not even himself.
Behind him, Suha screamed his name.
"Jay—!"
Her voice tore through the night, raw and panicked, but it never reached him.
To Jay, there was only silence.
A thick, suffocating quiet that pressed in from all sides. His chest felt tight, like the air itself had turned heavy. Breathing felt optional. Existing felt optional.
It wasn't fear that filled him.
It was numbness.
The kind that made his body feel borrowed. Like he was watching himself from somewhere far away, unable to reach the controls. His hands rested lightly on the railing. His shoulders were relaxed. His face was blank.
Time didn't move.
The moment stretched, long and endless, suspended in stillness.
A strange thought drifted through him, slow and calm.
So this is it.
No pain.
No noise.
No expectations.
Just quiet.
Just rest.
It felt almost gentle.
As if death wasn't chasing him, but calling him softly. Patiently. Like it had all the time in the world.
He shifted his weight forward.
Just a little.
That was all it would take.
One step.
One release.
And then—
Something yanked him back.
Hard.
The sudden force shattered the stillness like glass.
Jay gasped sharply as his balance broke, his body pulled backward with enough strength that his feet slipped off the railing. Arms wrapped around his torso from behind, tight, shaking, desperate.
He stumbled, almost falling, but someone held on.
Someone real.
Someone warm.
Air rushed back into his lungs in a painful burst. Sound crashed into him all at once. The wind howled. His heartbeat thundered. His ears rang.
Color flooded back violently, too bright, too sharp.
"Jay!"
Suha's voice was right there. Close. Broken.
Her arms were locked around him, fingers digging into his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go. Her breathing was uneven, almost sobbing, her forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.
"What the hell were you trying to do?" she cried. "Are you stupid? Are you insane?"
Jay couldn't answer.
He couldn't move.
His body had gone rigid, like it had frozen in place. His mind felt shattered, fragments scattered everywhere. The shock left him empty, hollowed out in a way that hurt more than any scream could.
Suha pulled him farther away from the edge, step by step, until his back hit the rooftop wall. Only then did she let go enough to grab his face with both hands.
"Jay, look at me," she begged. "Look at me."
His eyes were open, but unfocused. He stared past her, breathing shallow, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
"Are you okay?" Her voice cracked. "Say something. Please."
Nothing.
Not a word.
Not a blink.
Her hands slid down to his shoulders, gripping hard. Anger and terror tangled together in her chest.
"What were you thinking?" she demanded, tears streaming freely now. "Do you have any idea what you almost did?"
Still nothing.
Jay stood there like a statue, pale, shaking faintly, eyes glassy with shock.
The realization hit her hard.
He hadn't been thinking.
He hadn't been here.
Her anger collapsed into fear.
"Okay," she whispered, forcing herself to breathe. "Okay. We're going inside."
She took his hand.
It was cold.
He didn't resist when she guided him toward the door. He didn't react when she led him down the stairs. He walked because she pulled him forward, each step mechanical, detached, like his soul was lagging behind his body.
The living room lights were too bright.
Suha sat him down on the sofa, then hurried to the kitchen. Her hands shook as she filled a glass with water. She brought it back and pressed it into his hands.
"Drink," she said softly. "Just hold it if you can't."
Jay wrapped his fingers around the glass.
He didn't lift it.
Didn't sip.
Didn't even seem aware it was there.
He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His grip was tight enough that his knuckles turned white, but the water remained untouched.
Suha stood there for a second, watching him.
Her chest hurt.
She turned away, pulled out her phone, and dialed Jungho's number with trembling fingers.
He picked up almost immediately
"Suha?"
Her voice broke the moment she spoke. "Jungho… he went to the rooftop."
Silence.
Then Jungho's breathing sharpened. "What?"
"He was standing on the railing," she said, tears spilling over. "I barely pulled him back in time."
A sound left Jungho's throat, low and strangled.
"Is he hurt?"
"No," she whispered. "But he's not responding. He's just sitting here. He hasn't said a word."
"I'm coming," Jungho said instantly. "I'm on my way."
The call ended.
Jungho was already grabbing his jacket when he heard footsteps behind him.
