Chapter 1: A Quiet Weight (Revised)
The Weight we Carry
Chapter 1
Yu Hamin lingered outside the apartment door, his fingers brushing against the metal key dangling from his wrist. The coolness of the evening air clung to his skin, but he didn't move to unlock the door. Instead, he stared at the scratched paint of the wood, his chest tightening with the weight of his thoughts.
The scuffed knuckles on his right hand throbbed faintly. He flexed his fingers, tracing the swelling with his thumb. It wasn't like he wanted to get into fights. It wasn't even that he enjoyed them. But sometimes—sometimes—he couldn't just let things go.
Yejun hyung's going to be mad.
The thought made his stomach churn. It wasn't Yejun's anger that scared him. No, it was the disappointment that cut the deepest. The heavy, quiet kind that Yejun carried in his eyes whenever Hamin messed up.
Letting out a slow breath, Hamin finally slipped the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked open, and the faint glow of the television cast long shadows across the apartment's cramped interior. The smell of instant ramen hung in the air—a familiar, almost comforting scent, but tonight it felt suffocating.
"You're late," came Yejun's voice from the couch. He didn't look up, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The television murmured in the background, but Yejun's eyes were distant, not focused on the screen. He shifted slightly, his gaze landing on Hamin as he stepped inside. His eyes darted briefly to the redness on Hamin's knuckles, and then up to the faint shadow of a bruise forming on his jaw.
"You've been fighting again, haven't you?" Yejun's voice was calm, almost too calm, but the weariness behind it hit harder than any shout.
Hamin froze for a moment, then shut the door behind him. "It's not…" he started, his voice faltering. "It's not what you think."
"What I think," Yejun interrupted, rising from the couch, "is that you promised me. No more fights." He gestured toward Hamin's scuffed shoes and the slight tear at the hem of his shirt. "Do you think I don't notice? Hamin, you said you were done with this."
Hamin clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "I… I didn't mean for it to happen. It wasn't my fault."
"It never is," Yejun said softly, his voice laced with quiet frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and for a fleeting moment, his shoulders sagged as though the weight of the world was pressing down on him.
His fingers lingered near his temple, massaging lightly before he dropped his hand back down. "You can't keep doing this, Hamin. You can't solve everything with your fists."
"You don't get it," Hamin muttered, avoiding Yejun's gaze.
"Then help me understand," Yejun said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was a softness to it that made Hamin's chest tighten. As he moved, Hamin noticed the faint unsteadiness in Yejun's steps. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but enough to make Hamin's brow furrow briefly. He dismissed it as exhaustion—Yejun always worked too hard.
Hamin's jaw clenched. He thought of the taunts from earlier that day, the cruel words about his family, about Yejun. They didn't know anything. They didn't know how hard Yejun worked, how much he sacrificed. And they had no right to talk about things they didn't understand.
But what was the point of explaining? Yejun already carried so much. Hamin hated the idea of adding to his burden. Instead, he shook his head. "It doesn't matter."
"You can't keep doing this, Hamin. You can't solve everything with your fists," Yejun said, his voice dropping. He hesitated, his words faltering. "That's not how we…"
Yejun trailed off, his voice faltering as he avoided Hamin's gaze. The weight of something unsaid hung in the air, thick and suffocating. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as if the words he stopped himself from saying hurt just as much to hold back.
Hamin's chest tightened as he watched his brother, the unspoken words louder than anything Yejun could have said. The quiet tension was too much. He felt his frustration bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to spill over as he clenched his fists at his sides. The room felt smaller, his brother's silence sharper. Finally, the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Hamin's gaze snapped up, his voice sharp. "That's how who does things? You? Me? Dad?"
Yejun froze, his eyes darkened. His jaw tightened, and for a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly but firmly, he replied, "Don't. Don't bring him into this."
Hamin opened his mouth to push further, the words bubbling up inside him, but he faltered. The way Yejun's eyes dimmed, his whole demeanor hardening at the mention of their father, made Hamin's chest ache. That shadow of pain—it was a wound Hamin hated himself for poking at.
The regret settled heavily as he lowered his gaze, his hands curling into fists. Why had he even brought it up?
Yejun's voice broke the silence, quieter now, stripped of its earlier sharpness. "Just go wash up. Dinner's ready."
Hamin nodded stiffly and headed toward the bathroom, his footsteps echoing softly against the worn floorboards.
Later, the two of them sat across from each other at the small kitchen table. The ramen was lukewarm, the noodles slightly overcooked, but Hamin didn't mind. The silence between them was heavy, broken only by the occasional clink of chopsticks against bowls.
Yejun glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You're so serious tonight. What happened to the kid who used to beg me for extra eggs in his ramen?"
Hamin's lips twitched, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I grew up."
"Hmm," Yejun hummed, leaning back slightly. "You still look like a kid to me."
"Hyung," Hamin said, his tone a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Stop teasing me."
Yejun chuckled softly. "Fine, fine. But seriously, Hamin… try to stay out of trouble, okay? I'm not saying you have to let people walk all over you. Just… be careful."
Hamin nodded, but he didn't look up from his bowl. The weight of Yejun's words settled heavily on his chest. He wanted to promise he'd be better, that he'd make Yejun proud. But the words felt hollow in his throat.
That night, as Hamin lay in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling, his thoughts churned relentlessly. He thought of Yejun's tired eyes, the way his voice softened when he spoke, as though he carried the world on his shoulders but didn't want anyone to notice. Hamin hated that he kept adding to that weight.
Does he resent me?
The thought gnawed at him, sharp and unforgiving. Hamin knew how much Yejun had given up for him—his dreams, his youth, his freedom. And for what? To raise a brother who couldn't seem to stay out of trouble?
Turning onto his side, Hamin clenched his fists. "I'll do better," he whispered into the darkness. "I promise."
But deep down, he wasn't sure if he believed it.
Hamin and Yejun hadn't always been alone. Hamin's mom had married Yejun's dad when Hamin was only a baby, and Yejun was 11. For a while, they'd been a family—dinners together, holidays filled with laughter. But their father had a dark side, a temper that was often directed at Yejun. Hamin, too young to understand or remember most of it, had been spared the worst of the abuse. But Yejun bore the brunt of it, shielding Hamin whenever he could.
Eventually, their father left, abandoning them all without a word. Their mom tried to hold things together, but when Yejun was 16 and Hamin just 6, she broke under the strain and left too. She'd said it was too much, that she couldn't handle the weight of raising them on her own. Yejun had been the one to step up, to take on the role of both brother and parent.
Yejun's own dreams had been the first casualty. He had wanted to be a singer, his voice rich and full of emotion. But with their mom gone, college and music school were out of the question. Instead, Yejun graduated high school and immediately started working. He never complained, but Hamin could see the way he'd buried that part of himself, his guitar gathering dust in the corner of their apartment.