I'm still here. We had budaejigae for dinner, which I made. It was a little salty, but fine nevertheless. I don't want to go back. I feel better here. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was blowing things out of proportion, and simply needed a few days away from the dorm. The old man doesn't let me sit idle, though. He made me accompany him to the mountains and gather herbs. I didn't know why, and my inexperience in the outdoors didn't help at all. I got badly cut, somehow, and the sight of caked blood on my back made me nauseous. Anyway, this old man tended to my wounds and applied some sweet-smelling ointment. He handed me a cup of tea, and then I knew why we went hunting for herbs. To imagine he gets up at 4 a.m. every morning, fetches herbs from this mountain, prepares tea for us two as he simultaneously dusts the house and wakes me. The funny thing is, we've never conversed. Never spoken to each other. We communicate through soft glances, occasional touches and little nods. Just like we did. 

I'm running out of clothes to wear. I brought only three pairs which I keep re-washing. It's fine, actually. I wash them by the brook nearby as the first bird wakes up. The freezing water runs through my hands and always makes my pinky's tip numb with the cold. It feels so refreshing to do that after so long. I think of my parents everyday. They'd probably be perturbed at this situation, me running away on a whim. If they were still alive, of course.

I'm growing tired of this, too. It's the eleventh day since I was gone. Since I left on the first day of recording for our comeback album, I left at September 11, Monday, which means today is 22nd September, Friday. It felt like eleven days. They passed normally, like a string of normal eleven days, except I had befriended a taciturn old man (whom I wasn't sure was even able to speak), and was living in his little home. I didn't request anything. He stopped me as I was leaving and pointed to the other bed. The door was still open for me to depart, but I decided to let him wake me up the next morning. 

The lights are out, as I write this. Thankfully, my backpack had a malfunctioning torch (but a torch at least) so I have a few beams of light guiding my hand, the scratches of the pen and the whirring of the fan the only sounds audible. I'm famished, but there's nothing I can do about that. I'm smiling right now, because I read over my letter once and it seems so much like a fable. It's so cliché. Troubled protagonist runs away to mountains in order to metaphorically run from his troubles, but is still unsatisfied because of the lack of love interest. How amazingly typical. Now all I need is the love interest to come looking for me, and us to rejoice with a passionate embrace. I laughed at the thought of its ridiculous typicality, but now thinking about it, a hug would be nice. I want you back, Chanyeol. I mean, you never were exactly mine, but I crave your touch. It's so weird, this repetetive stabbing pain, the thought of never seeing you again, pulls me to a farway land of blurred contentedness. Maybe it's because that's a place where our memories are trapped. Sad, happy, angry- they're all there forever. None of them are unpleasant, none of them have any sharp edges. All of the memories we harvested, even if it involved us fighting, unhappy, sullen- it was born inside us, as a part of us. They could be rough and bitter, but they were all beautiful, even with those scars. At least if I never find you, there'll be a chance of us only having beautiful memories, moulded into shafts of moonbeam, secured and pinned away from the world. That way, I'd never have to worry of being utterly destroyed.

Well, what is this for? Pondering meaninglessly bears no fruit. And maybe I got a little carried away in my meandering because it is approximately 4 a.m, seeing as the greybeard has awoken from his slumber. He's a very light sleeper, actually. I didn't grab much shut-eye today, but I don't feel particulary sleepy. I notice that my letters often meander, from my daily schedule and a journal-like entry to reflective thoughts about my past. It's quite a stark contrast, actually. That's why I told you. I'm disorganised and an aberration. My supposedly angelic face and voice make people overlook or even disregard the person I really am. Most of all, you. You who keep coming back to me, who never desert me. Why do you do so? Why do you put up with me? Why do the members put up with my whims anymore? What do you see in the depths of this distorted mind, this abnormal freak? Think about it, Chanyeol. Pain is a spiritually gratifying experience for me. I always want more. Who ever thinks about things like this? My face may be pure and innocent, but stained are my thoughts. I keep trying to run away from them, but I can't. I lose myself along the way, stumbling and tripping. So why do you always rescue me in situations like these? Even when you're nowhere near, the thought of you comforts me, in some twisted way. How? Why am I in love, when you are not? Why do I know this and recognise this and allow this monstrosity to infiltrate me, agonise me, torture me every single day while you grin and protest, "Yah, we're just friends!" The only reason I don't want to turn back and head home, home to you, is because you always find me. You manage to obliterate me, and make me disintegrate into nothingness, and yet you're the one gathering my pieces, blowing off dust from whatever shards are left of me, re-sculpting me. Every day, I'm put back together, but a little different each day. Maybe a splinter of my soul is missing, or a scrap of my sanity, but it's okay. I signed up for this, and I'll do it again and again until the day I die. 

You didn't perhaps notice two eyes watching you longingly as you trailed down the lane last night, did you?