To My Last Love | TAEBIN

The minutes felt like hours. The hours stretched like endless rivers, too wide to cross, too deep to measure. Taehyun's mind couldn't settle, couldn't focus on anything but the steady beep of the machines. Everything outside the sterile walls of the hospital felt distant and unreachable, as if he were floating in a vacuum.

Beomgyu stayed with him for hours, his presence a comfort even if it couldn't ease the gnawing ache in Taehyun's chest. But even Beomgyu's usual steadiness faltered after a while. The sight of Soobin, so still, so far removed from the vibrant, warm person he used to be—it was too much for him to handle. With a look of sorrow, Beomgyu finally stood up, his voice breaking as he promised Taehyun he'd be back. Taehyun couldn't even acknowledge him, too lost in the quiet chaos inside his head.

Beomgyu left, and Taehyun was alone again.

He didn't leave Soobin's side, not once.The next day, still by Soobin's side, the hospital room felt even quieter. The constant hum of machines filled the space where Soobin's voice used to be. The nurses came and went, tending to him in their practiced, efficient ways, but it didn't change the feeling of stillness that hung in the air. The silence pressed on Taehyun, thick and heavy, suffocating. It felt as if the very air were waiting for something—to move, to change, to break.

By the time afternoon rolled in, Hueningkai and Yeonjun had arrived, their faces lined with concern, their eyes scanning the hospital room with disbelief. Taehyun barely noticed them at first, his gaze fixed on Soobin, his mind numb to the outside world. The door creaked softly, and then he heard their voices—soft, unsure, but steady as they stepped inside.

"Taehyun?" Yeonjun's voice, normally so full of life, was quieter now, carrying a weight Taehyun hadn't heard before.

Taehyun lifted his head, blinking rapidly, and saw the two of them standing just inside the door, holding bags of food. They didn't need to say anything; the quiet gesture spoke volumes, as if their presence was a lifeline they were throwing to him, just within reach but too far to grasp.

"Here," Yeonjun said gently, lifting the bags towards him. "We brought you something to eat. You haven't had much since... well, since everything started." His eyes were softer than usual, his voice more fragile, as if the sight of Soobin, lying motionless on the bed, had drained him of his usual confidence.

Hueningkai, usually so composed, stood behind Yeonjun, his eyes scanning Soobin before he looked at Taehyun. There was something too raw in his expression, something Taehyun had never seen before in the younger boy. The strong, quiet demeanor Hueningkai always wore was unraveling, just slightly, and it broke Taehyun's heart. Hueningkai's hands fidgeted at his sides, his fingers twitching as if searching for something to hold onto. His breath hitched once, and for a moment, Taehyun thought he might fall apart right there.

"Taehyun," Hueningkai said, his voice small, "You should eat."

It was then that Taehyun realized they were both standing there, unsure, but trying to hold it together for him. They were offering him food, but it felt like an impossible task—something so simple, so mundane, but completely out of reach. He looked down at the food in Yeonjun's hand, but the thought of eating felt so distant, so impossible. The pit in his stomach only deepened.

"Thanks," he murmured, his voice raspy, though the words felt like a hollow shell. He didn't want to eat; he couldn't, not with Soobin lying there like that, so still, as if time had forgotten him. His gaze lingered on Soobin, his chest tightening with each shallow breath Soobin didn't take. But his friends stayed, watching him, giving him the space to decide. Yeonjun gave him a small, encouraging smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was enough. Enough to make Taehyun feel the weight of their concern, of their helplessness.

Hueningkai, unable to hide the sadness anymore, stepped closer to Soobin's side, his hand lingering at the edge of the bed, unsure if he should touch him. Taehyun glanced at him, catching the first sign of tears brimming in Hueningkai's eyes. It startled him. Hueningkai didn't cry, not like this. But the sight of Soobin, so vulnerable, had done it—breaking through the walls Hueningkai had always so carefully built. For a moment, he didn't even try to hide it. The tears welled up, but he blinked them away quickly, as though pretending they hadn't been there. But it was too late.

Taehyun looked away, blinking rapidly, feeling the tears sting his own eyes. His throat tightened. He was so tired—so tired of pretending it was okay. Yeonjun seemed to notice the shift, moving slightly closer to Taehyun, his presence a silent offering of support. "It's okay," he said, his voice catching in a way that made Taehyun realize just how deeply this was affecting him too. "We're all in this together."

But it didn't stop the ache. Taehyun could feel the weight of it all pressing in, the fear of losing Soobin too much to bear. It was overwhelming, suffocating. He wanted to reach out and hold on, to make everything stop spinning, to pull Soobin back to them. But the more he thought about it, the further it seemed to slip away. He didn't know if he could do this.

Hueningkai finally wiped his eyes, taking a deep breath before he tried to joke, though it didn't quite reach his voice. "He better wake up soon. He's going to miss the latest episode of that show he loves," he exhaled a sad note, referring to the same show Beomgyu had mentioned the day before.

The joke hung in the air, fragile and uncertain, a thin veil over the fear they were all too afraid to say aloud.

Taehyun's chest tightened.

"Yeah," Taehyun whispered, his voice breaking just a little. "He'll be so mad if he misses it."

Hueningkai and Yeonjun left some time later, and the world outside seemed to blur as the hours stretched on. Taehyun didn't know how long he'd been in the hospital anymore—whether he'd been there for hours, or days, even months.
His exhaustion deepened, the strain of holding onto his composure threatening to unravel him. His body ached, but his mind couldn't rest. Not while Soobin lay there, unmoving, in the hospital bed.