“Ah—Dr. Choi. The medication I’m taking… it’s Brintellix, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Dr. Choi said. “Why?”

  “I like listening to old hip-hop,” Tong-sup said. “And it turns out a rapper I like takes Brintellix too.”

  “Oh? Really?” Dr. Choi tilted her head slightly. “Which song?”

  “It’s called Rose. By a rapper named Yang Hong-won. Yeah—ROSE, in English.”

  Dr. Choi turned to the computer on her desk, fingers moving as if searching for it. After a moment, she smiled.

  “You’re right. Brintellix has been around for quite a while—we’ve used it for years. I didn’t know there was a song like this.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  She looked back at him.

  “So,” Dr. Choi said lightly, “how does it feel? Knowing that this rapper takes the same medication you do?”

  Tong-sup didn’t answer right away.

  For a brief moment, something warm settled in his chest.

  It was always comforting, in a quiet way, to know he wasn’t the only one feeling like this. Especially when it was someone famous—someone who had managed to make something of himself in the world. The thought slipped in naturally: if that person could live with these feelings and still move forward, then maybe it was possible for me, too.

  The comfort didn’t last too long.

  What did it even mean, to make it? And were the people who had made it really the kind of lives he wanted to measure himself against? The question looped back on itself, dull and familiar, like a thought worn smooth from overuse.

  He felt a flicker of irritation—at the questions, and at himself for asking them. He hated this habit of drifting into small, useless philosophies, turning a simple moment into something heavier than it needed to be.

  The warmth faded, but not completely. What remained was modest and manageable—enough to sit with, at least for now.