I'm thinking about quitting my medical course.

I just came back home from the first rehearsals, and I haven't felt this good in months. It's been almost a year since I played in a musical due to final exams and choosing a college to go to. Then, college started, and I realized there was no time left for my passion.

That fact hasn't changed. I knew I was starting a disaster when I auditioned for the role, yet I couldn't help it. I missed it so much. And indeed, it doesn't match with my course. I don't have time to study both books and lines. I don't have time to show up at both school and rehearsals.

At the moment, I don't make money with either of them, and in the future, I will most likely make more money being an oncologist than playing in musicals. Yet I know I will regret choosing the medical path.

I've done my research and found out I can make a living with being a musical actress, I just have to be good enough.

"If that's what you think is the best choice, then you must go for it," Mom responds after I explained the situation. Dad looks rather surprised, but he nods along.

"I do," I say, my voice low. "Do you guys?"

"It's not about what we think. It's about you. We'll be proud of you either way," Dad reassures.

"Do I tell Dariel? Or do I wait until I've made a real decision?"

"I think it's good to discuss this with him, even though he hasn't gotten a say in it, either. It won't come as a giant shock if you tell him now."

I nod in agreement. "Okay. I guess I'll do that." I pause. "Eh, by the way, we're thinking of buying or hiring a place of our own."

"Really?" Dad's eyebrows shoot up.

"Yeah. I mean, Dariel is turning twenty-one in March."

He sighs lightly. "And you turned nineteen in November. That's three months ago, Lucy. I think you might be a bit young."

"It's not about age. It's about being ready and able to live on your own. Our relationship is steady. I'm honestly done with being around you guys all the time. And Dariel—Dariel's case is even worse. His father is never home and he just doesn't feel the need to live with either one of his parents anymore. Neither do I," I explain, trying to stay calm.

"You work at a restaurant in the weekends. You can't pay for a house with that."

"It sounds a bit unfair, but Dariel is willing to pay more than half. I will do all the cooking and cleaning—we both think that's a great deal. In the future, I'll pay more. But don't you agree that it's time for the next step?"

My parents share a glance. Both of them sigh. It makes me clench my fists. Out of disappointment. Anger. Sadness. Can't they trust me on my own? Teresa's out of the house too, isn't she?

"We will think about it," Mom decides.

Dariel and I already have a few apartment visits planned, but I keep my mouth shut about that.

"Alright," I murmur as I stand up. "Good night."

I shut my bedroom door behind me and lean against it. My parents' reaction wasn't surprising, yet it stings. I wasn't expecting immediate approval, but the hesitation—the way they exchanged that glance—felt like a permanent no.

I rub my temples and push off the door. There's no point in overthinking it now. I'll talk to Dariel first, get his thoughts.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

When I reach Dariel's door, I knock twice before stepping back. I hear movement inside, a muffled curse, and then the door swings open.

He stands there in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, his dark hair still damp from a shower. He looks tired. "Oh, hi. What're you doing here?"

Oops. Forgot to send a text. "Eh, felt like staying over, if that's okay with you? I discussed us moving out with my parents."

With a nod, he closes the door behind me. We pass Minho in the kitchen, sitting scarily still as he reads the back of a cereal box. Dariel takes my hand, pulling me onto the couch.

"Let me guess—your parents weren't thrilled."

"They said they'd think about it."

Dariel scoffs. "So, no."

I bite the inside of my cheek. "They didn't say no."

He gives me a pointed look.

I sigh. "Okay, fine. It's not a yes, either."

"They're just being cautious," he hums, staring at the ceiling. "It's what parents do."

"I know, but I'm not a kid anymore. And neither are you. I don't see why they're acting like this is such a huge deal."

Dariel tilts his head toward me. "Because it is a huge deal. You're a bit too oblivious to the world now and then. I mean, I get why they're hesitating. Moving in together? It's not just some fun idea. It's something real."

"I know that."

"Do you?" His gaze sharpens. "It's about money, about responsibility—"

"Dariel." I cut him off. "I know what I'm doing."

He watches me for a long moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know you do. I just don't want you to rush into something and regret it later."

Before I can respond, he stands up and walks over to the kitchen. "Hey, you. Do you mind going somewhere else for a moment? We want to have a conversation and it's past your bedtime already."

I wait for Minho to respond that he doesn't have a bedtime, but the response never comes.

"Hello?" Dariel snaps his fingers. "Earth to Minho?"

More silence.

"Hey!" The squeaking of a chair. "Don't just ignore me! Speak."

Concerned, I walk over to them. Dariel is shaking his little brother's shoulders, who sits calmly on the chair.

I move a little closer, instinctively placing a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't seem to respond at all. It's unsettling.

"Minho?" I call out.

Nothing.

"What's up with him?" Dariel's eyes narrow.

"I don't know," I reply, worry starting to creep into my voice.

Maybe I should continue my medical course.

"Probably just a trick," Dariel mutters, but he doesn't seem entirely convinced.

"Minho?" I ask again, a little more urgently.

He jerks his head back slightly, yet still no sign that he's aware of what's happening. His eyes are open, wide and unblinking.

"Dude, are you on drugs or something? What's with you?" Dariel shakes him again.

I glare at him. "Don't do that. Something's wrong with him."

"Minho, man." He taps him on the cheek. "Stop playing."

But Minho doesn't respond.

"Come on, dude, what's going on with you?"

I press my hand to Minho's forehead. It's warm, but not feverishly so. Yet it feels wrong. His body's too tense.

Dariel's frustration grows. "Okay, this isn't funny anymore."

"Do we call someone?" I worry. "Perhaps an ambulance. What if he's in shock?"

"From what could he possibly be—"

"It's not about why, Dariel," I hiss. "Call someone."

Right as Dariel is about to leave, without warning, Minho lets out a sharp gasp, his whole body shooting forward. I flinch.

He blinks rapidly, his eyes focusing, though they seem unfocused at the same time. His hand shakes slightly as he rubs at his face.

"Minho?" I ask, frozenz

He looks disoriented while his gaze flickers between the two of us.

"What the hell just happened?" Dariel puts a hand on his shoulder. "You good?"

"Oh, yeah." Minho nods heavily. The quietest wince leaves his mouth. His knees wobble as he attempts to walk out of the kitchen, right before I force him to sit back down. "Hey, I'm alright! I was just playing with you," he denies.

"That's not funny," Dariel insists.

"You weren't playing," I add. "That was real."

"You're just jealous I'm a better actor than you," he teases. Again, he tries to get away, but I push him down.

"Just rest for a moment. That could've been shock or a seizure. How do you feel? And how did you feel during that—"

"I told you it was a joke," he says. The beads of sweat on his forehead are unnoticeable. The tremble in his hands.

It wasn't a joke. And that's what I tell him.

"Well, alright, okay, I do feel a bit lightheaded and I'm very tired, but I was being dramatic. Trust me," he assures. "Just a joke."

This time, I let him walk off. Dariel watches, his frown deep. "You think it really was a joke?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Promise me you'll check up on him later?"

"Promised."