Taemin was wearing a grey shirt. He liked to wear grey. It was an understated colour, monotonous, turned him invisible if he were to match it with shades even less-striking. It went in perfect compliance with the dreary sky outside, and coexisted beside his milky skin to create a delicate image, shattered only by the piercings around his ears and the tinge of black makeup coating his eyes. As he waited for Jinki to begin speaking, he rolled up the sleeves of his loose shirt, revealing wiry arms and a pallid complexion. He liked the colour grey. He liked it a lot.

As Jinki flicked through his notebook, his eyes would occasionally flicker. They would flit to the ring around his finger and the picture-frame on his desk, the lines between the lines of his musings and the man who perched wearily in front of him, expectant of a word any second. Taemin pursed his lips, mildly chilled from the cold office, and tilted his head. His cheeks seemed more gaunt this week, further hollowed.

"Welcome back, Taemin,” Jinki nodded, finally giving himself respite enough from his studious searching to focus on his client. He was just as handsome today as the week prior, dressed in an about-the-town manner and flaunting a rosy, embracing smile. It would have endeared Taemin were he not so distasteful towards the therapist's motivation, and so, instead of reciprocating such warmth, Taemin simply nodded, once, and clasped his hands impatiently.

"So, where did we leave off last time?” Jinki wondered aloud, clearly pointing the question to himself rather than the feminine man opposite him. Not one to deny the needy, however, Taemin decided it best to provide a sliced answer to Jinki’s ponderings.

"You told me some ​bull about your favourite colour and asked me if I wanted to see you again,” he muttered, realising how akin to a first date such encounters sounded. Lest he make the situation even more awkward, Taemin silenced himself and leant back in his chair, hoping Jinki wouldn't misconstrue his serious demeanour for another humorous jab.

"Ah, yes, yes,” Jinki nodded, closing his notebook. Professionalism didn’t seem to surface on the tides of Jinki’s river – whether an off-course attitude or a simple lack of training, Taemin did not know. It seemed everything the therapist did was dysfunctional ​somehow. “How have you been this past week, Taemin? How have you felt?”

"Just like normal,” Taemin answered sincerely. It was true. The week had progressed with the same mundane aria as always; he would wake and he would work and he would embark on the same routine day-in, day-out. It wasn’t solely the therapist who was a habitual creature, after all. Most other people occasionally hibernated for winter and gathered their acorns, too.

"Nothing out of the ordinary happen?”

Taemin cocked his head at the therapist and offered no response. It seemed Jinki got the idea rather quickly. Nodding briskly, he cleared his throat, and rested an elbow on the arm of his soft, worn chair, eyes curving into a mellow smile.

"Okay, Taemin,” Jinki began, words suddenly precise, rehearsed, “today we're going to talk about your-“

"Is this a class presentation?” Taemin asked petulantly, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms. Jinki’s manner had been not too dissimilar from a school teacher, and even the crease in his brow like the fold in linen was telltale of his professional façade.

"Today, we're going to talk about your family,” Jinki finished, lips twitching slightly – Taemin couldn't figure whether in humour or distaste.

"I have a mum,” Taemin offered blankly, “and a dad, and a dead brother. My grandparents died a while ago, the rest of my family live a six-hour drive away. There, we talked about my family.” Taemin smiled coyly, like a child who knew they were doing wrong.

"No,” Jinki dismissed, “technically we didn’t, you did.” Taemin dug his nails into his palms. He most certainly was not fond of Mr. Lee’s sarcasm.

"What was life like for you growing up?” Jinki queried, relaxing his shoulders slightly. In this way, with this stance, the therapist appeared so theatrically normal that Taemin was almost taken-aback. A family man with a penchant for uncluttered language, Taemin could only imagine how loving Jinki probably was towards his wife – and his children, if he had any. His pristine tranquillity only added a penny to the pound of his kind spirit, a spirit that made Taemin want to talk, to confess – that ​something he'd recognised in their earlier encounter.

