He was so sick of it. Sick of this kind of Minho. This kind of Minho was so cold, so distant and so insensitive, as if all that mattered to him was his work... Taemin knew that he wasn’t supposed to think this way, but he can’t help himself but to become sick and tired of this kind of Minho facing him, and he wasn’t so sure of which one was the real Minho. His real Minho.