Things That Can't Be Hidden (3)
Day two of living together. Or day two of protection? I had no idea what to call it. It wasn't exactly cohabitation since I hadn't chosen it, and protection felt off too—I wasn't her guardian or anything. The simplest way to put it was that she'd come into my house, and two nights had passed since then.
Yesterday's ordeal—coughing nonstop, barely able to hold herself up, screaming from the fever—felt like a fever dream from the height of summer. Her body had bounced back to normal already.
This recovery power is enviable...
I'd figured a full day in that downpour would have her bedridden for days. I'd prepped antipyretics and instant porridge, even thought about dragging her to the hospital. But her constitution seemed as tough as it was back when she was a guy. That brutal cold? Shaken off in one night. Her face looked clear of fever now.
Back to her original form, she said. Not her true self, though.
There was a bit of a contradiction in calling it her original form. She'd recovered from the cold, sure, but nothing about her situation had improved. She was still a woman, still had nowhere to go, still buried in my bed.
Her crown of hair poking out from the covers, clutching a pillow to her chest, lying there sideways all day, blocking out the world. At first, she looked so pitiful, so heartbreaking—like someone whose world had collapsed, barely clinging to breath. I didn't dare touch her, just left her be.
But as time passed, it started looking different. The pity was still there, but something else layered on top. She seemed like someone who'd given up on everything, sprawled out in surrender.
What must she be thinking, having lost it all...
Not in a bad way. I knew her situation was one where giving up wouldn't be strange. Kicked out by family, abandoned by friends, her own body unrecognizable—hiding under the covers to shut out the world? That was perfectly normal. Probably the healthiest response, even.
But I also knew I couldn't let her stay like that forever. Or rather... didn't her recovery mean she was up for it now? She'd been wracked with fever and coughs yesterday, but today the fever was gone and her breathing steady. At least her body could move.
So maybe it was time to teach her, very slowly, how to get up. Not all at once—just start by coming out from under the covers.
And I half-jokingly said I'd have her run errands yesterday.
I'd told her I'd pile them on tomorrow. Back then, it was just to get her to sleep, but thinking it over, it wasn't a bad idea. Right now, she'd eat if I told her to, sleep if I said so, come out if I asked. Giving orders to someone who couldn't start anything on their own might actually help. Even something small—to give her the sense that she'd done it herself.
I opened the door to my room. There was the top of her head, buried in the covers, same position, same spot as yesterday. Hugging the pillow to her chest, sideways, blocking out the world—for two straight days.
I grabbed the edge of the blanket and yanked it down in one go. She jolted in surprise and shot upright. Messy hair half-covered her face, eyes fixed on the floor as always. Her shirt had slipped, exposing her collarbone, but she didn't seem to have the bandwidth to care. Now she just looked a little like an unemployed guy caught sleeping in.
A far cry from the wretched state when she first arrived.
"I said I'd have you run an errand, right?"
Her body twitched at the words. She lifted her head and looked at me. I'd expected those dull, emotionless gray eyes, but no. The irises quivered faintly. Like a frightened animal facing a predator—or prey cornered by a beast. I could guess what "errand" meant in her head. Remembering how she'd dropped the bowl and collapsed last night, orders probably signaled punishment to her.
I picked up my phone, unlocked it, opened the shopping app, and tossed it onto the bed.
"Here. Add what we're eating today to the cart."
She stared blankly at the phone. The grocery list and search bar glowed white against the blanket. Without waiting for her reaction, I headed to the closet and started pulling out clothes from the drawer. A few T-shirts, some pants—I stacked them aside until one drawer was empty.
"You're gonna be here a while, so I'll clear a drawer for you."
No sound from behind me. I filled the empty drawer with stuff she could wear comfortably. A couple of oversized T-shirts and pants with drawstrings. Not perfect, but better than a single shirt. Mine, so everything would be big, but better than nothing.
I finished organizing and turned. She was clutching my phone with both hands, staring right at me. The screen was still on the app I'd left open—no items in the cart. She hadn't touched it, just held it like someone handed a precious artifact, unsure where to put it.
Her eyes were different now. Not scared—curious, but unable to speak. Faint wrinkles on her forehead, lips parting and closing repeatedly.
I stood by the dresser, waiting for her to open her mouth.
"Wh-what... should I get?"
Again, unable to decide for herself. Same as with the jam, the porridge. Give her options, and she'd ask back—that was her pattern now.
"Get what you like. Our tastes are pretty similar, right?"
"Uh... um... okay."
Her voice was adorably cute, but the response was quieter than an ant's crawl—not exactly thrilling. Still, an "okay" was progress.