"What do you mean?” Taemin handed back, but, this time, there was no spite in his voice, no attitude. His words were as wholesome as his intrigued expression as he watched the handsome man before him shift slightly on his seat.

"I mean, how was family life?” Jinki rephrased. “How were your relationships with your family?”

"They were fine,” Taemin admitted, eyeing the therapist sceptically. Though he would open up to Jinki on certain things, he knew there was no definite trust between the pair; this was Jinki’s profession, and though bound by string to keep the words within these walls, he would no-doubt tell his wife, or his family, about various clients. It was a human error, to over-share and to trust when in misconduct, and Taemin wasn’t about to let his emotions slip if it meant hauling himself into the spotlight of Jinki’s tea-time conversations.

"And how was school?” Jinki continued, seemingly holding Taemin’s words as gospel and changing page. “How were things there?”

"Fine,” Taemin repeated, with a mild shrug. He wasn’t lying to Jinki, not on this stage with such a maudlin audience. Given his years of experience, Taemin assumed that one thing Mr. Lee probably ​could do was pick up on a lie. No-doubt would countless patients wander in and flaunt strongholds of falsehood a mile thick, but Jinki could break them. It was part of his job to break them.

"Now that you’ve left school,” Jinki mused, “what is the one thing you remember from it? The one thing that comes to your mind when someone says 'school'?” The therapist waited quietly for Taemin’s answer.

A smile as evanescent as a cloud in cloudless sky broke briefly across Taemin’s lips. It was unconditional, this smile, unbroken by the sheltered room or the pressured stare, the sound of the city-life from outside the dusty window, the dog-eared corner of the carpet. It gave birth to a memory that faded into a brittle corpse as soon as Taemin remembered where he was, but not before he'd searched the body, interrogated it, and understood everything it said.

"That good, huh?” Jinki asked, and Taemin almost found himself blushing. Inquisitive and intuitive, Jinki had seen the ghost of a grin from Taemin – seemingly the first genuine one he'd offered during their time together.

"It-“ Taemin stopped himself.

"Tell me about it, Taemin.”

Taemin latched his eyes onto Jinki’s, and for a second both men just searched each other’s expression. Though Taemin wanted to tell, for he wanted to relive such serendipitous memories, he knew that as soon as he spoke the first word of his rendition, the alluring temptress of reality would seduce him, and he'd be tugged back into the realms of life, where such goodness died almost as soon as it was formed. But Jinki was so quizzical, so kind, so endearing, that Taemin thought he knew no other would understand the story as well. Even if just a therapist who offered bull in a mask of self-help, Jinki was still a man, still a listener, and still someone Taemin could confide in.

"There isn’t anything to tell,” Taemin finally decided, slumping back into his chair. Any flutter of reminiscent happiness within him dissipated, alongside the nostalgia and the memories. They were just faded photographs now.

"There is,” Jinki countered, “I know there is. Tell me, Taemin. Some memories must be relived.”

​Some memories must be relived.

Jinki made a good point.

“I just-“ Taemin paused, thinking of how best to phrase things. He didn't relive his schooldays, for he knew he could gain no permanent joy from such notions; it would be ephemeral, and it would fragment further than his image in a broken mirror.

"It's alright,” Jinki soothed, “tell me about them.”

Halting, Taemin parted his lips, and uttered, “Them?"

“Well, it's a person,” Jinki spoke, insightful and gentle, “isn’t it?”

"Yeah,” was the answer, “it is.”

"So tell me about them,” Jinki urged softly. “It's okay to.”

"Sorry,” Taemin interjected suddenly, “but Ji-I mean, ​Mr. Lee, why are you like this? You're talking to me like I'm your friend. We're not friends. I'm your client.”

"And I am talking to you like that,” Jinki responded, “like you're my client.”

"No,” Taemin refused, “no. You're too open, too… Curious. Stop asking where you’ve no right to. Stop it.”

"Taemin, we went over this last week. I have the right to ask as I please, but you have the right to confidentiality. You don’t have to tell me a damned thing, but you won't get very far with me if you don’t. This is for you, not me. I am trying to help you, so-“

"I don’t need your help, Mr. Lee.”

