"Lay?” I repeated his name as his weary eyes seemed to struggle to focus on me. His natural spaced-out look was amplified from an apparent lack of sleep. At my second call, he blinked rapidly a few times to clear his vision, his weak smile returning quickly.

He took another step forward, reaching out to gently touch my arm, as if he were unsure if I would welcome the contact. “Zoey, it’s good to see you,” he greeted warmly, bowing his upper body just slightly towards me.

I sighed, closing the gap to give him a light, timid hug. We hadn’t been friends; we had hardly counted as acquaintances when he left for China. Regardless, he had kept his priceless promise, and I wanted him to know I was grateful. We had spoken nearly every day via text message or phone call while he was visiting Yoongi, and I felt like that warranted enough closeness for a friendly hug. “Welcome back,” I murmured into his shoulder before pulling away, happy to see his smile had grown, the one single dimple appearing on the right side of his otherwise smooth face.

“Here,” he finally handed the envelope to me, his mood lifted. When I took it gingerly, he continued, “They woke Suga up one more time before I left to test his strength.” My attention to the white envelope ceased immediately at his words, my eyes lifting to meet his, eager for more information. “He was still weak, but he showed a little bit of improvement. I wanted to call you again, but those doctors were really paranoid about having electronics in the room with so much oxygen or something,” he explained quickly with a little shrug. He reached out to help me with the envelope, encouraging me to open it, “I wanted to take a better picture, but they only let me use the doctor’s old polaroid instant camera, so that’s in there.”

Hastily, I ripped open the envelope to see that there was, as promised, an old-school style square film photograph, as well as a folded piece of white paper. I turned the picture over to see it, and I completely forgot how to breathe. It was hard to determine that a human was in the photo at all. It looked more like the faded into to an old medical drama- mostly machines, tubes, and wires, barely distinguishable from the white-washed walls and floor. Finally, I was able to focus on the center of the image, a bed with a figure, tangled in a mess of blankets, bandages, and medical equipment. I found his face, his mouth slack around the thick tube that breathed for him. His eyes were hidden beneath his damp, matted black hair, but he hardly looked alert. And then I saw what was preventing him from moving. Lay had said he was getting rather stable, and I had hoped that meant he could be transferred to a stateside hospital. His arm, though, was encased in a thick cast with several large metal rods protruding from it, linked together with metal plates. There was no doubt that horrific contraption was literally holding him together. My stomach knotted and sank in a combination of fear, disappointment, and queasiness. “He looks pretty bad, huh,” I mused quietly, swallowing my feelings as I looked up at Lay.

His smile had faded, replaced with a sympathetic frown. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly, “but I promise he looks better than a few weeks ago.” I huffed once through my nose, a single ironic laugh at the words. As if that was supposed to make me feel better. Lay must have sensed my souring mood, as he reached forward to pluck the paper out of my hands to offer it to me. “Look,” he pulled at my attention, “When he was awake, I told him I was heading back to America, to see you,” he explained quickly, his voice rushed as if he had a time limit. “He wrote you a note!” his attempt at cheering me up had only marginally worked, but the prospect of a hand-written note did tease a grin onto my face. I had already combed through Yoongi’s lyric book/journal, but something new was excited. “Don’t worry,” Lay interjected as I began to unfold the piece of paper, “I didn’t read it.”

I offered him a reluctant, but thankful smile. “Thanks Lay,” I spoke as I looked down at the note. The Hangul characters were unsteady, crooked, and faint, but they were there, sprawled large across the page. This was written by an exhausted Yoongi, left-handed and weak. Even so, just seeing ink on paper from Yoongi to me was enough to make my heart soar. After a moment of scrutiny, I finally was able to piece together what it said.

Please don’t leave me. Scared.

What? I read it again. It was a simple statement. Just a few characters. Even so, it didn’t make sense. Why would he be worried about me leaving him? Did he think that just because I was in America and he was hospitalized that I was going to break up with him? I was beginning to frustrate myself with my own questions until it hit me. My soaring heart came to an abrupt halt, shattering in place before sinking into the depths of my gut. This note wasn’t for me. This note was for Lay. Lay had told Yoongi he was leaving, and Yoongi wrote his, as he could not speak over his intubation tube. Yoongi was in China, injured, surrounded by doctors speaking in a language he didn’t understand. Lay had told me that a couple of nurses knew rudimentary Korean, but that was no comfort. Lay had been a familiar face, and now he was here. I realized I hadn’t taken a breath for a full minute, and when I finally did draw air back into my lungs, it stung as chest shook with emotion. “Are you okay?” Lay’s voice finally pulled me out of my stupor, and I looked up quickly at him, his plump lower lip pulled into a confused little pout.

I wasn’t going to make him feel guilty. He had done an incredible thing. “Yeah,” I forced a smile onto my face, “I’m just a little emotional, I guess.” I wasn’t lying, at least. I coughed slightly to clear the lump from my throat before speaking again, “Will you be visiting China again anytime soon?” I asked, not so subtly.

He at least seemed to buy my excuse as a gentle smile retook his features, “Nah, Suga will definitely be back by the time I go again. Probably a few months at least.” He seemed pleased, so I did my best to appear equally joyful at his return home, despite my disappointment.

I folded the paper gently in my hands as we said our good-byes in the elevator, at the third floor where he resided. Once we were parted, I fought hard against my own emotions to keep it together as the elevator continued its upward journey towards my own floor. The picture I could certainly share with the boys, but the note was too devastating. I would have to come up with my own plan. I shuffled back to my apartment, shoving the note deep into my pants pocket before stepping through the door. “It’s about time!” Namjoon called from the kitchen, “Jin insisted we wait for you, and I’m starving,” he continued to whine loudly as I followed his voice to the table, set with Jin’s large spread of Korean dishes.

A small smile genuinely began to form on my face as I was ushered to the seat between Namjoon and Taehyung, taking in the sight and smells of the familiar food. A lot of it appeared very much like what Jin had prepared back at the compound, but it looked fresh, smelled spiced, and tasted wonderful. We all began to dig in practically the moment my hit the chair. The calm quiet, only interrupted by the sounds of eating and the occasional scrape of metal chopsticks on ceramic plates, allowed me to think hard on what to do. I could feel the folded paper through my pocket, the creases like knives digging into my skin. I glanced around to find Jin staring at me poignantly. He had been the one to direct me to Lay in the first place. Clearly he expected me to broach the subject. With a little breath to control myself, I reached into my hoodie pocket where I had gently stashed the photo, running my finger along the smooth edge as I thought of wha