A week passed.
Seven days of visits, seven days of silence. Dr. Kim Taehyung came every morning and every evening, sitting in the same chair across the room while the boy curled into his corner. Sometimes Taehyung spoke, sometimes he didn’t. He had learned quickly that words slid off the boy’s silence like water off stone.
The boy never lifted his head. Never moved from the corner unless staff escorted him to the cafeteria. His tray of food always returned half-eaten. His notebooks lay untouched. His eyes remained hidden.
The staff whispered when they thought Taehyung couldn’t hear. Waste of time. Too far gone. He’s not coming back.
But Taehyung kept coming.
On the eighth day, the session began like all the others. The boy sat in the corner, knees drawn to his chest, hair falling over his face. Taehyung settled into the chair, setting a small carton of milk on the desk as he often did. A silent gesture: I see you. I’ll keep leaving something, whether you take it or not.
Minutes passed in silence. Then Taehyung noticed something different. The boy’s hands weren’t locked around his knees. They were hidden behind his legs, trembling faintly.
“Your hands,” Taehyung said softly. “What are you holding?”
The boy’s shoulders stiffened. His breathing quickened. And then, almost defiantly, he shifted—just enough for Taehyung to see it. A shard of glass. Small, jagged, probably broken off from the water cup by his bed.
Taehyung’s pulse spiked. “Put that down,” he said firmly, but not loud enough to startle.
The boy’s eyes lifted then—truly lifted—for the first time since Taehyung had met him. They were wild, desperate, glistening with tears that hadn’t yet fallen. And in that gaze Taehyung saw it: not anger, not defiance. Pure exhaustion.
The glass pressed against the boy’s wrist, not yet cutting, but trembling close. His lips parted, and though no sound came out, the shape of the word was clear: enough.
Taehyung rose slowly from his chair, palms open, voice low.
“I know you’re tired. I know the pain feels endless. But if you do this, the people who hurt you win. They take everything. Don’t give them that.”
The boy shook his head violently, pressing tighter against the wall, the shard digging into his skin now. His breathing fractured into short gasps, each one edged with panic.
Taehyung stepped closer, his own chest tight. “Listen to me. You don’t have to trust me. You don’t even have to believe me. Just… give me today. One more day. That’s all I’m asking. If you want to give up tomorrow, then tomorrow we’ll talk again. But tonight—
But the boy never heard the rest. His body gave way suddenly, as if every ounce of strength had finally burned out. His grip loosened and the shard slipped from his hand, clattering across the floor. He slumped sideways against the wall, unconscious before Taehyung could reach him.
“Damn it—!” Taehyung dropped to his knees, checking the shallow cut, then the boy’s pulse. Weak, but there. His skin was cold, his breathing shallow. He hadn’t been saved by words, or by hope. Only by collapse.
Staff rushed in at Taehyung’s call, lifting the limp child carefully onto a stretcher. The shard lay forgotten on the floor, stained with a smear of red.
Taehyung stood frozen, watching the boy disappear down the hallway toward the infirmary. His hands were still shaking.
It wasn’t survival. It wasn’t trust. It wasn’t even choice.
It was exhaustion.
And for the first time since taking the case, Dr. Kim wondered if the boy had any will left to keep fighting at all.