"Need it or not, I'm still trying.”

The therapist pushed the bridge of his glasses further up his nose as he awaited an explanation. Knowing his point was rendered obsolete, Taemin bit his bottom lip, and confided.

"When I was a teenager,” he began, tone slow, steady, “I had a friend. A good, good friend. When you say 'school', I think of that friend.”

"What was their name, Taemin?”

"Jonghyun,” Taemin answered quietly. “Kim Jonghyun.”

Nodding, imbued by thought, Jinki continued his questioning with a voice one would gift the bereaved.

"And are you two still in contact?”

Taemin shook his head.

"Why? What happened?”

"He-“ The words hitched in Taemin’s throat until all he could do was breathe.

“Take your time,” Jinki murmured, and, for what seemed like the first instance, Taemin felt how utterly soft and compelling the therapist's voice was. It was a thick voice, a consoling voice, like a serenade on a summer’s day. He felt his entire body would be almost submissive to the lilt, that he'd do anything so long as the therapist were to ask.

"Cancer," Taemin finally managed, expounding all the emotion he had within. The past collided in his very veins as he remembered.

"Did you love him?” Jinki pressed, and the question was enough to startle Taemin from his sadness. Why would ​love matter? Jonghyun had been a friend, and Taemin had lost him, and Jinki knew. No other knowledge could satiate the therapist's want to understand, surely.

"It doesn’t matter,” Taemin choked back, still struck at Jinki’s confidence. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jinki nodded, scribbled something in his notebook, and silently observed his client.

"Do you ever miss him?”

Taemin regarded Jinki with hesitance, as he managed a very stunted, “Everyday.”

"Tell me,” Jinki suddenly wondered, folding his legs and resting an elbow on his knee, “do you believe in God, Taemin? In heaven, hell, Satan, sin – that kind of thing?”

"Not since I was young,” Taemin revealed. It was true. He was a godless human, if one ever existed, but Taemin liked it that way. There was no need for faith in a life with no hope to warrant it, after all.

"Oh, just curious,” Jinki replied, “I was wondering if the whole he's-watching-you-from-heaven bull would work. Clearly not.” The therapist smiled then, a half-guilty smirk, knowing he was a blasphemer but uncaring for the only other witness was just as unreligious as he. Taemin found himself offering a slight chortle back, Jinki managing to lift his mood – something that seemed impossible.

"I think I did love him,” Taemin spoke, as if having an epiphany, “and he loved me, Mr. Lee. At least, he told me he did. It's the only time I've ever been in love, but it was…”

"Young love?”

"Yeah, like-like we didn’t know the real world. Then the real world took everything we had.”

"Looking back on it, would you say it was true love, real love, or would you describe it as the innocent exploration of youth, Taemin? To you, which was it.”

Taemin paused, really thinking, though trying his best not to. He'd banished that part of his life, he'd forgotten it, and the sweet-tongued therapist was not about to call it out from hiding.

"A little bit of both.”

Jinki wrote into his notebook quickly, and then closed it over, just as he had the week before.

"What do you even write in there?” Taemin pushed, intrigue overwhelming him. “You don't write everything, just some things, and only at the beginning, and then you stop.”

"I write things,” was all Jinki offered. “You'll find out, eventually.”

"Why not now? Don’t I have some kind of, I don’t know, right?”

"No, you don't.”

Taemin clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and slumped back onto his chair.

"Was that all it took to distract your mind?” Jinki asked, chewing on his lower lip in thought. The thin hooks of light that curled their fingers across the room were enough to cast a succinct glint across Jinki’s hair, to grip into his handsome features and draw claw-marks across the skin. It seemed the therapist became even more attractive with familiarity, a man who presented himself well and others even better.

"I'm sorry?”

"Your mind,” Jinki reiterated, “even if you didn’t realise you were doing it, subconsciously you just distracted yourself from your past, from Jonghyun. You barely spoke of him until you switched subjects, Taemin. Didn’t you notice?”

"Why does it matter? What is this supposed to show me?”

