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blueminnies-blog · 2 days ago

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Chapter 6: " Where the Silence Almost Spoke "

That is one of the longest chapters I've ever written. Enjoy it yall and have a great time.

The world outside her apartment felt too loud, too cold, too filled with a kind of life that her feverish body couldn’t keep up with. She’d been curled in bed for most of the day, skin clammy, her throat raw, nose chafed from too many tissues. The space was dim except for the soft golden glow of a single lamp beside her, painting long shadows on the walls that somehow felt like company.

She hadn’t texted anyone. Not because she didn’t want to. Because everything—every motion, every breath—felt like too much.

But Jihoon knew.

Somehow, he always did.

He noticed the empty seat at her usual corner in his music lounge — where she'd sit curled up with her tea and that fraying novel. Day one, he figured she was busy. Day two, he frowned. Day three, he found himself checking his phone, half-expecting a “Hey, wanna grab tteokbokki?” text that never came.

By the end of the week, worry had settled in his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake.

It was a quiet moment, she didn’t remember clearly—maybe she sounded too breathless in a voice memo, or maybe she didn’t reply to Jihoon’s check-in texts fast enough. Either way, by the time Mingyu knew, he was already halfway out the door.

“Are you sure?” he’d asked Jihoon, standing at the entryway of the studio, keys jangling in one hand, phone in the other.

Jihoon’s voice didn’t hesitate. “She’s not gonna ask for help. She’s still too proud of that. But… she sounded bad this morning in the voice memo. I left some meds and groceries, but I couldn’t stay. I've lots of work at the studio ”

Another beat of silence. The kind that made Jihoon sigh deeply.

“Look… I know it’s complicated. But she’s alone. And she’s stubborn. She won’t ask for help even if she’s drowning. You know that better than anyone.”

Mingyu closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to cross a line.”

“I left her spare key in your mailbox.”

“Jihoon....”

“I’m not asking you to win her back,” Jihoon said. “I’m asking you not to let her suffer alone.”

The words settled heavy in Mingyu’s chest.

'Do I trust me with it?'

Still, he went.

It took Mingyu three hours to get to her apartment.

Three hours of pacing his living room. Picking up soup. picked it again because the first one didn’t feel warm enough. Buying two more types of tea because he couldn’t remember which she liked best. Grabbing a pink fuzzy blanket on a whim. Staring at his reflection in the rearview mirror like he could rehearse how not to scare her.

The moment he stepped into the building, his breath caught. Memories lived in these hallways like ghosts with soft footsteps. He stood outside her door, spare key in hand, heartbeat in his ears.

What if she slammed the door in his face? What if she was fine and he’d crossed a line?

He gathered his courage before sliding the key into the lock.

The apartment was dim, quiet, and smelled like menthol and tissues.

She lay curled up on the couch, surrounded by tissues, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat. Her lips were cracked. Skin pale. She didn’t even stir.

His chest tightened. He gently set down the bags and moved slowly. Carefully. Like any loud movement, it might shatter something fragile.

He placed a bottle of water by her side. Wet a towel. Wiped her forehead gently.

When she stirred, eyes fluttering open, she didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch.

"Mingyu...?” Her voice was rough. Barely a whisper.

He knelt beside her, eyes soft. “Hey. Jihoon told me you weren’t feeling well.”

"You came...”

His smile was tentative. “Of course I did.”

She blinked at him, dazed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’ll go if you want me to,” he said, already rising.

But her hand — weak, trembling — brushed his wrist.

"Stay...”

Silence. Then, she closed her eyes again, lips parting with a breathless sigh. She didn’t protest, didn’t ask him to leave either

He took that as permission but inside, his heart thundered. Her vulnerability shook something loose in him. He hadn’t seen her like this in so long—soft, undone, human in a way that made his throat ache.

The Care Begins. The next hour moved in soft, quiet steps.

He moved around her apartment like a gentle storm — controlled, careful, intentional. He reheated the Miso soup Jihoon had left in the fridge. Found her old hot water bag in the cabinet and filled it. Changed her pillowcase and bed sheets. Cleaned up the used tissues piling on the nightstand.

He sat beside her, quietly urging her to eat a little. Holding the spoon when her hands trembled too much. He tucked her hair behind her ear when it clung to her skin.

Every touch was feather-light. Every breath between them was loud.

He didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to. But inside his mind, a storm raged.

'Why didn’t I see her like this before? Why did I only remember how to love her once I’d lost her?'

When she coughed, he brought water and medication before she could ask. When she drifted back to sleep, he sat cross-legged nearby, a book open in his lap — the same one Jihoon had returned to her — reading aloud softly like he used to.

