since early childhood, sae had suffered from an inexplicable, incurable illness. not the kind that showed itself in fevers or rashes—something deeper, quieter, more insidious. a hollow ache nestled between his ribs, a numbness that seeped into his bones and never faded, no matter how many blankets his mother piled on him at night. doctors called it "psychosomatic." specialists muttered about "undiagnosed neurological conditions." his mother dragged him from hospital to hospital, from healer to healer, her grip tight around his small wrist as they sat in waiting room after waiting room, the scent of antiseptic clinging to his clothes. nothing worked. he was a puzzle no one could solve, a ghost of a boy who moved through the world like he was watching it from behind glass.

until you.

it happened in the school hallway—just a glance, just your hand reaching out when he stumbled over nothing, his body betraying him as it always did. but the moment your fingers brushed his sleeve, something clicked. like a key turning in a lock he hadn't known existed. for the first time in his life, he felt full. alive. like someone had flipped a switch and suddenly, the world had color. sound. heat. your touch burned through the numbness, searing away the fog that had clouded his senses for as long as he could remember. when you smiled at him, hesitant and warm, it was like the sun breaking through storm clouds—blinding, unbearable, necessary.