in which the seventeen years old han jisung writes books about his idol, lee minho, meanwhile the mentioned idol is a huge fan of the fanfic writer, han jisung.
03/10/23- x/x/x
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Mr. Han hesitated as he approached Jisung's room. It had been a while since he had ventured into his son's personal space, always respecting his privacy. But today, a nagging worry tugged at his heart, urging him to check in on his son.
As he turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, a wave of surprise washed over him. The room was stark, devoid of any of the usual teenage clutter he expected. No posters adorned the walls, no shelves overflowed with books or albums. It was as if Jisung's presence had been erased from the room.
Confusion clouded Mr. Han's thoughts as he stepped further inside. Where were the remnants of his son's personality, the traces of his passions and interests? His eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of familiarity, but found none.
Just as he was about to retreat and respect his son's space once more, something caught his eye. In the corner of the room, on Jisung's bed, lay a solitary figure. It was a worn-out stuffed animal, a relic from years past, given to Jisung by his parents on their first family vacation.
With a bittersweet ache in his chest, Mr. Han approached the bed, his gaze falling upon his sleeping son. Jisung lay there, peacefully unaware of his father's presence, clutching the stuffed animal to his chest like a lifeline.
For a moment, Mr. Han simply watched, his heart heavy with a mixture of pride and concern. Pride, because even in the absence of outward displays of identity, his son remained true to himself in the quiet sanctuary of his room. Concern, because he couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss, that perhaps there was more to Jisung's empty room than met the eye.
Summoning his courage, Mr. Han reached out and gently shook his son awake. Jisung stirred, blinking sleepily up at his father.
"Dad?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Mr. Han hesitated, struggling to find the right words. But as he looked into his son's eyes, he knew he couldn't keep his worries to himself any longer.
"Nothing's wrong, Jisung," he said softly, a hint of vulnerability seeping into his voice. "I just... Went to check on you.."
And as Jisung's expression softened into a smile, Mr. Han knew that even in the emptiest of rooms, the bond between father and son would always remain unbroken.
"Jisung," Mr. Han began, his voice gentle yet tinged with concern, "what's wrong? Why did you suddenly change your room like this?"
Jisung's smile faltered, and he sat up slowly, his gaze fixed on the floor as if grappling with his emotions. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Minho," he said simply, his tone heavy with resignation, his voice still raspy from waking up a while ago. "He... he broke bonds with me. We need a pause."
Mr. Han felt his heart lurch at his son's words, a pang of sympathy washing over him as he realized the depth of Jisung's pain. Minho had always seemed like just another friend, someone who occasionally visited their home and shared laughs with Jisung. But now, hearing his son speak of him with such raw vulnerability, Mr. Han understood that Minho was more than just a friend.