“And there, beneath the stars, they realized that silence could speak. And in that language, they were understood.”

His voice shook, just barely—but he kept reading.

Outside, night had fallen in layers. The windows reflected nothing but black, and the soft hiss of rain deepened into a steady downpour. The thunder came suddenly—crackling, violent—snapping her from sleep like a slap to the senses.

She blinked, breath caught in her throat.

He was still there. Still reading, still breathing, still beside her like some unshakable constant in a world that refused to stay still.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, softly—barely more than breath—she whispered, “Gyu…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers. There was something searching in the way he looked at her—like he was scanning her for cracks. She sounded better. Not whole, not healed, but not like she might break open if he touched her with a single word. A fragile kind of better.

Her fingers reached for her phone, screen lighting up her face with a cool glow. She squinted at it, frowned. “It’s a thunder storming,” she murmured, voice rasped with sleep and something heavier. “Great...”

“I’ll call a cab,” Mingyu offered, already pushing himself to his feet with that quiet steadiness of his.

She watched as he scrolled, thumb moving faster than his breath. There was a pause—one beat, two—and then a muted sigh.

“No cabs available,” he said without looking at her. “Maybe the subway?”

Another app. Another pause. Then: “Suspended.”

Thunder growled again, longer this time. The kind that made the windows tremble in their frames. She glanced toward them, and for a moment, she just sat there. Watching the rain slam into glass in wild streaks, the wind howling like some feral thing trying to claw its way inside.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

Then, finally, her voice was barely audible. She said, “You can stay.”

Her eyes didn’t meet his. She stared at the floor instead, like the words had crawled out of her without permission. “If you want. I mean... the floor’s all yours.”

The silence that followed was so still. It almost made her regret it.

Mingyu didn’t answer right away. He stood there, tall and motionless, like he was weighing something heavier than a sleepover. His gaze flicked between her, the window, the storm.

Then he nodded. “Okay. The floor’s fine.”

She nodded, too, maybe too quickly. She rose, pulling out an extra pillow and a thick blanket from the basket by the wall. The woven one with frayed edges and soft pilling from too many nights of needing comfort.

The apartment wasn’t much. Just a studio, small and quiet and cluttered in a lived-in kind of way. A worn brown couch sat under the window, its cushions slightly sunken from nights spent curled up on it with books and unfinished thoughts. A low coffee table scattered with mugs of ginger tea, folded tissues, and an old candle she never lit anymore.

The only light came from the small electric fireplace near the corner. It buzzed faintly, casting a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floorboards. The orange light flickered against the walls like a heartbeat. Shadows danced along the shelves lined with knick-knacks—tiny framed photos, a chipped ceramic cat, and a dried lavender bundle hung like a charm.

It was quiet. Safe. Home, in that imperfect, unspoken way.

She handed him the blanket, their fingers brushing briefly—warm skin, cool hesitation. He didn’t say anything, just offered a small nod, then sat on the floor next to the couch.

Not too close. Not far either.

She climbed back onto the cushions, tucking her knees to her chest, and leaned into the worn fabric like it knew her shape. Her eyes drifted to the storm beyond the glass, but her ears—her heart—stayed with the soft sounds beside her. The shuffle of Mingyu settling in. The faint hum of the heater. The echo of her pulse.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

He lay awake on the floor, blanket drawn up to his chest. She curled above him, listening not just to the thunder outside but to the space between their breaths.

And in that tiny studio, wrapped in the storm and the hush of everything unsaid, she felt time slow to something sacred.

The silence between them wasn’t empty.

It was full—of what they didn’t say, of what neither dared to ask for, and of every heartbeat they could both hear stretching into the dark.

Waiting.

Not for something to happen.

But for something to change.

The rain had softened into mist by dawn, gentle drops clinging to the windows like tiny pearls of memory. The storm had passed, but its echo lingered in the petrichor curling through the cracked window, the subtle dampness in the air. Outside, the world was washed clean. Trees glistened. Puddles shimmered like liquid mirrors. A small bird chirped on the fire escape — tentative, like testing if the silence was safe.

Inside the apartment, everything felt suspended in the hush of morning. The soft whirr of the refrigerator. The low buzz of the heating system. The faint smell of lemon balm from the abandoned tea mugs on the coffee table.

She slept curled tightly on the couch, one arm tucked beneath her cheek, the other lost beneath the covers. Her face, no longer flushed with fever, looked softer in the dawn light. Her lashes were long, casting shadows like wings on her cheeks. The hoodie she wore had slipped off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin kissed by the glow of sunrise.

