To his frustration, Jinki was woken up at 7 o'clock the next morning by his mother walking in and announcing cheerfully:

“Time to wake up! Working day ahead!”

“What the...” he muttered hoarsely, tearing his eyes open with great difficulty.

“What, did you think you came to a resort or something?” Mrs. Lee sang, pulling the curtains open. Jinki shielded his face from the bright light breaking into the room. “You're going to cut the meat and help me pack it!”

“Why so early then? The truck doesn't arrive until eight…”

“So that you have time to do your morning exercise!”

Jinki blinked.

“Will I get paid?”

“Yes, in your mother's gratitude. Now get up and get ready. Breakfast won't wait.”

He tried to think of positive points.

“There's no shop tomorrow, though, right? You don't work on Sundays.”

“I'll keep you busy, don't you worry. Tomorrow we'll have our committee meeting about the installation of an escalator at exit 1. You'll help with the catering.”

And with that promising prospect, Mrs. Lee retreated to the kitchen as her son fell back into his pillow with a groan.

Still, if rest meant thinking of what he and his life were, working his off was not such a bad option.

When he came to, he wasn't sure that he did. The darkness before him became shallow, watered down with a glow coming from without, his body regained its mass – and boy, it could be made of lead. A dull pain was pressing on his chest, and something was attached to his right arm. A drip. He couldn't be sure it was real, still. He had forgotten what ‘real’ felt like.

At first, he was both confused and annoyed, as his mind was so cluttered, but he couldn't remember anything in particular. Then it slowly started coming back – spinning ceilings, vomiting all over the place, violent pains in his stomach, someone making a fuss and calling his name, Jinki shaking his fluffy head and telling him that he should've either done his research better or nothing at all, his mother making awful howling sounds, having his stomach pumped, and his father hitting him because he was making too much noise playing Nintendo. And the lights – so red, so frantic. Not all of those memories were equally realistic – he was aware of that, at least.

His throat was so sore and dry it felt like it was full of sand.

“,” Taemin whispered, because he couldn't remember how to use his voice for a moment.

“Master Taemin, are you awake?” a soft, but anxious voice asked from the left (or right? or above?), and he pried his eyed open. He was on the operating table and a huge lamp shot a blast of white light into his face.

“Oh, .”

He closed them again. No. He was obviously lying on something soft. The lamp was the sunlight. The drip and the needle in his arm were real.

“Can you hear me, sir?”

“Water. Please,” he breathed.

“I have it here for you, sir. But you need to lift yourself up a bit.”

His heavy eyelids parted again, and Mr. Kim's worried features came slowly into focus.

Taemin obeyed. He must have moved only a few inches, but it felt like he was balancing on the edge of a precipice.

He emptied the glass brought to his lips quickly and asked for another one. When his thirst was quenched, he lay back and confessed:

“At first I thought I was in Hell, but then I saw you and figured that you wouldn't be there.”

“There's nothing for you to do there either, sir,” Mr. Kim replied in a quivering voice.

“For how long was I asleep?”

“About 36 hours.”

The old man couldn't take it anymore and buried his face in his handkerchief.

Taemin sighed.

“Why are you crying? Nobody died.”

“I should've told your mother right away,” the driver sobbed. “I shouldn't have listened to you. It's my fault.”

“I would've tried anyway. It doesn't matter.”

But the man was inconsolable in his guilt.

“Where is she, though? Too scared to face me?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Mr. Kim hurried to explain while wiping his eyes. “Mrs. Lee didn't leave your side this whole time. Barely slept... She's gone to the bathroom now.”

Taemin looked around. Surely, he was in a private room, and in addition to the window there was a flat TV with a big screen on the wall, a couch, a private refrigerator and some innocuous plastic plants, added to make the general atmosphere less sterile. A bowl of washed fruits was standing on the table – his mother must have brought them.

What am I doing here?

The door opened, and Mrs. Lee herself came in – no make up on her small face, her hair tied into a ponytail. She was wearing jeans and a simple shirt. Her attire was very different from her usual luxurious style and somehow made her look a tiny bit older – or maybe it was her desolate expression, which brightened up when he saw her son up and awake.

“You woke up!” she cried, dashing to his side.

(Mr. Kim stood up and left the room with a polite bow to give the mother and son a moment of privacy.)

After subjecting Taemin to a tight hug, she settled on the edge of the bed and ran her palm over his damp forehead.

“How are you feeling, my darling?” The woman asked in her schoolgirl voice.