"It doesn’t show you much, Taemin,” the therapist departed honestly, “but it shows me a lot. It shows me that you don’t like focussing on your past for too long, that it hurts to dwell on it.”

"Oh, and let me guess,” Taemin mumbled, finally reverting to his ways of souring at the therapist’s approach, “if I want to ‘get better’, I'm going to have to open up to my past and accept all that has happened to me, right?”

"Well, yes,” Jinki answered matter-of-factly. “Yes, Taemin, you do.”

"This is such bull," Taemin complained, folding his arms and rolling his eyes. “I can't believe Kibum sent me to you. He should have known better.”

“Known better than what?”

"He should have known better than to assume you're anything more than every other therapist out there who would feed me the exact same lines. I already told you this won't cut with me, Jinki.”

"Some lines are used because they're proven to work,” Jinki offered. “A mathematician isn’t great just because he reinvents the rules of numbers, and nor is a therapist great just because he ignores all of convention and heads his own way. Certain things hold certain weight, and you're going to have to accept that for me, you're going to have to try it.”

"I'm not-I'm not reliving my past,” Taemin interjected, voice quite strained, for the therapist was beginning to play with marbles he had no right to. They clicked together, these marbles, rebounding and scattering and likening Taemin’s mind-set to a cornucopia of illusions as memories tried to breach the basket of his mentality.

"You already are,” Jinki admitted.

He was right.

Taemin felt his heart constrict as things he'd ceased to acknowledge for years wavered and toppled around him, creating a plume of dust in its wake. He remembered Jonghyun, remembered his crooked smile and awkward manner, their secret relationship and their foolish interpretation of life, but, all-too-quickly, the saccharine was doused by a sick Jonghyun, a broken Jonghyun, a dead Jonghyun.

"Say it aloud, Taemin,” Jinki coaxed, “don’t keep it in.”

" you,” Taemin hissed back, immediately regretting his manner. Jinki had pried too deeply, but it was his job to pry too deeply. Such obscenities only further dampened the cold room, forced a shiver down Taemin’s rigid spine, as Jinki watched. He wasn’t offended, but he did appear to be something. As ever, Taemin was unaware of what that something was, and so instead he could merely glower at Jinki, like the dun of simmering sun across battle-field.

"He was the only man you ever loved,” Jinki understood, “wasn’t he?”

Taemin narrowed his eyes. Yes.

"Well, come on,” Taemin provoked, vocal tinged by a flaring rage he couldn't quite diminish, “aren’t you supposed to tell me how to cope with this? How to move on? How to live my ing life like I didn’t lose the man I loved to cancer?!” His eyes were clothed in a hell’s fire as he leant forward, jaw clenched, teeth gritted. He clenched his fists so tightly the knuckles pulsed white, and even his spindly form appeared intimidating. Jinki simply blinked.

"Taemin, I'm not here to live your life for you. I'm here to help you understand it. Calm down, breathe. You'll find you already are living your life like that. I want you to do the opposite, I want you to live your life like you did lose Jonghyun, because that perspective will change everything.”

Taemin tried to splutter in confusion and dismay, but instead could merely provide a stunned, perplexed expression.

"In time, you'll see what I mean,” Jinki assured. The temper somewhat slowed to an ambiguous twitch within Taemin as he accepted his defeat; no amount of anger could oppose Jinki, for he was a strong-willed man. If the cosmos was their identity, they would be parallel universes to never meet. Jinki seemed to breathe a decorum that was far too subtle for Taemin’s rage.

"Why won't I see now?”

"Because you haven't done as I want yet, you aren’t living life like you remember him.”

"But what if I don’t remember him, Jinki? What if all I remember is… Everything else?”

Jinki raised an eyebrow then, adopting a habit mostly flaunted by the younger in the room. Taemin’s face was sewn with an odd desperation, an odd misunderstanding. He sought water in dry riverbeds and snow in raw deserts. There were no answers as transparent as he would have liked them from the therapist.

"I mean, I just…” Taemin trailed off and shook his head. “This is stupid,” he concluded, “ing stupid. This isn’t making me feel any better, and isn’t that your goddamn job?”

