The Hospital
Chapter 7 – The Hospital
It happened on a day that started almost normal.
That was the cruelest part.
The morning had been quiet–no surprise calls, no unexpected visitors. Yuna’s mother had eaten a few spoonfuls of porridge without coughing. Yuna had even hummed under her breath while wiping the counter, the tune so faint that Joonseo wondered if he had imagined it.
A second verse kind of morning.
Then, around noon, the café phone rang.
It was an old landline, the kind that made a harsh sound no one under thirty would willingly keep.
Yuna froze.
Joonseo looked up from the espresso machine.
The phone rang again.
Yuna stared at it like it was a snake.
Joonseo watched her fingers twitch.
Then she picked it up.
“Second Verse Café,” she said.
Her voice was polite.
Too polite.
A beat.
Her face changed.
The color drained from her cheeks.
“…Mom?” she whispered.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
Yuna’s eyes widened, panic flooding them.
“What do you mean she–?”
Her voice cracked.
Joonseo set the portafilter down.
The phone line buzzed with a muffled voice.
Yuna swallowed hard.
“I’m coming,” she said quickly. “I’m coming now.”
She slammed the phone down.
Her hands started shaking.
Joonseo was already moving.
“What happened?” he asked.
Yuna’s lips trembled.
“My mom–” she breathed. “The neighbor… she said my mom collapsed.”
The air in the café turned thin.
Joonseo’s instincts snapped into place.
“Call an ambulance,” he said.
“They already did,” Yuna said, voice cracking. “They’re taking her to the hospital.”
Yuna’s eyes darted around the café like she was trying to locate the right steps to save a life.
“I– I need to close– I need–”
Joonseo grabbed his jacket.
“I’ll close,” he said.
Yuna blinked.
“What?”
“I’ll lock up,” he repeated, steady. “Go.”
Yuna’s throat moved.
“But–”
“Go,” he said again, gentler. “I’ll meet you there.”
Yuna stared at him.
Then she nodded once–sharp and desperate.
She tore her apron off and threw it on the counter.
Her hands fumbled with her phone.
Then she ran.
The bell rang violently as the door slammed behind her.
The café fell silent.
Joonseo stood still for half a second, breathing.
Then he moved.
He flipped the sign to CLOSED.
He locked the register.
He turned off the machines.
He extinguished the vanilla candle.
His hands were calm.
But his chest burned.
He grabbed his keys and stepped into the street.
The sky was bright, indifferent.
The hospital was a white maze.
Florescent lights.
Cold floors.
People moving too fast or too slow.
The smell of antiseptic that made everything feel unreal.
Joonseo found Yuna near the emergency room doors.
She was standing rigidly, arms wrapped around herself as if she was trying to hold her body together.
Her eyes were wide and glassy.
Her hair was messy, pulled out of its tie.
She looked like she had run from the past straight into a nightmare.
Joonseo approached quietly.
“Yuna,” he said.
Her head snapped up.
For a second she looked startled to see him.
Then her face crumpled.
“You came,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I said I would,” he replied.
Yuna swallowed.
“They took her in,” she said, voice shaking. “They won’t tell me anything yet.”
Joonseo nodded.
He stood beside her.
Not too close.
Just close enough.
The waiting room was filled with strangers.
But in the harsh white light, Yuna looked unbearably alone.
Minutes passed.
Then a nurse called Yuna’s name.
Yuna lurched forward.
The nurse spoke quickly.
“Your mother’s blood pressure dropped. She has a history of–”
Yuna’s face went blank.
Words blurred.
Joonseo watched her struggle to keep up.
The nurse handed Yuna a clipboard.
“Fill this out. We need consent for certain procedures.”
Yuna’s hands shook as she took the pen.
“I– I don’t–” her voice cracked.
Joonseo stepped forward.
“I can help,” he said.
The nurse glanced at him.
“Are you family?”
Yuna flinched.
Joonseo answered calmly.
“I’m… with her,” he said.
The phrase was vague.
But it was enough.
The nurse nodded briskly and walked away.
Yuna stared at the clipboard.