“Like I OD'd on sleeping pills and deep-throated a plastic tube while being mostly unconscious.”

“Oh, Taemin…”

Mrs. Lee's lower lip trembled and tears began swelling in her eyes. Taemin sighed.

“I'm only feeling how I'm supposed to, everything considered.”

“Do you need water? Are you hungry? Is the pillow comfortable?”

“I might get hungry later, but I'm fine right now. I don't need anything.”

Mrs. Lee noticed that the sunlight was right in Taemin's face and rose to pull the curtain down.

“How long are they gonna keep me here?”

“Until you feel better.”

“Will they do the psych evaluation?”

“I suppose they will,” she said with a sigh, taking the chair by the bed this time.

“They'll make me stay, won't they?”

“Don't worry, I won't let them.”

“How?”

“We're rich,” she reminded him softly.

But she wasn't done letting her grief out. The tears swelled again, the red shade spread around the eyes, and the plump mouth started shaking.

Taemin craved aloneness.

“I'm sorry, so sorry,” his mother lamented, giving way to her emotions. “I'm sorry I failed you... I was- I was trying to protect you, but then I... I...” The tears were streaming down her face now and began choking her. “I must've done something wrong... I nearly lost my mind the last time and I swore to myself that you'd never be neglected again, but... I failed... Jesus, if Soyeong hadn't called 119 on time...”

She took his hand and pressed it to her wet face.

She rarely got that hysterical. Taemin watched her trembling, falling apart, and liked her a bit more at that moment of ultimate devastation. She was terrified of the thought that certain things were not in her control, and her fear, her vulnerability made her somewhat more human.

“What do you mean, ‘again’? When was I neglected?”

“When your father and I were too busy fighting and ruining our marriage to pay attention... It was unforgivable, and I'm still paying for it. Oh, God...”

“Are you talking about that time I jumped out of the window?”

Mrs. Lee nodded, drowning in her tears as she kissed her son's hand.

To her surprise, he started laughing.

“You thought I did it because you guys forgot I existed?”

She looked at him in confusion.

“Being left by myself was the best time I had. Every time we somehow gathered all together at the table, it was hell. I couldn't wait until you started screaming at each other and sent me upstairs. Those days and weeks when I didn't see you two were the happiest.”

“But... why did you...?” Mrs. Lee murmured in quiet astonishment.

Taemin knew he was hurting her, but that's what any kind of truth compromising some phantom in her imagination did to her anyway.

“Because I had an episode or two and nanny Park started locking me up in my room because she didn't know what to do with me. I wanted out. ‘Out’ as in ‘outside’.”

“But you knew you could die!”

“I was twelve, so not much gray matter there. I thought if I landed on all fours like a cat I'd be fine. Two casts and like a hundred bruises proved me wrong, obviously.”

Mrs. Lee frowned, sniffling.

“I didn't know that nanny Park used to lock you up.”

“I tried to tell you that she was a bit of an abusive jerk, but kids are liars, aren't they.”

Taemin laughed again.

“You thought I tried to kill myself, so you protected me by gripping my throat until I actually did! Isn't it hilarious?!” He laughed and laughed, because he just couldn't stop, and tears started streaming down his cheeks. “And now you're gonna tell me that it's also the reason why you didn't divorce that cheating old !”

The expression of silent pain in his mother's eyes couldn't possibly make him stop having his moment of fun.

“You're quiet, so I must be right,” Taemin said, coughing because some saliva got in his throat. “Aren't we a ing joke?”

He put his head back on the pillow and sighed.

He didn't know what thoughts were running through Mrs. Lee's head. Structures were crushing inside of her, and he was glad that he couldn't hear the clatter and noise of her personal crisis.

For a while, only the ticking of the clock and the sound of people walking up and down the corridor disrupted the silence.

“Are you going to try again?” Mrs. Lee asked in a ghostly voice.

Taemin shrugged.

“I might. If I stay with you.”

“But if you're alone…”

“I might try anyway, yes. But it's slightly less likely if I'm left in peace.”

The woman lowered her head in defeat.

“But I... I don't know how to be without you.”

Taemin put his hand on hers.

He couldn't really feel any love for her.

“It only means that it will be better for both of us,” he said.

“But you need treatment...”

“I'll do it if you set me free.”

The woman pressed her lips to his palm again.

“Oh, Taemin...”

He then said that his head was too heavy and he wanted to sleep some more.

