The weeks after Sooah's first therapy session were a mix of quiet anticipation and painful reality. Jaemin continued to go to work, performing flawlessly as the CEO, his focus unwavering. He worked late into the nights, pushing himself to ensure that everything at Mirae Group ran smoothly, all while keeping an eye on Sooah's progress. At home, he continued his careful balance—ensuring that Sooah had what she needed, while simultaneously keeping his emotions tightly in check. It was an exhausting existence, one that sometimes felt like a never-ending struggle to maintain control.
Sooah had made small steps. She went to therapy more regularly, each session chipping away at the walls she had built around herself. But despite her willingness to try, it was clear that the road ahead would be long and fraught with setbacks. She had moments where she seemed to glimpse a life outside her isolation, where she laughed or smiled, but they were fleeting. More often than not, she seemed distant again, consumed by her inner turmoil.
Jaemin's own struggle was just as quiet, just as unseen. He had told himself he could handle this—he had faced worse challenges in his life—but as the days wore on, he began to feel the weight of everything pressing down on him. The stress of being both the CEO of a powerful conglomerate and the sole person responsible for Sooah's recovery was taking its toll. He couldn't deny the exhaustion that crept into his bones, the emotional toll it had begun to take on him.
One evening, after a particularly draining day at the office, Jaemin returned home to find Sooah sitting in the same spot by the window. She had started to do this often, gazing out at the world she felt disconnected from. Jaemin had learned not to push her when she was in these moments, but tonight, there was something different in her posture. She looked smaller somehow, more fragile, her shoulders hunched, her face etched with a deep sadness.
He approached her slowly, his steps careful as he sat down next to her. His presence, once a source of solace for her, seemed almost like a burden now—he could feel the weight of her silence pressing on him.
"How was your day?" Jaemin asked softly, his voice more for himself than for her. It was a question he had asked hundreds of times, yet it still felt foreign.
Sooah didn't immediately respond. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sweater, a nervous tic Jaemin had noticed during her darker moments. Finally, she looked up at him, her eyes tired and distant.
"I… I don't know," she murmured. "I try to get better, but it feels like nothing's working. I can't… I don't know how to feel anymore."
Jaemin's heart twisted, a familiar pang of helplessness rising within him. She had been trying so hard, pushing through each day with a determination that almost seemed unnatural. And yet, the progress was so slow, so fragile. He knew this wasn't a battle that could be won quickly. But hearing her voice crack in that quiet moment… it felt like his efforts, all of them, were meaningless.
"You don't have to have it all figured out," Jaemin said gently, his hand brushing against her back in a comforting gesture. "You're doing more than you realize, Sooah. The fact that you're still trying... that means something."
She didn't respond right away, and Jaemin knew she didn't entirely believe him. But she allowed him to sit there with her, and that was something. It was more than she had allowed in the past.
Days passed, and the same pattern continued. Jaemin would go to work, shoulder the weight of his responsibilities, and come home to find Sooah in varying states of fragility. There were moments where she seemed almost normal, and he clung to them, savoring the small glimpses of the woman he once knew. But those moments were fleeting, disappearing as quickly as they came.
Jaemin could feel the strain in his own soul, the constant battle to keep his emotions in check, to protect her, to fix her. But the more he tried to help, the more it seemed that Sooah was slipping further away. Her reliance on him, her desperate need for affection, was consuming her, and Jaemin feared that he was just as much of a prisoner in this situation as she was.
One night, after a particularly exhausting meeting with the board of directors, Jaemin found himself in front of the mirror in his office. His reflection looked back at him with a weariness that he couldn't ignore. He had been so focused on Sooah's recovery, on managing the stress of being CEO, and on the constant pressure of keeping up appearances, that he hadn't taken the time to think about himself. His body was telling him things—aching muscles, a mind that felt like it was on the edge of exhaustion—but he ignored them. What was his own well-being compared to Sooah's recovery?
He had told himself that he would be okay. That he could handle everything. But standing in front of the mirror, the facade of control began to crack. He had been fooling himself. He hadn't been okay for a long time.
Jaemin's phone buzzed on his desk, and he glanced at the screen. It was a message from his therapist, a gentle reminder of the next appointment. Jaemin had avoided taking care of himself, focusing instead on Sooah. But he couldn't deny that he was at the brink. If he didn't start addressing his own mental health, there would be nothing left of him to help her.
Later that night, after another grueling therapy session with Sooah, Jaemin found himself back at home, his mind a blur of conflicting thoughts. He sat in his office, papers and files scattered around him, as he tried to focus on his work. But all he could think about was Sooah, her fragile state, and the exhaustion that was gnawing at him from within.
A knock on the door broke his concentration, and Sooah stepped into the room, her expression uncertain.
"I… I wanted to talk," she said quietly, her eyes searching his face.
Jaemin put down the pen he had been absentmindedly scribbling with and looked at her. "Of course. What's on your mind?"
"I've been thinking a lot," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "About therapy. About how I feel… about how I'm stuck." She paused, as though searching for the right words. "I know I need to get better, but sometimes, it feels like I'm drowning. And I… I don't know what to do."
Jaemin's heart clenched at her words, the familiar weight of helplessness settling in his chest. He wanted to tell her everything would be okay, that she would heal, that they would find a way out of this. But that wasn't the truth, and he couldn't lie to her.
Instead, he simply nodded. "We'll keep going, Sooah. I'll be here with you every step of the way. I won't let you face this alone."
She looked at him, her gaze softening. "I know. And I'm sorry. I know this is hard for you too."
Jaemin didn't know how to respond to that. He couldn't even begin to explain how hard it was for him. But for Sooah's sake, he kept the words locked away.
"It's not about me," he finally said, his voice steady. "It's about you. And we'll get through this. Together."
As the words left his mouth, Jaemin felt a hollow emptiness inside him. He was no longer sure what it was he was fighting for—her recovery, his own peace, or simply the preservation of something that had long since crumbled. But he didn't voice those doubts. Not yet.
Because Sooah was still holding on. And as long as she was, so was he.