She would cough up her lungs at 27, insides stained tar black as her nails, less sheen. Death would turn her into mineral and amethyst. There were no flowery words that could justify, correct nor fantasize her life into a narrative of shimmering haze. Too bad that was the way Krystal liked it, and if it was Krystal, she'd have her way.

He loves life, but at the same time, he loathes it with such a fervor amounted to ten thousand star-shaped fireworks. All he ever wants is to explore it and cherish it and see it and ask it ten thousand questions on why fireworks light up the sky and why stars shine brighter than he ever could, but all it ever seems to have done was answer him by cruelly taking away half of his questions and leaving them strictly black or white. Curiosity did kill the cat, after all.

In the valley of her limbs, in the hurricane of her smoke, in the palms of Jongin's shaky hands, he writes, swears and breathes, that there is always one thing he loves more than the stars and that is Krystal.

"I'm sorry," she stammers in the midst of choking on air and smearing blood on her black-stained cheeks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Myungsoo, I'm so sorry, please, forgive me, please, Myungsoo, please--"