“It takes twenty-one days to form a habit,” they said.

The bright advertisement that lit up the dim bus stop caught Kibum’s attention. He fixed his gaze onto the vertical LED screen to his left, watching the perky middle-aged doctors sales talk their way through the now playing “stop smoking” ad.

"If you cross your right arm over your left arm normally, doing it the other way around would feel off. Try it for twenty-one days and suddenly it’ll feel normal," according to them. "The same principle goes—" they said, "for sleeping early, making your bed every morning, drinking 2 liters of water everyday, learning a new language, and all other habits you can form..."

"Muscle memory" is the term they like to manipulate, as if muscles had memory. Your body can get used to working out; you can fold yourself into a bow upon greeting if you do it often, you can reach for the alarm clock in the morning with your eyes closed once you know how to do it—and so they said.

If “muscle memory” is a thing, then it explains everything that Kibum had to deal with a year after he left Seoul. Twenty-one days to form a habit, on the other hand, is just...

“Bull.” Kibum spat, grinding his teeth in ridicule.

His hand slid into his coat pocket, reaching for a cigarette. The flimsy stick was immediately caught between his lips, and he struggled to get his lighter to spark with his cold, numbing hands. You’d think he’d be used to the 12ºC weather by now, especially coming from Korea, but it was never gloomy almost everyday like it is in London. Today was nothing different from the usual weather report: showers and thick clouds. Finally, and just his luck, the tip of his cigarette finally dissolved into embers, which let him take a long drag to fill him up—

“This is a public service announcement from the Department of Health. Smoking is bad for your health.”

The rain poured even stronger now, then the wind blew right up against his face, taking every bit of precipitation with it. Kibum now stood dampened—his spirits and his grey coat—and a wash of water drops danced on his face. The cigarette didn’t last.

His bus finally arrived, the one that would take him back to his quiet suburb. Umbrellas alighted first from the giant doors of the bus, then people, and they walked out safe and dry. Kibum sighed, stomping on his cigarette, and boarded the bus with a beep from his transport card.

Finally, after dealing with the last straw of annoyance for the day, he managed to get a comfortable seat by the back and laid his head against the window, closed his eyes and rested.

*****

Kibum woke up with a groan, but not from him. The sleeping form that lay beside him sprawled out to take a bigger space on the bed, one arm draping over Kibum’s small waist. He felt a nose wriggle its way into his neck, and tufts of hair tickling his ears. A small smile etched on Kibum’s face as he relaxed into the feeling of being embraced.

“Good morning, Minho.” Kibum croaked out, the sound of the voice coming from the depths of his throat.

Minho only responded with a “mmm”, wrapping Kibum tighter into his cocoon of limbs. The signature eye roll that Kibum is known for was his immediate reaction to Minho the sleepyhead, (who is also the most difficult person to put to sleep).

Kibum let a hand reach back to comb through Minho’s soft hair, caressing the black strands between his fingers. “I hate saying this, but you make me want to stay in bed today.” He sighed.

“Then stay in bed. With me,” Minho mumbled almost inaudibly.

“I have to go to feed the dogs.”

“Mhm.”

“I need to make us breakfast, too.”

“Mhm.”

“And I need to go to the practice studio.”

“Mhm.”

“Choi Minho.”

“Mhm.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Mmmm.”

Kibum gave up when he realized that Minho had fallen back to sleep, lost in the pull of dreams. He smiled once more at how silly Minho was, and he even managed to break out a chuckle underneath Minho’s tight grip.

“Love you,” The sleepy bear-hugger managed to say once more into Kibum’s neck, and Kibum could only bite onto his lip out of happiness.

“I’m going to sleep.” Kibum replied, finally letting himself sink into Minho’s embrace.

*****

Mornings like those became a habit. Day after day, Kibum woke up to Minho’s embrace, or if Minho wasn’t draped over him, he would wake up to feeling of the tall boy next to him shifting to lie on his belly, and Kibum would be the one to snake around his waist. Twenty-one days passed, and it became a habit to feel for the presence of Minho next to him when he woke up in the morning.

But twenty-one days to form a habit is bull, Kibum pronounced once more as he found himself outstretched in bed, cold and alone in his London apartment.

Twenty-one days after he moved to London on his own, he still woke up feeling for his bear-hugger who was never there. Months passed: each morning, his hands would still slide across the cold sheets to feel for the warmth that is lost.

A year has gone by now.

And Kibum woke up that morning, hand outstretched immediately to his side, expecting Minho to be there but he wasn’t—but still, he didn’t retract his hand back to lay over his own body. He let it hover over the sheets, imagining that the boy he once loved was there, sleeping.

He never wanted to forget him in the first place. And it doesn’t take twenty-one days to forget, either.