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# Chapter 247: Things That Cannot Be Said
The fluorescent light in the hospital room flickered again. Sae-ah tried to match her breathing to its pulse—inhaling as it brightened, exhaling as it dimmed. As if the light itself were her lifeline. But that was a lie, and she knew it. The fluorescent tube couldn’t control her breath. She simply wanted to believe it could.
Her mother’s question hung in the air between them. Unanswered. Why did you meet Ri-woo? It wasn’t accusation. It wasn’t blame. And that made it heavier. Blame, at least, could be fought. Accusation offered a chance to defend herself. But her mother’s question was something else entirely—genuine curiosity tinged with a wound. The wound of wanting to understand and finding she could not.
Sae-ah stepped forward from the foot of the bed, slowly, as if the mattress might be a trap. She needed to see her mother’s face more clearly. To confirm that those half-lidded eyes were actually seeing her. It wasn’t confirmation she sought—she knew that. It was escape. Running from herself and toward her mother simultaneously. Was such a contradiction possible? Yes. Humans lived inside contradictions like these.
“I met Ri-woo because of noona,” Sae-ah said.
The words surprised her. They hadn’t been prepared. They simply came out, and even she was startled by them. Because they were true. But why was the truth only surfacing now?
Her mother’s eyes widened—as if struck, or as if she were finally seeing Sae-ah with proper clarity.
“Do-hyun had exams. You were sick. He couldn’t be alone. But I had to work, go to the convenience store, take you to the hospital…”
Sae-ah’s words came faster. Like a broken dam. Everything she’d held back came pouring out. “So I called Ri-woo. Asked him to watch Do-hyun. I thought since he had money, he could buy Do-hyun what he needed. So he wouldn’t be hungry. So he wouldn’t be lonely. That’s what I thought.”
Silence filled the room. This time it wasn’t her mother’s silence alone—it was theirs together. Speaking her words aloud, Sae-ah realized how simple they were, and how impossibly complex. A simple reason: she wanted to care for Do-hyun. But how much lay hidden beneath that simplicity? Her own helplessness. The knowledge that she wasn’t enough. And the despair of needing someone else’s hands.
“He took good care of Do-hyun. At first.”
Sae-ah continued, as if the act of speaking was the only way she could breathe. “Do-hyun said he was kind. Bought him meals, took him to movies, things like that. But then something changed. He started looking for me. Kept contacting me…”
“Sae-ah.”
Her mother spoke—just one word. A signal to stop. But not a signal born of anger. It was a signal that she’d heard enough. That it was okay to stop now.
Sae-ah closed her mouth. But the dam inside her remained broken. Water still flowed. Not tears yet. Not quite. Something caught inside her. Rising to her throat. But unable to escape.
Her mother raised her hand—very slowly, as if the limb itself carried immense weight. It moved toward Sae-ah’s face. Her fingers traced her daughter’s cheek, reading it like braille. Confirming something. Or trying to understand.
“Ri-woo wanted something from me,” her mother said, still touching Sae-ah’s face. Her touch was gentle, but it wasn’t meant to comfort. It was meant to retrieve something. To find what lay beneath her own skin.
“When he first held me, I felt it. He didn’t love me. He wanted something. Through me. Or from me itself. Something I possessed. I kept wondering what that could be.”
Her mother’s hand moved lower—to Sae-ah’s neck. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, not squeezing. Simply feeling the pulse.
“I realized. What he wanted wasn’t my voice. He wanted me to need him. To beg him to save me. To feel that I couldn’t exist without him.”
Her mother’s hand descended again—to Sae-ah’s, which she gripped firmly. Almost painfully.
“And he would have done the same to you. Tried to make you need him the way I did. You would have felt that he was necessary. That without him, you couldn’t care for Do-hyun. So you would have kept searching for him. Exactly as he wanted.”
Sae-ah’s breathing quickened. Her mother’s grip tightened, as if refusing to let her drift away.
“He left me. Not long ago. And for the first time, I understood. His leaving wasn’t something given to me—it was something stolen. I had nothing. Only his need for me. That was all I ever had.”
Sae-ah looked at her mother fully. At those half-open eyes filled with unshed tears. Water trapped behind glass.
“You tried to take care of Do-hyun. That’s good. But in doing that, you can’t lose yourself. You’re his sister, yes—but first, you have to be yourself. Otherwise, you can’t save anyone. Not Do-hyun. Not me. Not anyone.”
Her mother finished speaking. Silence descended again, but it was a different kind. A silence of acceptance. Of understanding. The silence after words that cannot be said have finally been spoken. And in that silence, Sae-ah cried for the first time.
