Later that night, as I sat in my room trying to calm down, my phone buzzed with a message.
Jiho: Don't take it personally, Miss Yoon. It's not you—it's everyone.
I stared at the message, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Jiho's cryptic nature was exhausting, but for the first time, I wondered if his walls weren't just about keeping others out—they were about keeping himself safe.
I didn't reply, but his words lingered in my mind. Maybe understanding Jiho wasn't about breaking through his walls—it was about learning why they were there in the first place.
Next morning session.
The days blurred into a routine as I threw myself into therapy sessions with Jiho, determined to channel my frustration into something productive. My father's vague promise weighed on my mind, but I chose to focus on the one thing I could control—helping Jiho.
Our sessions were no longer just obligations. I approached them with a new intensity, setting aside my personal feelings and frustrations. Jiho, however, seemed as uninterested as ever, lounging in his chair with an air of indifference.
"Let's start," I said firmly as I placed my notebook on the table.
Jiho raised an eyebrow. "You seem unusually serious today, Miss Yoon. Did someone finally tell you that smiling isn't mandatory?"
I ignored the jab and opened my notebook. "Tell me about your week. Anything new, anything that's been bothering you?"
He smirked, leaning back. "Do you really want to know, or are you just ticking boxes?"
"I want to know," I replied evenly, meeting his gaze. "But only if you're willing to share."
He stared at me for a long moment before sighing. "Nothing new. Just the usual—people being people."
"Which means?" I prompted.
"Which means I keep them at arm's length because it's easier that way," he said, his tone dismissive.
I scribbled in my notebook, choosing my words carefully. "You seem very practiced at that—keeping people away. But have you ever wondered what it's costing you?"
He shrugged, his expression unreadable. "Not much. People are overrated."
"Do you really believe that?" I asked, leaning forward.
Jiho's smirk faltered, just for a second. "What's with the sudden interest, Miss Yoon? Trying to crack the mystery that is me?"
"It's my job," I replied, holding his gaze. "And you're not as unreadable as you think."
He laughed softly, the sound devoid of humor. "Is that so?"
I nodded. "I think you're afraid of letting people in because you've been hurt before. And instead of risking that pain again, you push them away first."
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. The silence stretched between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Jiho," I said quietly, "you don't have to talk about it now. But at some point, you'll need to face whatever it is that's holding you back."
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "We're done for today."
Before I could respond, he walked out, leaving me alone with my notebook and the echo of my own words.
---
Later that evening, as I reviewed my notes, I couldn't shake the image of Jiho's expression—guarded, but not entirely closed off. He was hiding something, just like my father.
Two walls I had to break down, and only one tool at my disposal: persistence.
For now, I decided to respect Jiho's silence, but I wasn't giving up. Progress, no matter how small, was still progress. And I wasn't about to let him—or myself—off the hook.
The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds as I sat at my desk, flipping through my notes from the previous sessions with Jiho. Despite his resistance, there was something in his demeanor last time—a crack in the wall he'd built around himself. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it gave me hope.
Before the session, I decided to clear my mind. I walked to the garden where the koi pond shimmered under the soft sunlight. The tranquil atmosphere offered a brief reprieve from the weight of everything—Jiho's guardedness, my father's unspoken reasons, and my own growing frustration.
As I fed the koi, I heard footsteps behind me. Turning, I found Jiho standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.
"You're early," I said, genuinely surprised.
He shrugged, his usual nonchalance in place. "Figured I'd see what all the fuss is about with this pond you keep mentioning."
I arched an eyebrow. "And?"
"It's... peaceful," he admitted, though his tone made it sound like he was reluctant to give even that much away.
"Sometimes, peace is all you need," I said softly, tossing another handful of food into the water.
Jiho didn't respond but lingered for a moment before turning to head inside. It wasn't much, but it was something.
---
When the session began later that morning, Jiho seemed less tense than usual, though his guard wasn't completely down. I decided to ease into the conversation, keeping things casual.
"How was your week?" I asked, just as I always did.
He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. "Uneventful."
"Uneventful can be a good thing," I said lightly. "Sometimes it's nice to have a break from chaos."
"Or it just means nothing's getting better," he shot back, his tone carrying a hint of bitterness.
I paused, noting the shift in his mood. "What do you feel needs to get better?"
He hesitated, the question clearly catching him off guard. "I don't know," he said after a moment. "Maybe not feeling stuck all the time."
I set my pen down, meeting his gaze. "What makes you feel stuck?"
