The city was soaked in an unending drizzle. The kind that blurred streetlights into ghostly halos and made everything feel slower, heavier. Kang Joon-ha adjusted the brim of his cap and walked through the quiet hospital corridor, the sound of his shoes echoing softly against sterile tiles.
The doctor was waiting, flipping through his chart with a heaviness in his eyes that Joon-ha didn't want to notice.
He sat down. The air felt too thin.
"Your test results," the doctor began, pausing briefly, as if searching for gentler words. "We'll need to monitor things closely. The damage is progressing faster than before. I suggest we prepare for—"
"I know," Joon-ha interrupted, his tone flat, but his fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the report. "Just tell me what I need to do."
"There's not much we can do here," the doctor said quietly. "I can connect you with specialists abroad. But you'll need to act soon."
Soon. Such a small word that suddenly felt like the edge of time.
He nodded once, unable to meet the man's eyes. His throat tightened, his chest ached, but he didn't want pity, he wanted control. "Send me their names," he said before standing and walking out, his reflection ghosting across the glass door, a man who looked perfectly fine on the outside, slowly fading inside.
Outside the hospital, the drizzle had turned into a full-blown downpour. He stood for a moment under the gray sky, rain soaking into his hoodie, washing the tremor from his hands.
"I still have time," he whispered, more to convince himself than to believe it.
----------------
The next day was the fan-sign event. Rows of eager fans stretched out under pastel banners, their laughter echoing like a language he hadn't spoken in years. Cameras flashed. Voices called his name.
To them, he was perfect composed, radiant, untouchable.
But as each fan approached, handing him gifts, he noticed how distant his own smile felt.
"Thank you for always being here," he said automatically, his signature looping across pages he couldn't remember signing.
Between the laughter and flashbulbs, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the acrylic barrier, tired eyes hidden behind practiced charm. He'd built walls so high, even applause couldn't reach the real him anymore.
Still, he smiled. That was his job, to make others forget the rain, even when it was drowning him.
---------------
That same afternoon, across the city, Areum stood at a quiet grave. The soil was still damp from the morning rain.
Her brother's name was carved neatly into the headstone, the same handwriting she'd once traced with her fingertips on his old notebooks. She knelt, fingers trembling slightly as she brushed away fallen petals.
"Oppa…" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why did you do it? Why didn't you talk to me?"
Her lips trembled. "You always told me I was the one thing you'd never leave behind. So why?"
The cemetery was silent except for the sound of distant rain dripping from the trees.
Her tears mixed with it, falling silently as she pressed her forehead to the cold stone. "You always said I paint sadness too beautifully. Maybe that's why I can't stop now."
A soft breeze brushed her cheek fleeting, gentle like an answer she wasn't ready to hear.
When she finally stood, her eyes were swollen, but there was a strange steadiness in them.
"I'll keep painting, oppa. Even if the world forgets us both."
-----------------
The studio smelled faintly of paint, rain, and exhaustion. The photoshoot stretched late into the night.
The storm outside roared against the windows, thunder rolling like distant applause.
"Let's wrap for today," Joon-ha said quietly, noticing the fatigue in Areum's eyes.
As the staff began packing up, she stood near the doorway, hugging her sketchbook close, waiting for the rain to ease.
"You'll get drenched," he said, appearing beside her with an umbrella.
She blinked. "It's okay, I'm used to it."
He pressed it gently into her hand. "Still. Just because you're used to storms doesn't mean you have to walk through them alone."
Her eyes flickered to his, a rare spark of softness breaking through her usual walls. "You talk like someone who knows what drowning feels like."
He smiled faintly, a curve that didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe I do."
She didn't ask more. He didn't explain. But for a moment, the silence between them wasn't heavy, it was understanding.
When she stepped into the rain, umbrella shielding her from the downpour, he watched her go until her silhouette vanished beyond the neon lights.
Something in him ached, not the illness, but the longing to be seen by someone who might finally understand.
----------------
Later that night, his room was dim, the only light coming from his laptop screen.
Medical documents, hospital contacts, and foreign specialists filled his inbox.
He typed message after message, reaching out to doctors abroad, his fingers trembling with urgency he couldn't admit aloud.
Every email began with hope and ended with fear.
Every reply felt like a clock ticking louder.
When he paused, his reflection on the dark screen stared back at him, pale, tired, uncertain.
He reached for his phone, scrolling through Areum's photos from the shoot. Her eyes, that quiet melancholy, that fragile strength made him pause.
"She's painting something I can't yet name," he murmured. "Maybe what it feels like to live even when dying inside."
His vision blurred, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if it was the tears or the medication dulling his focus. He leaned back, closing his eyes as the rain tapped softly against his window, almost rhythmic like a heartbeat trying to keep time with a fading song.
---------------------'
Across the city, Areum sat by her window, umbrella still dripping near the door. The streetlights painted gold reflections on her sketchbook as she scribbled a new drawing two figures under a single umbrella, standing at the edge of a city drowned in rain.
She didn't know why she drew him, or why the lines trembled when she tried to sketch his eyes.
She whispered, "Why does he feel like someone I've met before… in another sadness?"
Her phone buzzed, a notification from the agency about tomorrow's shoot. She closed her sketchbook gently.
Outside, the rain began to fade, but its memory lingered in the air.
---------------
In his apartment, Joon-ha sat by the piano. His fingers brushed the keys, hesitant, then deliberate. A slow, haunting melody filled the empty space, fragments of sorrow stitched together by hope.
He thought of his sister, of Areum, of all the things he'd never said out loud.
For once, he allowed the music to speak for him, every note a confession, every pause a prayer.
When the final chord faded, he whispered into the silence,
"Maybe the sky forgets the dawn sometimes… but maybe that's how it learns to begin again."
He didn't know that Areum, in her own room, whispered almost the same words to herself at that very moment.
And somewhere, in the echo between two lonely hearts, something unseen stirred, the beginning of something neither of them yet understood.