It was a quiet crying. Soundless. Tears simply ran down her cheeks. Her mother didn’t wipe them away. Instead, she placed her hand on Sae-ah’s face. That hand trembled. A weak hand. But its weakness itself was strong. Sae-ah understood this—true strength was not hiding your weakness. It was still holding onto someone despite it.
“You said something about being underwater. About not hearing anything. About there being no one.”
Sae-ah spoke, surprising herself. She didn’t know how she understood this. But she did. From somewhere deep. From underwater. From somewhere she couldn’t reach.
“I wanted that. That state. Where nothing could be heard. Is that why I sought out Ri-woo? His hand was warm, and it felt like it was pulling me deeper into the water. It seemed peaceful.”
Her mother released her hand, then grasped it again.
“But you woke up. And I had to wake up. Had to come up from underwater. Because Do-hyun kept calling. Because you needed to open your eyes.”
Sae-ah’s voice shook. “So I’m here. In the water. But it still feels like I’m underwater. My feet don’t touch ground. It feels like I’m constantly falling. Like I could fall anywhere.”
The fluorescent light flickered again. Beneath that unstable glow, Sae-ah and her mother held hands. Bodies separate. But hands connected. That was the only reality.
“You won’t fall,” her mother said.
Her voice was weak but certain. “Because I’m here. And Do-hyun is here. We’re holding you. You won’t fall.”
Sae-ah couldn’t know how long that promise would hold. But in this moment, it was enough. The promise was enough. And believing in it was enough.
Do-hyun returned, holding a cup of water. As he opened the door, he saw Sae-ah and their mother holding hands. He saw that Sae-ah was crying. He didn’t move. He simply stood in the doorway. Perhaps he understood that stillness was the best he could offer. Simply witnessing. And that was enough.
Sae-ah gripped her mother’s hand more tightly. And in that grip, she felt that she wasn’t underwater. That she was anchored somewhere. On solid ground. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
Because on solid ground, you cannot fall. And not being able to fall means you cannot escape. And not being able to escape means you must face yourself. Face the choices you made. The actions you took. The people you hurt. And the way you were hurt.
That realization pierced through her—not slowly, but like lightning. Through her chest and into her abdomen. Where it lodged, like an arrow. Like an ember. An ember ready to burn.
The fluorescent light flickered again. And Sae-ah breathed with it. Inhaling. Exhaling. As the light brightened and dimmed. This time, it wasn’t a lie. It was real. The reality that she was here. That she was burning. Not for nothing anymore. For something. Finally.
# Waking in Water
The hospital bed was too cold. Sae-ah realized this now. Or rather, she had always known but refused to acknowledge it—the coldness of the mattress, the harsh light from the fluorescent tube above, the fact of her own existence within all of this.
“I wanted it,” Sae-ah whispered, gripping her mother’s hand. She didn’t know how she understood this. But she did. From somewhere deep. From underwater. From a place even she couldn’t reach. As if another self lived inside her, one that had always known.
“That state. Where nothing could be heard.”
She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling, watching the fluorescent light flicker. Bright, then dark, then bright again. Her breathing danced to that rhythm. Inhaling. Exhaling. Light and shadow. Somewhere between them, she was losing something. Or finding something. The difference no longer mattered.
“Is that why I sought out Ri-woo?”
Her fingers dug deeper into her mother’s hand, gripped by the terror that if this hand released her, she would flow away into nothing. Sae-ah closed her eyes and summoned Ri-woo’s face. Cold and gentle at once. Like water. She felt again the sensation of that face turning toward her.
“His hand was warm.”
Even as she spoke, she wasn’t certain it was true. Perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps Ri-woo’s hand had been warm, or perhaps her own was simply too cold. The distinction no longer mattered. What mattered was that his hand led her somewhere. Somewhere that seemed peaceful. Like water. Like water where all sound had been erased.
“It felt like he was pulling me deeper into the water. Like it was peaceful. A kind of peace where I wouldn’t have to hear anything anymore.”
Her mother lowered her hand, and Sae-ah’s heart lurched. Was this rejection? But it was only for a moment. Her mother grasped her hand again immediately—firmer this time. Like a promise.
“But you woke up.”
Sae-ah’s voice fractured. The fracture spread quickly—through her chest, her throat, her eyes. Hot tears fell, tracing her face.
“And I had to wake up. Come up from underwater.”
She could barely bear the weight of these words. It felt as though in rising from the water, she had left part of herself behind. And that part was still calling to her from below. Come back. Come back. To where warm hands held her. To peaceful darkness.