Before she left the room, Taemin, after some inner struggle that he lost, confessed:

“I called the ambulance before Soyeong did… Because I expected a peaceful escape and not feeling like my organs are being pulled out of me through the mouth. So… you have that. Now, please, go,” he added, because he knew she'd start weeping again and he had no patience for that left.

As soon as the door closed, he drifted off again – in peace.

Jinki got tired all right. Meat, noise, old people – all of it mixed and formed a mash in his head, and he couldn't wait to throw his aching, sweaty body on the bed and not hear the ringing in his ears anymore. Sunday was by no means easier on him, and he had a chance to see that his mother had not lost her skill of keeping people busy at all.

He also realized that, despite her age, she kept herself busy more than anybody else, and taking part in her hectic activities was the only way they could spend some time together.

On Monday morning, it was time for Jinki to go back to Seoul, and Mrs. Lee gave him a big container of home-made kimchi.

“Call me some time, you know,” she said as they hugged, and even though the words were uttered in her usual chirpy tone, there was a ring of sadness to it that made her son hold her a bit tighter.

He waved and went to the elevator, and pushed the ‘up’ button by mistake, causing it to go all the way down before going back up, and waved again with an awkward laugh.

When the lift finally arrived and Jinki went in, something got into him, and the door opened again.

“Actually, I'll come back in the evening, if you don't mind,” he said, peeking out as he held the doors to keep them from closing.

His mom, who had just walked into the apartment, peeked into the corridor, too.

They stared at each other.

“Can I?” Jinki repeated, blinking behind the glasses.

Mrs. Lee shrugged.

“Why not?”

The young man's face brightened.

“Cool.”

“If you break the elevator, I'm not paying for a new one.”

Jinki waved one last time and released the doors, leaving his mother both confused and, underneath it all, happy.

Kibum had nothing to do. He didn't feel like doing art, or studying, or earning his living, but was also restless inside. He had bought some new clothes, though, so he left the house just to ‘walk the outfit’ as he called it, and roamed the streets of Sinchon with a bucket of M&M's and the most arrogant mien he could muster.

He was irritated.

Kibum hadn't met up with Donkkaseu for a while now. He ignored most of his messages and dropped his calls. When he did reply, it was to say that he was too busy to meet, and later upload a new profile picture from a party or a park as a passive aggressive way to show how little he cared. Meanwhile the guy's messages were becoming angrier and increasingly more threatening and it got to the point when merely seeing the word ‘Donkkaseu’ pop up on the screen made Kibum want to throw his phone against the wall.

He also had no idea where the Jinki was, and was mad at him because he envied his ability to turn his mind off and trip and stumble his way through the world like some bouncy man-shaped jelly that didn't believe in ‘predetermined moral value systems’ and saw everything as black and white.

It wasn't all about Jinki, of course. It was about himself. Normally, he didn't think it a big deal that he inevitably fell for his friends. It wasn't the best habit, sure, but it was like he had a need to idealize someone he was comfortable with and pine over them a bit – he usually got to bed with them anyway, and then it just passed by itself, with him forgetting to daydream about the guy more and more often and finally getting distracted by someone new. He wasn't sure how to feel about relationships, too. He was comfortable alone, had had some destructive early experiences in the past and, to be honest, how many people would be accepting of his ‘unconventional’ job?

Kibum was pretty laid back and felt that mutual love was something that happened randomly. You either match or you don't, and no one owes anybody a thing.

Even if Jinki randomly decided that he wants to be with him, he just couldn't imagine how it could work. They would laugh a lot, the would probably be good, too, but other than that? Kibum would want to share his interests with Jinki, and drag him to classic concerts, exhibitions at the Art Center and whatnot, and he was sure that, instead of a potential member of his high culture club he'd gain a useless, yawning boyfriend who'd throw a cursory look at some legendary impressionist masterpiece visiting from France and, when Kibum, losing his patience, would draw his attention to the fact that such a harmony between light and shadow was not easily accomplished, he'd say something dumb like: “Well, it's called a painting for a reason”, and Kibum would just have to give up. Then he'd take him to some oasis of healthy food in Gangnam or Itaewon, and Jinki would poke his vegetable salad with the fork, and if Kibum asked what he was doing, he'd answer something along the lines of: “Looking for a piece of chicken. Or a benevolent tomato that can tell me where it went.” And the weekends, of course. Kibum would be dying of boredom and and nag Jinki to go out to watch a movie together, and the latter would mumble something about home being the best place on Earth, his eyes and fingers glued to a stupid bubble-popping game on his phone. The fact that the feelings weren't mutual honestly saved them both so much time and a predictable, undramatic breakup.