"Gonna work for a bit, so bring the phone when you're done."
She nodded silently. I left the phone with her, grabbed my laptop, and headed to the living room. I sat at the table, opened it, and thought,
I didn't expect her to finish right away... Take your time picking.
The old her would've decided in three seconds. Sprawled on the sofa, poking my thigh with her toes: "Hey, I'm hungry, order something." I'd curse once and get Chinese delivery. Fried rice for me, jjajangmyeon for her. Plus tangsuyuk. We'd bicker like kids over sauce on or dip, end up half-and-half, stealing from each other's plates.
I thought I wouldn't miss it at all... Why do I?
That annoying guy who'd crash every weekend, scarf delivery, and at least buy rounds later out of loyalty. I'd remember one, two, three drinks—then blackout. Morning, she'd be snoring on the sofa already.
You don't know spring's gone till the flowers fall.
The flowers had burned to ash. But from that ash, something was sprouting now, using it as fertilizer. An "okay," a nod, steps to the table on her own. Tiny sprouts, all of them.
Whether they bloom into flowers or weeds, who knows.
Still, I wanted to nurture them. Weeds flower pretty, wildflowers too.
You gotta let 'em bloom to find out, right?
I turned to the laptop screen, pulled up charts. Unlike yesterday, Asia markets were moving. Spotted an entry, took a position, set a stop-loss, then monitored news flow.
Work flew by. Glancing at the corner clock during a lull, morning was long gone—lunchtime approaching. But no sound from my room.
Sigh... Did I give her something too hard?
Took her forever to pick between strawberry and grape jam. Dumping dozens of options on her? No wonder she'd struggle. Probably frozen on the first screen. Or scrolling menus for hours.
I pushed the laptop aside and stood. As I reached my door, rustling inside. Hurried movements. Blanket crinkling, something bumping—then silence.
I entered. She was hidden under the covers, crown tucked in too—just a human-shaped lump. Opposite of when I'd yanked them off earlier; she'd burrowed as deep as possible, not a single hair escaping, wrapped tight.
"Fever again?"
"N-no... not that!"
Her voice was different. Not the scream from yesterday, not the apologetic crawl. High-pitched, rapid, desperately denying.
Something was off. Clutching the blanket like hiding a secret. Curiosity piqued, I approached and sat on the bed's edge. She inched away, blanket and all—like a caterpillar trying to escape under the fabric.
What the... Did she snoop on my phone?
Wouldn't put it past her personality. But my phone? News tabs, forex charts, stuff a single guy looks at.
Stuff a single guy looks at?
That thought hit, and I grasped the situation a beat late. For a guy living alone, fine. But for her, now a woman...
...
Could be risky. To avoid trouble, better I keep the phone. I reached into the blanket lump.
It was scorching inside. Not warm—steamy, damp heat hitting my hand. I'd thought the fever broke, but the covers were soaked with sweat. Not fever, though—if it was, I'd have noticed earlier.
Then what?
My fingers brushed her hand, grabbed the phone wedged there.
"Eek... eeeek!"
She shuddered violently and flopped sideways. Not fear—more like reason shattering from overwhelming stimulus. Her body convulsed like electricity shot through it, nothing like pure fright.
And the slick wetness following my hand. I yanked the phone out quick and checked the screen.
Sure enough, browser tab open—to a video in my favorite genre, paused.
She'd ditched the cart for this.
Sigh... Didn't see that coming.
Guy-to-guy, no big deal. "This one's good," "You into that?" Fair chat. If Han Junseo were still a guy, we'd probably watch and critique together.
Problem: she looked just like the woman in the video now. Same body, same sensations—watching that, her mind must've run wild. Overwhelmed by fantasies she couldn't handle, collapsed.
I closed the tab, pocketed the phone. Her trembling under the covers slowed, but no sign of emerging. Makes sense. Most embarrassing moment of her life.
Guess just feeding, sleeping, medicining her dryly isn't enough...
No matter how mysterious the TS disease, this ran deeper. Body change wasn't skin-deep. Sensations shifted, reactions rewired—her familiar self operating alien now. Collapsing from that tiny touch? Not willpower; her body hadn't adapted.
Couldn't fix with food, bed, pills.
I stared at the blanket lump awhile, then spoke softly.
"I'll handle the shopping. Tell me later if you want anything."
No reply—just faint quivers. I left the room wordlessly, pausing at the door.
"Cleared the drawer, so change clothes from there."
Door shut, back to the living room. Maybe take her to a specialist. The thought crossed my mind for the first time.