Her fingers trembled.
She couldn’t write.
Not because she didn’t know how.
Because fear had stolen her hands.
Joonseo gently took the clipboard.
“Tell me,” he said softly. “I’ll write.”
Yuna blinked hard.
Her eyes filled.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
He wrote her mother’s details neatly.
Name.
Age.
Medical history.
Contact numbers.
He wrote like he was anchoring her.
When the nurse returned, Joonseo handed the clipboard back.
Yuna signed where she needed to.
Her signature looked like a shaky line.
Then the nurse left again.
Yuna’s shoulders sagged.
She pressed a hand to her mouth.
“I can’t lose her,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“You won’t,” he said.
Yuna laughed–a broken sound.
“You can’t promise that,” she said.
Joonseo swallowed.
He didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
But he could promise something else.
“I’m here,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes squeezed shut.
She nodded once.
Like she didn’t have anything else to hold onto.
Hours passed.
The fluorescent lights didn’t change.
Time in hospitals was strange.
It stretched.
It folded.
It made every second feel like a year.
Yuna sat in a plastic chair with her knees pulled close, staring at the emergency room doors.
Joonseo sat beside her.
He didn’t check his phone.
He didn’t look at his emails.
He didn’t open charts.
He simply sat.
Because right now, nothing mattered except those doors.
At some point, Yuna’s phone buzzed.
She flinched.
She looked at the screen.
Then her face tightened.
Joonseo didn’t need to see it.
He could guess.
Rent.
Supplier.
Another reminder.
Life refusing to pause even when someone you loved might die.
Yuna stared at the phone.
Her hand shook.
She turned it off.
Then she pressed her forehead into her palms.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do all of this.”
Joonseo’s throat burned.
He knew what she meant.
Not just the hospital.
The café.
The bills.
The life.
The weight.
He wanted to reach for his phone.
He wanted to call his private doctor.
He wanted to send money.
He wanted to do what money let people do.
Solve.
Fix.
Remove problems.
But she would feel it.
She would smell the wealth on it.
And the last thing he wanted was to turn this moment into a transaction.
So he stayed still.
He kept his voice gentle.
“Breathe,” he said.
Yuna let out a shaky laugh.
“That’s your advice?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Because if you stop breathing, you’ll miss her when she wakes up.”
Yuna’s eyes filled again.
She wiped her cheek angrily.
“I hate this,” she whispered.
Joonseo nodded.
“I know.”
When the doctor finally came out, Yuna shot to her feet so fast the chair scraped.
The doctor’s face was tired.
But not grim.
Relief washed over Joonseo before the words even came.
“She’s stable,” the doctor said.
Yuna’s knees nearly buckled.
She gripped the edge of the counter.
“Stable?” she repeated.
The doctor nodded.
“We’re moving her to observation. There’s still risk, but she responded well.”
Yuna covered her mouth.
A sob slipped out.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
The doctor continued, clinical.
“We’ll need to run more tests. There may be additional treatments.”
Yuna nodded rapidly.
“Yes, okay. Anything.”
The doctor handed her a paper.
“This is the estimated cost for today. We’ll adjust later.”
Yuna took it.
She looked at the numbers.
Her face went blank.
Joonseo felt something cold settle in his stomach.
The paper shook in Yuna’s hand.
“This…” her voice cracked. “This can’t be right.”
The doctor’s expression softened.
“It’s standard,” he said. “If you need payment plans, the billing department–”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
She nodded.
The doctor left.
And suddenly, the relief drained out of Yuna’s body, replaced by a new kind of panic.
She stared at the cost sheet as if it was a death sentence.
Joonseo’s hand twitched toward his pocket.
His phone.
He could pay.
He could pay right now.
But he remembered her words.
No chains.
No conditions.
No rich man savior.
Yuna’s shoulders shook.
“I don’t have this,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“We’ll figure it out,” he said.
Yuna laughed bitterly.
“You keep saying that like it’s a magic spell,” she snapped. “It’s not.”
Her eyes turned sharp.
“This is real life, Joonseo.”
Joonseo swallowed.