But Kibum was only human, so, he was irritated. His contact list was full of old, unattractive, self-indulgent men who wanted his body and a bunch of okay one-night stands whose faces he couldn't remember.

He stopped by the gaming room to watch college students take turns at the punching machine.

He thought of Jinki's smooth hands, his collarbones, his full hair and the way some of his shirts stretched on his chest, as well as the simple fact that he had a and not some flat surface where his legs started and threw about fifteen M&M's in his mouth at once as one taller guy removed his jacket and flexed his muscles.

Jinki was somewhere with his full hair and his shoulders and his asymmetrical nose and didn't need him, while he, Kibum, was free to choose from an irresistible collection of shriveled adulterous who objectified him. It just wasn't fair.

The tall guy set his aim, swung his arm and hit the lever with a powerful bang that was followed by the supportive roar of his buddies. He scored high, too, and was evidently pleased with himself, as the grin on his handsome face indicated. He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair and looked straight at Kibum. There was no intelligence, but a whole lot of mischief in his chocolate-brown eyes. Still, boy was he a solid 8.2.

Wait a minute... was that a genuine closet-gay smirk?

Kibum wasn't up for it, but he was slightly flattered that his own gayness could be perceived from a distance and he still ‘got it’.

He turned away and went to try his luck at the claw, because he saw the Bulbasaur toy.

Jinki's style was to swing the claw like crazy and try to knock a toy over into the hole before settling on an aim, but since that required too much effort, Kibum just put the claw over the toy and waited while eating his candy.

Naturally, the claw picked the Pokémon up and dropped it two seconds later.

‘Well, you, too,’ Kibum remarked and went out.

He had hoped that Jinki was chill enough to not be affected by the fact that he loved him as a bit more than a friend. Now, days and weeks went by without them meeting, and he couldn't help going back to that one ty night and mentally slapping himself across the face for not being able to keep his long tongue behind his teeth. But... he didn't actually say the words, did he? Then why was he being punished?

Yesterday, he had spent the afternoon with Jonghyun. (He let Kibum watch him draw his manga under the condition that no sentence beginning with ‘So, I was watching ‘RuPaul's Drag Race’ last night...’ would be uttered.) Naturally, the course of the conversation soon reached the point where Kibum complained about Jinki and his silence.

“Just contact him yourself if you miss him,” Jonghyun said with a sigh, rubbing the paper with an eraser.

Kibum's lips puckered up and he didn't answer.

Jjong glanced at him.

“Ah, sorry, I forgot. You are the one who accepts clingy messages from others. Behold the cold and unattainable Prince of the world, above all human emotion, unless it's lust for high-end fashion brands and trashy TV shows. When he's not interested in you, he ignores your existence, but when you're like 95 percent of all he thinks about and jerks off to – well, he still ignores your existence, but dies inside a little day by day as he does.”

“You're still ing talking. Unbelievable,” Kibum muttered, checking his reflection in his phone in case he had some leftover salad on his teeth.

“And in 70 years, when he finally considers that he might've slightly overdone the whole pretending-that-you're-dead thing, and decides to reach out, it won't happen, because he's both forgotten how to use a phone and you, his unlucky crush, are actually dead now.”

Kibum glared.

“I get your point, you can stop.”

But Jonghyun went on, carried away by his description of his friend's bright future:

“And he'll sob on the chest of his 25-year-old gigolo and die drooling into his silk boxers, and only his two poodles will mourn him. One of them will be named ‘Comme des’ and the other ‘Garcons’, because Kibum got his French from the labels on his shirts.”

“You really hate me, don't you.”

“People I hate are not worth taking the piss out of.”

Kibum tapped his chin with his finger.

“Actually, you might be right... I do want to get poodles. And maybe I will name them after the things I love... Why not.”

Jonghyun shook his head, picking up his automatic pencil.

“Even your crushes are longer than your attention span.”

“No, they're not!” Kibum protested.

The other cracked up laughing.

“That's not what I mean! Uh.”

When Jjong's laughing storm passed, Kibum gave up.

“I guess I should just call him or something… Not sure what I'm supposed to say, though…”

“Child, is your brain broken? You don't remember how to say ‘hi, what's up’?”