"Jungho?"
He turned.
Mira stood in the hallway, hair loose, eyes heavy with sleep. She held a glass of water, confusion written across her face.
"It's past three," she said. "Where are you going?"
Jungho's jaw tightened.
"Jay tried something stupid again."
The glass slipped slightly in Mira's hand.
"What…?" Her eyes widened, fear blooming instantly. "What do you mean?"
"He almost jumped."
The word landed hard.
Mira's face drained of color. "No… no, that can't be—"
"I'm going to him," Jungho said, already moving toward the door.
"I'm coming too," she said quickly. "I need to see him."
Jungho stopped.
He turned slowly, his eyes sharp, dark, exhausted in a way that went far deeper than lack of sleep.
"No."
Mira flinched. "Jungho—"
"You're not going."
"Why wouldn't I?" Her voice shook. "He's my son."
He laughed quietly.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't kind.
"All those years," Jungho said, voice low, controlled, "when he was rotting alone, where were you?"
Mira's lips trembled. "I—"
"You heard what Father said to him," Jungho continued. "You saw how he treated him. And every time, you stayed silent. Or worse, you agreed."
"That's not—"
"You told him to endure," Jungho snapped. "You told him to be grateful. You told him to stop being sensitive."
Mira's eyes filled with tears.
"Why do you care now?" he asked. "Why do you act surprised when he breaks, when you helped break him?"
Her breath hitched. "I was wrong. I know I was. I regret it every day—"
"It doesn't matter," Jungho said flatly. "If he sees you right now, it'll only make things worse."
"That's not true—"
"It is," he said. "You don't get to comfort the damage you helped cause just because you feel guilty now."
The words cut deep.
Mira staggered back like she'd been struck.
Jungho opened the door.
"I'm going alone," he said. "Stay here."
He left.
The door closed with a soft click.
Mira stood there, frozen.
The house felt unbearably quiet.
Her knees gave out. She sank onto the couch, the glass of water forgotten, spilling onto the floor. She didn't notice.
She hugged herself tightly, shoulders shaking as sobs tore out of her chest.
"I was never a good mother," she whispered, over and over. "Never."
Footsteps padded into the living room.
"Mama?"
Mina stood there in her sleep clothes, eyes wide with confusion and concern. She rushed forward when she saw Mira crying.
"What happened?" she asked urgently. "Why are you crying?"
Mira tried to speak, but her voice collapsed into another sob.
Mina knelt in front of her, wrapping her arms around her mother without hesitation.
"Please tell me," she said, voice trembling. "Did something happened?"
Mira nodded weakly.
"Jay...he… he almost…" Her words broke apart. "He almost died."
Mina froze.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
"No," she whispered. "No, that's not… Jay wouldn't—"
"He tried," Mira said, tears soaking into Mina's shoulder. "And it's my fault."
Mira's eyes burned.
Memories rushed in uninvited.
Jay standing quietly in the corner during family dinners.
Jay never raising his voice.
Jay leaving early, coming home late.
Jay smiling politely while everyone else laughed.
She had never asked him if he was okay.
She had assumed he was strong.
She had assumed wrong.
"I should've noticed," Mira whispered. "I should've said something."
Mina hugged her mother tighter, both of them crying now, grief and regret tangled together.
"I treated him like he didn't need anyone," Mira said through sobs. "Like he was always fine."
Mira clutched her daughter, shaking. "We failed him."
The words echoed in the quiet house.
Outside, Jungho's car sped through the empty streets, headlights cutting through the darkness.
His hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding as a storm of emotions churned inside him.
Fear.
Anger.
Guilt.
He should've stayed.
He should've gone after Jay himself.
He pressed harder on the accelerator.
The image of Jay on that rooftop burned in his mind, imagined and horrifying.
Just hold on, Jungho thought. Just a little longer.
The car turned onto Jay's street.
Lights were on inside the house.
He pulled up sharply and stepped out, heart pounding as he headed toward the door.
Behind that door, his brother was waiting.
Still breathing.
Still here.
For now.
And Jungho didn't know how many steps away from the edge Jay still was.