NLFSD Chapter 123

Chapter 123 – Call My Name IF Extra 7

Returning to the office, Seo Taecheon took greetings and sat at his desk. Only the memories of Lee Jiwoon were missing; everything else was as he knew it, so nothing felt inconvenient. He remembered his work perfectly and handled it without issue.

The sudden accident had scuttled a meeting, but the other party was understanding; the contract proceeded without a hitch. Both sides were satisfied.

Approving documents, reading reports, summoning executives and issuing instructions, he felt at ease — as if everything were back in its place. The cogs of work and life meshed perfectly, nothing lacking, nothing excess. This was his life as it had been.

The cogs turned smoothly; no lack, no surplus. That was the life he knew and had lived.

As he reviewed contract papers and prepared to enter a meeting, his phone buzzed. A message from his mother:

I’m going on a trip with your father this weekend — just so you know. We’ll be gone about a week.

Short as it was, it threw him. “Your father” could only mean Chairman Seo Hyeong‑ho.

My divorced mother, with my father — how…?

His vision blurred, then cleared. Puzzle pieces clicked in his head. Yes — his parents, separated when he was young, had reconciled recently. But how? With no contact for so long, what brought them back together? A piece was missing.

Another message followed:

I’m saying it to prod you. Looked like Jiwoon wanted a trip too — take him.

He stared at the screen, dazed. The skein of thread tangled tighter.

A vague scene did surface. At some point, visiting his father’s house, his father had said he missed his mother. He’d added a pointed counsel:

Don’t be like me. Love with everything you’ve got while you can.

But how had that conversation come up? He groped the thread of memory.

It was in the garden of the old house. Under a tree, he and his father were talking — but they weren’t alone. Someone else was there too. Hearing his father’s advice, he looked to that person. He was sitting by the pond, playing with the fish.

“Taecheon!”

And turning to him with a smile — that face was…

Another savage headache crashed through him. Frowning, he yanked open a drawer, grabbed the headache pills kept on hand, and swallowed them dry.

Reclining and closing his eyes, the pain ebbed slowly — but the odd sensation swaddling him did not thin, like enamel paint. What was this feeling — a large machine with one small but vital piece missing. Switch it on, and it would roar and explode — the image flashed.

…Was that person in the garden Jiwoon?

No proof. But his instincts said so — that on a peaceful afternoon in a beautifully kept garden, the one smiling was Jiwoon.

They lived under one roof and yet completely apart. Taecheon kept to the study and a small room; Jiwoon spent most hours in the master bedroom, barely budging. He crossed to the kitchen now and then, but once in the room, he lived without a sound.

Thank goodness the house was large, thought Taecheon. If they had to see each other daily, the headaches would never leave him. Big as it was, with many rooms and baths, they could pass days without crossing paths.

To Jiwoon, the size made him miserable — he could go a whole day without facing his husband. He had never imagined he’d feel the drawbacks of a spacious home. Would this loneliness, like being alone, ever end? He had no answer.

Only early mornings afforded any sense of each other. Around 7 a.m. each day, a cup of coffee and clumsily toasted bread sat on the table. Many times, Taecheon ignored the plate, finished getting ready in silence, and left for the office. Even so, the same menu was there the next day.

Come to think of it — he hasn’t touched my clothes lately. Or maybe I just haven’t seen it. On purpose?

After their near‑argument in the dressing room, Jiwoon seemed quite deflated. Certainly, since then, he hadn’t shown himself.

He wanted to grow numb to it — but Jiwoon’s vanishing act made him more aware. He’d been irked when he barged into the ward and insisted on the cot, or when he tried to take his clothes; now, with quiet, he felt strange. Again, he slept poorly for days.

Tonight as well, sleep wouldn’t come. He tried the small room with blackout curtains and failed, returning to the study.

He couldn’t read his favorite books; he lowered the light and sat still. His gaze drifted to the bookcase, to an old album on the top shelf — a small book of childhood photos.

On the first page: baby Taecheon, about 100 days old, sleeping placidly, and a surprisingly young, beautiful mother smiling down at him.

His father wasn’t there then. Pressured by elders who opposed their union, his mother had left the house and given birth alone.

Chairman Seo — his father — had found her later, but her heart was already shut. The following pages showed a suddenly older Taecheon:

A child in a little suit and bow tie, holding his young father’s hand. He remembered the day — his father had been bored and taken him to the photographer, but it was the day after the divorce trial concluded.

He did not see his mother after that.

The child cried — where is mama, when is she coming — and flailed. His father would not answer.

Years passed. Still no contact, no idea where she’d gone. She vanished so completely it made him wonder if those days by her side had been a mirage.

Over time, he understood:

A precious being can melt away in an instant. No matter how much you love, how you wail — it doesn’t matter.

Then the solution: never create such a being. To avoid being hurt again, never love anyone.

He forged an absolute axiom for himself and repeated it endlessly, to keep himself safe.

Then, around his senior year of high school, his mother reappeared. She looked just as in the old memory — the face from the photos he’d studied. He wept like a child again.

After that, they kept in touch. Each time she came to Korea, they spent days together. Whenever she missed him, she flew in despite her schedule. As if to compensate for what she hadn’t given him as a child, she lavished affection.

But the childhood shock didn’t vanish. His parents’ divorce carved deep into his worldview. From a young age, he decided: he would never marry.

If you don’t marry, you won’t have to part. He would never have children, either — a child might resemble him, lonely and solitary; he did not want that.

He was steeped in these thoughts when faint footsteps sounded outside the door.

“Taecheon. Are you awake?”

“Yes. Come in.”

He closed the album and slid it back onto the shelf. Jiwoon eased in and glanced around. Standing before the bookcase, Taecheon waited for him to state his midnight errand.

Watching him, Jiwoon spoke.

“Tomorrow is a routine checkup. Could you come with me?”

“Where?”

“OB‑GYN.”

“Why would we go there?”

Puzzled, he saw Jiwoon lower his gaze.

“It’s hard to go alone. The doctor said to always come with the Alpha — with you.”

Alpha. Then he understood. Jiwoon was the Omega carrying his child; he was asking his Alpha to accompany him.

“…Very well,” he said stiffly, eyes dropping to Jiwoon’s belly, the slight curve visible under thin pajamas. He looked away, feeling he shouldn’t stare.

“Thank you. See you in the morning.”

Jiwoon turned and left quietly, shoulders drooping. He looked thinner in just a few days.

So what. I’m not responsible for him.

Care for others leaves nothing in the end. Just fulfill obligations; excise emotion.

He repeated the truth he’d learned as a child, again and again, and in the deep of night forced himself toward sleep.