We still eat dinner together every Monday evening—Dariel, Minho, and I. I cook, Dariel sets the table, and if we're lucky, Minho takes care of the dishwasher.

I glance at him as I cut into my chicken, watching the way he picks at his food, pushing it around his plate instead of eating. His shoulders are slumped. There's something distant in his eyes, as if he's somewhere else entirely.

Usually, he cracks a few jokes, teasing Dariel, making some sarcastic comment about the way I plate the food or about how Dariel can't season anything properly. But tonight, he's more silent than ever.

I set my fork down. "You okay?"

He doesn't look up. "Yeah."

Dariel shifts beside me, his expression unreadable. He knows something—I can tell. He keeps glancing at Minho like he's trying to measure whether he's about to fall apart. It makes me sit up a little straighter.

"Minho," I press, "You barely touched your food. Is it not nice? I can make you something else if you want. Are you tired again—"

"No, no, it's fine. I'm just not that hungry," he murmurs.

"You need to eat," Dariel insists, his tone unusually soft.

Minho's jaw tightens. He stabs a piece of chicken and pops it into his mouth, chewing like it physically pains him. His eyes are on his plate, avoiding both of us.

I glance between the two of them. Dariel isn't calling him dramatic, or laughing at him. Something is wrong and he knows what it is.

"Rough day?" I subtly reach for my water.

"Yeah. Something like that."

I want to ask more, but Dariel shoots me a look—one that tells me to let it go. I don't understand why. Normally, he'd be the first to call Minho out on his attitude.

Instead, he just sighs and leans back in his chair. "If you're not hungry, at least drink some water," he says, nudging Minho's glass closer to him. "You look like you're gonna pass out."

Minho's fingers twitch, but after a second, he picks it up and takes a small sip.

The rest of dinner is unbearably quiet. The clinking of utensils against plates, the faint hum of the fridge, that's all. Dariel and I exchange glances ever so often, but he doesn't say anything. He just keeps eating, so I follow his example.

Minho stays slumped in his chair, only taking small bites when Dariel eyes him for a little too long.

Dariel clears his throat. "You should try to get some sleep tonight. We'll go home early."

"Alright," he doesn't seem to bothered, nor unbothered.

"What's going on?" My voice comes out harsher as I look between the two brothers.

"I—" Minho begins, but he stops. He swallows, shaking his head. "I don't wanna talk about it."

That weight in my chest gets heavier. Dariel sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't and gives me another look. I hope it means he'll explain later on.

Dariel gets up to do the dishes after dinner. He doesn't tell Minho to do it, and that's what confirms that something is very wrong.

I stand, too, reaching for my own plate. My mind is racing, trying to figure out what's going on. Trying to piece together whatever happened.

"Minho," I try again, softer this time.

"What?" His voice is hoarse.

I glance at Dariel. He doesn't look at me, doesn't turn from the sink. I don't know how to reach Minho when he's closed off like this.

I pull out the chair beside him and sit down. "Are you okay? Can I help you with anything? Talk to me, please."

"About what?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You know what. I don't. That's the problem."

"It's nothing. I'm just tired."

Dariel turns off the sink, drying his hands on a towel. "You should get some rest, Minho," he says before hinting, "I'll talk to you later, Lucy."

Minho pushes back his chair and stands up. "I'll go to the couch."

I watch as he moves away, his steps sluggish. At the last second, just before disappearing behind the corner, Minho pauses. His fingers grip the wall. He stands there for a moment, silent, head slightly lowered. I hold my breath, waiting. But he doesn't say anything.

Then he steps inside the living room, sliding the glass door that keeps it split from the kitchen closed.

I speak almost immediately. "What happened?"

Dariel doesn't answer as fast. He tosses the towel onto the counter, then leans against the sink, crossing his arms. He avoids my eyes.

"Dariel. Tell me."

He sits down across from me. "My mom visited the hospital with Minho this morning."

I blink. "The hospital?"

Dariel averts his eyes. "Meningitis. And he got diagnosed with something else."

"Something else?" My lungs suddenly feel tinier than ever.

Dariel exhales, glancing toward the living room. "The infection... it caused complications," he says quietly. "He... he has epilepsy."

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him.

Epilepsy.

The word feels distant, like I'm hearing it from underwater. I grip the back of the chair, my fingers digging into the wood. "What?"

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. "How bad is it?" I whisper.

"We don't know yet. They gave him medication, but... he's still processing it. He didn't want to tell anyone. I don't think he'll be nice company for the following month—or months, knowing Minho."

No wonder he looked like that. No wonder he barely spoke. He just found out that his life is never going to be the same again.

I stand up, eyes on the living room, but Dariel catches my wrist. I glance back at him, surprised.

"I don't think that's a good idea. He's not ready to talk about it yet."

I hesitate, but nod. My heart feels heavy. Epilepsy isn't just nothing. He won't be allowed to drive. He won't be allowed to go to the gym alone. It feels like he won't have any freedom at all, while his life is just getting started.

"What stimulates the seizures?" I ask.

"They haven't found a specific cause yet, but sleep, anxiety, strong emotions, and temperature for sure play a role in it. It's possible he has seizures at random moments."

I've never felt this bad for someone in my life. "We need to cheer him up somehow. He's shutting everyone out."

"No, no. He doesn't want to be the center of attention when he's vulnerable. I think it's best if we leave him alone."

I bite my lip, my gaze drifting toward the living room. I want to go to him. I want to hug him, to make him see that it's okay, that he will learn how to live with this, and that I will always be there for him.

"Is he even planning to tell his friends?"

"Not now, but they must be informed. If Minho doesn't do it, Mom will. But they really care about him. They'll make sure nothing bad happens."

I nod, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat. "I really think I should talk to him."

Dariel gives me a small smile, but it's laced with sadness. "Okay, but be patient with him."

I move toward the living room. My mind races, torn between the need to help Minho and the fear that he'll turn his back on me.

As I approach the living room, I pause at the door, my hand resting on the frame. Minho's silhouette is visible through the glass, lying on the couch, staring blankly at the TV's black screen.

Taking a deep breath, I step inside, closing the door quietly behind me. Minho doesn't look up at first, and for a moment, I just stand there, waiting for him to acknowledge me.

I sit down near his body. Not a single word leaves my mouth. Telling him I'm here for him is stupid. Maybe he just needs someone's presence.

"I want things to go back to normal already," leaves his mouth, so quietly that his lips barely move and that I have a hard time hearing him.

Before I can react, a soft sob escapes him. His shoulders tremble violently as he tries to hold it in, but it only makes the sound louder. The pain in his sounds are so raw, I feel it in my own bones.

I move closer. My arms reach out toward him. He collapses into me, his body wracked with sobs. I don't say anything—there's nothing to say that could make this better. I just hold him, tightening my arms around him as his sobs come in fast bursts, like he's trying to breathe through the suffocating pain.

His hands grip my shirt, pulling me closer. He buries his face into my shoulder, his breath uneven. Tears prick in my own eyes.

I run a hand over his hair in slow, soothing strokes, still unable to form words. He cries harder, the kind of deep, soul-ripping sobs that I know are months of pent-up fear, frustration, and helplessness finally pouring out.

I keep holding him, brushing my fingers through his hair, offering all the comfort I can. It's painful to watch, but something he has to release.