“Because Do-hyun kept calling. Because you needed to wake.”
Her voice trembled as if it belonged to someone else. She felt less like she was speaking these words and more like she was hearing them—spoken from some other being living inside her, in the water, in a depth she could never reach.
“So I’m here.”
She looked at the ceiling. The fluorescent light was flickering again. Watching it, Sae-ah couldn’t tell if she was truly here or still underwater, simply believing herself to be here.
“In the water. But it still feels like I’m underwater.”
Her mother was wiping her forehead with her other hand. The touch was very gentle. Like wrapping a wound with thin fabric. Sae-ah focused on the sensation. The warmth of her fingers. Their softness. Was this the rope pulling her to reality? Or the chain dragging her deeper?
“My feet don’t touch ground. I feel like I’m always falling. Like I could fall anywhere.”
Her fingers trembled on her mother’s hand, as if they too were experiencing that falling sensation. She observed everything in the hospital room carefully. The white sheets on the bed. Her hand resting on them. Her mother’s hand. The fact that their hands were connected.
But everything was moving. No—flowing. As if she were underwater. In slowly flowing water where everything maintained its form while simultaneously transforming. The bed. Her mother. Herself.
The fluorescent light flickered again. Her heartbeat synchronized with its rhythm. Beneath that unstable glow, Sae-ah and her mother held hands. Bodies separate. But hands connected. That was the only reality. Everything else was uncertain—except this. Except the warmth of this hand.
“You won’t fall.”
Her mother spoke, her voice weak but firm. She repeated it, as if the certainty itself were crucial. Sae-ah looked into her mother’s eyes—eyes also filled with tears, falling slowly, very slowly.
“Because I’m here.”
Her mother’s voice grew stronger. It was both self-persuasion and persuasion of Sae-ah. And that made it more powerful. Because there was a desperate strength in trying to convince someone while doubting your own conviction.
“And Do-hyun is here. We’re holding you. You won’t fall.”
She couldn’t know how long that promise would endure. Tomorrow? Next week? Next month? Could it persist? Or would their grip slip at some point, and wouldn’t she fall back into the water, this time with no one to catch her?
But in this moment, it was enough. The promise was enough. Believing in it was enough. Don’t think about the future. Just this moment. Just the warmth of this hand. Just this promise.
Do-hyun returned, holding a cup of water. He opened the door and saw Sae-ah and their mother holding hands. He saw that Sae-ah was crying. He didn’t move from the doorway. As if afraid that any movement might shatter the scene.
He understood it was the best he could do. Simply watching. And that was enough. Sae-ah felt it—the weight of Do-hyun’s gaze. She felt how that gaze held her in yet another way. If her mother’s hand held her from the front, Do-hyun’s eyes held her from behind. Keeping her anchored on both sides.
Sae-ah gripped her mother’s hand more firmly. And in that grip, she felt that she wasn’t underwater. No—she had to feel it. Because survival depended on it. She had to feel that she was anchored somewhere. On solid ground. On firm earth.
And that was the most terrifying thing.
The realization came like lightning. Because on solid ground, you cannot fall. And not falling means you cannot escape. You cannot surrender your body to the current and drift away, as you can in water. And not being able to escape means you must face yourself. Face every choice you made. Every action you took. Everyone you hurt. And the way you were hurt.
That realization pierced through her—not slowly but violently. Through her chest and into her abdomen. Where it stopped, embedded like an arrow. Like an ember. An ember prepared to burn. It was pain. But it was also something else. Proof of life. Proof of having risen from underwater.
The fluorescent light flickered again. And Sae-ah breathed with it. Inhaling. Exhaling. As the light brightened and dimmed. Following that rhythm, she synchronized her breathing with the room, with the light, with the world.
As if she were breathing together with this hospital, this fluorescent tube, this entire world.
This time, it wasn’t a lie. It was real. The reality that she was here. That she was holding her mother’s hand. That Do-hyun stood watching at the door.
And in that reality, she was burning. The ember lodged in her abdomen was slowly catching fire. Not for nothing. For something. Perhaps for herself. For the first time.
Sae-ah’s eyes slowly closed. But this wasn’t the sensation of sinking underwater. It felt like entering deeper into herself. Into that place where the ember burned. And there, at last, she met someone. Someone who didn’t fear her. Someone who wouldn’t abandon her.
It was herself.
The hospital night deepened. The fluorescent light continued to flicker. But now its flickering brought no anxiety. It was a rhythm instead. The rhythm of being alive. And in that rhythm, Sae-ah slowly—very slowly—began again.