The following weeks were a delicate dance of patience and uncertainty. Jaemin had long since realized that Sooah's journey was not one of quick fixes or sudden breakthroughs—it was a slow, painstaking crawl through the wreckage of her mental health. And yet, for the first time in a long while, there was a hint of progress.
Jaemin continued to apply his new approach—he gave Sooah the space she needed while still offering her an unyielding presence, one that was both protective and gentle. He kept his emotions in check, focusing entirely on her well-being and shielding her from any additional pressure. His behavior was a calculated balance, always aiming to provide the affection she craved without making it feel forced or patronizing.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but Jaemin could see the changes in her—tiny shifts that he clung to as signs of progress. Sooah spoke a little more each day, the whispers of her voice gaining strength. She began to leave the house more often, though only with him by her side, and the idea of therapy no longer terrified her.
Yet, no matter how many small victories they celebrated, Jaemin couldn't shake the fear that this fragile progress could all crumble away. He was afraid of pushing her too far, of doing something that would make her retreat even further into the shadows of her own mind.
One evening, Jaemin came home after a long day at the office. His body felt exhausted, but his mind was still sharp, ever focused on Sooah. He had spent hours trying to keep the company running smoothly, dealing with the pressures of the board members and his family, all while managing his own stress and emotions. But now, in the comfort of his home, his attention returned to Sooah.
He walked into the living room to find her sitting by the window, gazing outside. The sun had long since set, leaving the room bathed in soft, dim light. Her back was to him, her shoulders hunched, the weight of her invisible burdens still clear in her posture.
He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. The silence stretched, thick with the unspoken tension between them. But then he crossed the room quietly and sat down beside her, not saying a word at first. He didn't have to.
Sooah turned to him, her eyes tired but softer than they had been in weeks. She seemed surprised at his sudden presence but didn't pull away.
"I've been thinking," she said slowly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe... maybe I can go back to therapy, for real this time. I don't know if I'll ever be 'normal' again, but I need to try."
Jaemin's heart swelled in his chest, a mixture of relief and pride. He had been waiting for this moment for so long, and now it was here. But he had to keep his emotions in check. He couldn't let her see how much this meant to him—not yet, not until she was ready.
"That's a big step, Sooah," he said, his voice calm, warm. "If you feel ready, then we'll do it together. I'll help you get there, however long it takes."
She nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I want to try," she repeated softly, her eyes meeting his with a vulnerability he hadn't seen in a long time.
The next day, Jaemin arranged for Sooah to see a therapist. He didn't push her into it, but he gently guided her through the process, making sure she knew that she didn't have to face it alone. The appointment was set for the afternoon, and while Sooah was understandably nervous, she agreed to go.
Jaemin kept his distance, allowing her the space to make her own decisions, but he remained close enough to offer her a hand when she reached for it.
The session itself was a small victory—Sooah spoke more openly than she had in a while, albeit in hesitant fragments. Her therapist, a kind woman named Dr. Han, gently coaxed her through her fears, helping her uncover the layers of pain that had been buried for so long. Jaemin waited in the waiting room, trying to quiet the storm of anxiety in his chest, his mind racing with questions about how the session went, whether Sooah was finally starting to trust in the process.
When the session ended, Jaemin was waiting by the door. Sooah emerged slowly, her expression unreadable, her steps slow but steady. Jaemin stood up immediately, his heart in his throat. He didn't dare ask her how it went—not yet. He simply walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch gentle, like a lifeline.
"Do you feel okay?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost tentative.
Sooah looked up at him, her eyes distant but not entirely empty. "It wasn't easy," she said softly. "But... I think I can do this. I don't know what's going to happen, but I want to try."
Jaemin nodded, the relief flooding through him like a wave. It wasn't a full recovery, not by any means, but it was progress. Real, tangible progress.
"I'm proud of you, Sooah," he whispered, his voice steady, though his heart was racing. "This is a big step. And I'll be right here with you. We're in this together."
Sooah gave him a faint smile, her gaze softening. "Thank you," she murmured.
That night, after dinner, Jaemin sat beside her on the couch, his hand resting lightly on her back. He was exhausted, his mind still buzzing from the day's events, but for the first time in a long time, he felt something like peace.
Sooah had taken the first step, and he had no intention of letting her fall. He would be patient, he would be steadfast, and he would continue to help her rebuild herself, one day at a time.
But there was a lingering question in Jaemin's mind, one that he didn't dare voice aloud: What would happen if Sooah never fully recovered? What if, despite all their efforts, she remained broken? Could he still love her, even if she could never be the woman she once was?
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he pushed them aside. For now, the only thing that mattered was Sooah's healing, and he was determined to see it through, no matter where it took them.
Jaemin had fought for his own recovery, and now, he would fight for hers.