“I know,” he said.
Yuna’s voice broke.
“I don’t have enough,” she whispered. “I don’t have–”
Her breath stuttered.
“What if they don’t treat her properly because I can’t pay?”
Joonseo felt the room tilt.
The question wasn’t irrational.
It was the kind of fear poor people carried like a second spine.
Yuna’s hands trembled.
She clutched the paper.
Joonseo’s phone was already in his pocket.
A single call.
A single transfer.
Everything would become easier.
But he felt Yuna’s pride like a live wire.
If he did this the wrong way, he would become the thing she hated.
And he would lose her.
Not just as an idol.
As a person.
He took a breath.
Then he said softly:
“Yuna… I need to tell you something.”
Yuna’s head snapped up.
“What?”
Joonseo’s throat burned.
He could hear his own heartbeat.
He could hear the fluorescent lights.
He could hear the cost sheet crinkling in her grip.
He took a breath that felt like stepping off a cliff.
“My name isn’t just… Joonseo,” he said quietly.
Yuna blinked, confused.
“What does that mean?”
Joonseo held her gaze.
“The AI company,” he said. “KJ Neural. The one everyone talks about.”
Yuna’s face drained.
She stared at him.
“No,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“It’s mine,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes widened slowly.
Her mouth parted.
Then she laughed once, sharp.
“You’re joking,” she said.
Joonseo didn’t smile.
“I’m not.”
Yuna’s laughter died.
She stared at him like she was trying to see through his face.
“…Why?” she whispered. “Why would you–”
Her voice broke.
“Why would you lie?”
Joonseo swallowed.
“I didn’t want you to know,” he said. “I didn’t want you to look at me like… that.”
Yuna’s eyes flashed.
“Like what?”
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“Like someone who can solve your life with money,” he said softly. “Like someone with… strings.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Her hands shook.
“You’re… rich,” she whispered.
The words sounded like poison.
Joonseo nodded once.
“Yes.”
Yuna took a step back.
Her eyes filled with something fierce.
Anger.
Betrayal.
Fear.
“So you’ve been–what? Playing part-timer?” she snapped, voice shaking. “Washing dishes for fun?”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“No,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t–”
“Then what was it?” Yuna demanded. “A game? A charity project? A drama you wanted to live?”
Her voice cracked.
Joonseo felt his lungs burn.
“It wasn’t a game,” he said. “It was… the only way I knew how to stay without making you feel small.”
Yuna laughed bitterly.
“And you thought lying was better?”
Joonseo swallowed.
“No,” he said. “I thought… it was safer.”
Yuna stared at him.
Her eyes were wet.
Her jaw trembled.
“You’re just like them,” she whispered.
The sentence hit him like a fist.
Joonseo went still.
Yuna’s voice broke.
“Rich men who decide what’s best for you. Rich men who hide things. Rich men who–”
Her breath stuttered.
Then she looked toward the emergency room doors.
And her face crumpled.
“…My mom,” she whispered.
The anger melted into panic again.
Yuna covered her mouth and started to cry.
Joonseo didn’t reach for her.
He didn’t touch.
He just stood close enough that she didn’t fall alone.
After a moment, he spoke–quietly.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Yuna shook her head, sobbing.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he said. “Just… let’s get through today.”
Yuna’s shoulders shook.
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t tell him to go.
Not yet.
Joonseo reached into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone.
Yuna flinched.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t–don’t make me owe you.”
Joonseo froze.
Then, slowly, he lowered the phone.
“Okay,” he said.
Yuna stared.
Joonseo’s voice was hoarse.
“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he said. “I’ll stand here. And you can hate me. But I won’t add another weight to you right now.”
Yuna’s eyes filled.
She looked at him like she didn’t know what to do with a rich man who didn’t demand gratitude.
A long moment passed.
Then she whispered, broken:
“…Just don’t leave.”
Joonseo’s chest cracked.
He nodded once.
“I’m here,” he said.
Outside the emergency room doors, the hospital moved on.
But in the fluorescent light, two people stood in the wreckage of a truth.
And somehow–
still stayed.