Jiho's lips tightened as if debating whether to answer. Finally, he sighed. "Everything. People, expectations, my own thoughts."
"Your thoughts?" I repeated, encouraging him to elaborate.
He glanced at me, his guarded expression softening slightly. "Sometimes it feels like my mind is working against me. Like I can't shut it off, no matter how hard I try."
"That sounds overwhelming," I said gently.
He nodded, his eyes drifting toward the window. "It is. But it's easier than dealing with everything else."
"What's everything else?" I asked cautiously.
Jiho stiffened slightly, his defenses rising again. "Let's just say I've learned that trusting people isn't worth the effort."
I leaned back, giving him space. "Not everyone will hurt you, Jiho. Some people stay and make things better."
His smirk returned, though it lacked its usual sharpness. "Maybe. But that's a gamble I'm not willing to take."
"You took a gamble by showing up here," I pointed out.
He raised an eyebrow. "I didn't exactly have a choice."
"No, but you're still here," I countered, my tone firm but kind.
Jiho didn't reply, but his expression was contemplative. For the first time, it felt like he was genuinely listening.
---
The session ended on a quiet note, with Jiho leaving without his usual sarcastic remarks. I sat in the empty room, my notebook open but untouched.
Jiho's words echoed in my mind, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was finally starting to reach him—or if he was letting me in just enough to test the waters.
Either way, I knew this was only the beginning. Breaking through his walls would take time, but I was ready to keep trying.
After the morning session, I stayed in the room for a while, organizing my notes and reflecting on Jiho's slight, yet significant, openness. Progress was slow, but it was there. His words lingered in my mind, offering a glimmer of hope amidst his guarded demeanor.
As I was putting my notebook away, my phone buzzed. The name on the screen made me pause: Mrs. Kang. Jiho's mother.
I hesitated before answering. "Hello, Mrs. Kang," I said politely.
"Yoon Seo," she began, her tone warm but slightly concerned. "I hope I'm not disturbing you. I just wanted to check in about Jiho."
"Not at all," I reassured her. "The session went well today. He's... opening up little by little."
There was a pause on the other end, followed by a sigh. "That's good to hear. It's more than I could have hoped for. I know he can be difficult."
I smiled faintly, though she couldn't see it. "He's not the easiest, but he's not impossible either. I think he just needs time—and patience."
"You've been incredibly patient, Yoon Seo," she said gratefully. "It's more than anyone else has managed."
I hesitated, unsure how much to share. "He's carrying a lot, Mrs. Kang. I don't know the full extent yet, but it's clear that trust is a big hurdle for him."
There was another pause, longer this time. "I wish I could say I don't know why, but... I do," she admitted quietly. "His father and I... we weren't always the most present. And when we were, we often demanded more than he could give."
Her voice cracked slightly, and I felt a pang of sympathy. "Sometimes, it's not about what was done wrong, but what can be done right now," I offered.
"I hope you're right," she said softly. "I just want him to be happy again."
I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "It's going to take time, but I think we're headed in the right direction. He's making small steps, and those are just as important as the big ones."
"Thank you, Yoon Seo," she said, her voice steadier now. "For not giving up on him."
"I won't," I promised.
---
The rest of the day passed quietly. I spent the afternoon reviewing past sessions and preparing for the next. But my mind kept circling back to Mrs. Kang's words.
That evening, I decided to take a walk in the garden, hoping to clear my thoughts. The air was crisp, the faint scent of flowers lingering as the sun dipped below the horizon.
I didn't expect to find Jiho there, sitting on the bench near the koi pond. His head was tilted back, eyes closed, as if he were trying to soak in the peace of the moment.
"You're in my spot," I said lightly, stopping a few feet away.
His eyes opened, and he smirked faintly. "You don't own the garden, Miss Yoon."
"True, but I do spend more time here than you do," I retorted, sitting down on the other end of the bench.
For a moment, neither of us spoke, the silence filled by the gentle sound of the pond.
"You're quieter today," I observed, glancing at him.
Jiho shrugged. "Just thinking."
"Care to share?"
He shook his head. "Not yet."
I nodded, respecting his boundaries. "Fair enough."
As I watched the koi swim lazily in the water, Jiho's voice broke the silence. "Why do you keep trying?"
I turned to him, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
"With me," he clarified. "Why don't you just give up like everyone else?"
I studied him for a moment, searching for the right words. "Because I believe there's more to you than what you show the world. And because I don't think anyone is beyond help—not even you."
He looked at me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held something new. Maybe curiosity. Maybe hope.
For now, that was enough.