The nursery was still unfinished. There were soft yellow walls—Minho painted them himself, even though he hated the smell of paint that lingered for weeks afterward. There were picture books on the shelf, untouched and spine-straight, waiting for bedtime stories that would never be read. And sitting in the corner, quietly waiting for someone who'd never come, was a little tiger plush named Ted that had been carefully positioned with its paws crossed. Minho bought it the same day they heard the heartbeat, the tiny thump-thump-thump sounding like hope itself through the doctor's ultrasound machine. "She's gonna love him," he had whispered, pressing the toy gently to her belly while想象着 tiny fingers grasping its soft fur. They had picked out names in bed during those quiet hours before sleep, his arm curved protectively around her waist. Argued playfully about future diaper duty and whether their daughter would inherit his stubbornness or her smile. He kissed her belly every morning and every night, murmuring promises to always keep her safe. Then came the photo. A leaked image—Minho and her in a park, his hand resting gently on her small bump as they shared a private laugh. They hadn't even meant to go public yet, wanting to protect this fragile new life from his world of flashing cameras and constant scrutiny. But it didn't matter. The world took it and ran. "She's ruining his life.""I bet that's not his child.""He'll regret that baby.""That child is a mistake." Hate spilled in faster than they could keep up, flooding social media platforms and comment sections. Death threats arrived in her inbox. Lies about her character spread like wildfire. Memes mocked their happiness. Everywhere she turned there was hate. It seeped through her phone screen and into their home, poisoning the once-happy space. She started sleeping more, retreating into herself like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. Then stopped sleeping altogether, her eyes dark with exhaustion as she stared at nothing through the night. Her appetite vanished, her favorite foods now tasteless. Her eyes dulled, the spark that had once made her laugh easily now extinguished. She became more stressed and sensitive, jumping at loud noises and flinching when he reached for her. And one day she started bleeding. The doctor's voice was distant and clinical, the words hitting Minho like shards of ice. "I'm sorry... she didn't make it." Minho didn't even understand what he meant until he saw her in the hospital bed, face pale and tear-streaked, arms cradling her stomach like she still hoped something was there—a faint kick, a reassuring movement. There wasn't. Their daughter was gone, leaving only an empty space where so much promise had been.

Now the house was heavy with silence, each room echoing with memories of what might have been. Still, Minho cooked. Same seaweed soup she had craved constantly in her first trimester, its salty aroma once filling the house with warmth. Steamed egg with too much sesame oil—just the way she liked it, even though he always teased her about it.

He stood at the bedroom door, bowl in shaking hands that betrayed his composure. Knocked twice, softly, afraid to break whatever fragile peace existed behind the wood. "I made dinner," he said, barely above a whisper. "You don't have to eat. I just... wanted you to know it's there." Silence greeted him, thick and impenetrable. Just like yesterday. And the day before. Minho stared at the doorknob for a moment longer, willing it to turn, then looked down at his phone as if seeking distraction from the emptiness.

He hadn't meant to check the comments again. Had promised himself he wouldn't. But he was weak, his resolve crumbling under the weight of his grief. He wanted to see something human—a kind word, a message of condolence, a child's drawing someone might have posted in sympathy. Instead— He saw Ted. A fan edit that made his blood run cold. Bright red X scrawled across the tiger's face, its smiling expression now grotesque. A caption burned into the image that seared itself into his brain: "Good riddance. Now when's the new album? 😁."

The bowl slipped from his hands, crashing to the floor and splattering hot soup across the hardwood. Minho fell with it, his knees hitting the ground hard.

"Why..." he whispered, eyes wide with horror, breath coming in ragged gasps that hurt his chest. "Why did it have to be her?" His forehead hit the door with a dull thud, the pain barely registering. Hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into his palms until blood welled. Tears blurred his vision before they even fell, streaming down his cheeks and onto the floor. "I didn't protect you... I didn't protect her—""I should've said something... should've done something—anything—" He collapsed fully, curling into a ball at her door like a man begging for forgiveness he didn't deserve. The sob came without warning, tearing from his throat like a wounded animal's cry. Harsh and guttural, it echoed through the silent house. He wept into his palms, body shaking with the force of it, voice breaking with every fractured breath. "She was ours... she was ours...""Please talk to me, I- I can't do this alone anymore"