Mingyu lay on the mat that was on the floor beside her, one arm draped over his eyes, the other loosely holding the edge of his blanket. His breathing was even, his features relaxed — but not quite peaceful. There were creases between his brows, as if even in rest, something in him couldn’t quite let go.

The space between them was only inches. The kind of closeness that could be accidental — or intentional. Her fingers twitched once in her sleep. His shifted in response, but neither woke, the approximate with too fragile, too peaceful to break.

The light grew slowly. Golden shafts filtered through the blinds, striping the wooden floor with quiet warmth. The rainclouds had left behind a sky painted in gradients — pale peach, bruised lavender, hints of gold.

On the windowsill, a forgotten cup of tea sat half-full, steam long gone but the scent still faintly present. The blanket on the floor had been kicked halfway off. Her pillow had fallen from the couch, now resting beside his arm.

The room smelled like fabric softener and warmth. Like maybe, just maybe, things were shifting.

After breakfast, the dishes sat in the sink — not messy, just waiting. A small trace of life lived.

Mingyu was still there, still present, folding the spare blanket with delicate care. He didn’t offer more. Didn’t hover. But the way he moved — soft, intentional, non-invasive — it was louder than anything he could’ve said.

She watched him from the edge of the couch, knees tucked to her chest. Her fever had broken. Her body was still heavy, but her heart — her heart felt... unsettled. In a good way. Or maybe a terrifying way.

He glanced at her only once. Just a check-in. Like he used to. Like he still remembered how to ask without words.

She said nothing, just nodded.

He smiled, folded the pillow too, and set them both neatly aside. No suggestion of staying longer. No silent plea. Just… presence.

She wanted to say something. Anything. But the words tangled with a storm of emotions she hadn’t named yet.

Instead, she cleared her throat, lightly. “You forgot your tea.”

He looked down at the mug he hadn’t touched. “Right.”

“Still warm,” she added, not sure why that mattered.

He picked it up and sat on the floor again — not on the makeshift bedding, just nearby. Not too close. Just… enough. The soft lamp above them pooled warm light over his features. His hair curled slightly at the ends, still damp from earlier.

She caught herself staring. He looked up. Their eyes locked. And held. This time, she didn’t look away.

“You make other things and my sickness … less heavy,” she said quietly. Her voice, barely audible under the hum of rain that started again about an hour ago still pattering on the windowpane.

His breath hitched slightly.

“Even when you were the heavy thing?” he said, half-joking — but only half.

She let the pause breathe between them.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Even then.”

His lips parted like he might say something or say the words he always wanted to say — but no words came.

So, instead, he took another sip. His hands were so big around her mug, and yet… gentle. Always gentle with her and her stuff.

She wondered when that shift had happened. When her instinct to brace around him had melted into curiosity again.

Maybe it was when he wiped the table without asking. Maybe when he read to her while she slept. Maybe it was when he respected her space even when he was in her apartment.

A sharp memory flickered — that suspended moment, them in their shared apartment back then making dinner together, his arms around her waist resting his head on her shoulder.

She shifted slightly, her knee brushing his shoulder. He looked up, startled. But didn’t move away. “I used to imagine…” she started, then stopped herself.

His eyes softened. “What?”

She looked down into her mug. Swallowed. “Back when everything was still broken… I used to imagine what it would’ve been like if you’d just shown up. Not with apologies. Just… soup.”

He let out a breath — part laugh, part heartbreak. “Took me too long to understand that love isn’t words. It’s… warmth.”

“Yeah.”

“Even if it’s in soup.”

She snorted, gently. “You’re terrible at metaphors.”

“I’m learning.” he giggled.

She tilted her head, smiling just enough for him to feel it. “I noticed.”

They sat like that for a while — tea halfway finished, warmth pooled between them like candlelight.

The storm had softened outside, but the thunder in her chest hadn’t. And maybe, she thought, that was okay now, but the thunder will come soon even if the skies are blue now.

Any opinions?

And to everyone who thinks that she forgave him just because she let him to take care of no, nope, that never happened. I wrote this story from my perspective, and if I were in her shoes and sick, then my ex came to take care of me. I'd appreciate not because I'm leaning in but because he came regarding any other agreement or something. Plus, mingyu gave her a space even when he was under the same roof as her. He didn’t pressure her to talk about them now. And she, she was waiting for herself to get better and ofc she won't shut down talking about why that happened.

Anyways, things will be clearer and slightly more complicated soon. Until then, enjoy:)

#seventeen x reader #seventeen #svt #fanfic #kim mingyu #mingyu #민규 #세븐틴 #white moodboard #mingyu x y/n #jihoon x reader #woozi x reader #mingyu x reader #her

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