"You changed the subject again,” Jinki noted.

That was all it took.

Taemin stood from his seat quickly, a miasma of emotion fuelling the maelstrom in his gut; if built by vine the branch would be fickle, the dead foliage cascading to his feet as he tried to make his way to the door. The room didn’t matter, the furniture didn't matter, Jinki didn’t matter – all that mattered was leaving, and forgetting, and never allowing the story to be retold.

But a hand around his wrist stopped him.

Taemin flinched at the contact, pausing instantly as he faced the door. The hand was firm, strong, tepid, but comfortable. Throat drying to parchment and entire body seizing from a certain ​something he couldn't quite comprehend, Taemin waited until Jinki dropped his wrist, before turning to face the standing therapist. He was taller than Taemin, with a stronger build, and in contrast to the younger’s narrow frame was quite a statuesque man. He glimpsed at Taemin with eyes of trepidation, before proceeding with words just as cautious.

"Don’t go, Taemin, not now.”

Taemin blinked at him, unsure. It felt as if the therapist was attempting a guilt-trip, and even if he passed through all the auguries of such regrets, the only thing that would make sense would be to resume his place, on the stiff chair, conversing with the kind-hearted therapist and allowing him to understand everything.

"There's no point in me staying,” Taemin threw back, “all this is doing is making me feel like .”

"Sometimes,” Jinki offered, the elegant fragrance of his cologne only just gaining purchase, “to tidy something up, you first have to make a bigger mess. Take a seat, Taemin. Please.”

"Oh, enough with the metaphors,” Taemin argued, “I get it! You want to fix me, or change me, because that’s your job – but I'm telling you now, Lee Jinki, that no therapist will ever change who I am, what I've been through, what my life is. Your bull won't save me, and nor will the pretentious act, so why won't you just let me go?”

Jinki took a step backwards, and for the first time, Taemin noticed a falter in his posture as a level-headed man. He seemed somewhat startled, lips parted, fingers outstretched. Thoughts piqued to fall in his conscience and he took a second to formulate a valid response.

"I don’t want to change who you are,” Jinki mumbled finally, rolling his shoulders to work up his nerve, “or what you've been through. I just want to know you, to understand you – and I want you to do the same. You may think every therapist is the same, Lee Taemin, and that every client is too, but never once has a client left my office for the final time without having changed their perspective on themselves. I am not going to let you walk out this door, not without helping you realise who you are.”

"Yeah, well, who am I?” Taemin prompted, the legs of his fury beginning to buckle. Something about Jinki’s monologue had clasped Taemin’s feelings, donning them in a subtle contentment he hadn’t felt in years – not even from his friend, not even from Kibum.

"That’s what I'm trying to work out,” Jinki provided, “but I can't do that if you don’t help me, if you don’t give me insight. Whether you want to admit it or not, Taemin, opening up to me about Jonghyun has already changed your perspective, and it was only a good thing, could only ever be a good thing. So, please, for your own sake, tell me more. I won't let you leave here without helping you.”

"Why do you even care?” Taemin replied, exasperated. The therapist had no reason for caring, he had his own life to attend to – a wife, at the very least, maybe even a family. If Taemin’s treatment were to be unsuccessful, so long as Jinki had tried he'd still get his pay-cheque, and he could forget about Taemin as he no-doubt did with every other client. There was no commitment here, no obligation. There was just the false veil of care to disguise a wanton lust for money.

"Because,” Jinki stammered, “I want to help you.”

"I'm going to leave now,” Taemin revoked, words laced in the apotheosis of regret, fear, sadness and anger, “because I have every bloody right to, and you can't stop me.”

"Then I'll see you next week,” Jinki nodded, as Taemin turned to the door, a spectre framed by glass. He would be gone before his impact was truly felt in the dismal room, but he couldn’t bare it any longer.

"You won't,” Taemin denied, reaching for the door handle. Just as he pressed it down to escape the confines of the vapid room, Jinki got one final, lingering comment in.

"I will.”