“No, I mean...” Kibum started wringing his fingers helplessly. “I just feel like I don't have a reason to contact him other than my mind being in his pants... I'll sound clingy and beat myself up about it later and...”

They heard steps on the staircase.

“Kimbab, are you there?” Mr. Park's voice called.

“Yeah, why?” Kibum answered tensely, because the man might be about to tell him that some client was asking after him, and he still didn't feel like work.

Finally, the owner of the cafe appeared at the top of the stairs, panting.

“An old fellow came asking about you before.” . “Something was off about him, so I told him to bugger off.”

Jonghyun's brow furrowed in concern.

“What did he look like?”

“Just like your regular old bastard, but in a good suit.”

Donkkaseu.

Kibum gulped.

“What... what was off about him?”

“Well, he was pretty damn loud, and from his eyes I'd say he was on crack.”

So, he was using again.

Double .

“But he left, right?”

“Not before grabbing my collar and having a taste of my fist, but he bloody damn did.”

Jjong and Kibum exchanged worried glances.

“I say, be careful, kid. Watch where you go.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Park... For not talking to him and all.”

“Not at all. It's this little punk who should be thanking me for his free art studio.”

Jonghyun sang an excerpt from an old ballad that he knew Mr. Park liked, in his sweetest voice. He replaced every ‘you’ with ‘Mr. Park’.

“Got it, got it... Uh, I'm too kind.”

He reminded Kibum to be careful once more and retreated downstairs.

“He's right, you know...” Jonghyun began, but Kibum gave him a dismissive wave.

“It's okay, he knows where I live anyway. But he won't go there after Minho socked him, so I kinda have a bodyguard.”

“Well, if you say so...” Jjong gave a sigh, looking over his work. “Actually, you do have a reason to call Jinki. I need you to ask him if it's okay if he's in the story.”

“Why don't you call him yourself?”

He shrugged.

“I don't have his contacts.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we're not that close. I mean, how can I call him a friend when we've never even slept together.”

Kibum rolled his eyes and took his bag.

“I'll see what I can do.”

“Where are you going?”

“To stuff my face with carbs before I'm violently murdered by an erratic old cutlet.”

Jjong frowned again.

“Oh, come on, I'll be fine. Will you make my character hot, please?”

“How hot?”

“Hotter than the real life.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible.”

Kibum pouted.

“Because I'm not hot enough anyway?”

“No. Because you're already too hot and need to tone that down.”

He smiled, pleased.

“Bye-bye!” Kibum cooed, waving as he went down.

“Don't cause any accidents!” Jjong shouted as a goodbye, and heard his friend laugh downstairs.

When he came home, he found that his ‘bodyguard’ and his girlfriend were out clubbing, which meant that he could walk around freely and soak in the bath while Adele sang her heart out from the Bluetooth speaker – after all, he deserved some rest for the soul after all the stress he'd been under.

When the bubble bath had been thoroughly enjoyed, every track on ‘21’ passionately sung along to (not always with the right lyrics) and the sheet mask applied, Kibum took himself to bed and reached for his phone.

Damn, I wish he thought about me sometimes.

Calling someone like Jinki should never require any kind of ceremony, he knew, but he had to breath for a minute anyway – just to remind himself that he was a grown man calling his dude friend. He decided it would be better to open his eyes while doing so, though, because darkness brought all kinds of inappropriate flashbacks from the happy times when things between them had been oh so much simpler.

He called Jinki's number.

The line was busy.

Uh.

Five minutes and a video on YouTube later, he tried again. Same result.

Who is he even talking to? He hates phone calls.

Kibum tried once – for the last time – more, got the same result and gave up. He had failed and he was never gonna do that again.

As soon as he put his phone back down, it started ringing.

Jinki.

“Hello?”

“Hey, what's up?”

Ah, just calling you every five minutes and crying mentally. You?

“Just chilling,” Kibum answered in a languid voice.

“Were you just talking to someone?” Jinki's velvety voice asked.

“No, why?”

“I've been calling you for like fifteen minutes now, and the line was busy.”

Kibum put his palm to his mouth and giggled.

“What?”

“I think we were calling each other.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

Jinki laughed.

“Where are you?” Kibum asked.

“In my mother's apartment.”

“Have you moved to Gwangmyeong or something?”

“I've been coming here to spend the nights after classes, so, temporarily, yes...”

“But, why?”

“I'm trying to figure that out myself,” Jinki said pensively.

“And what are you doing there?”

“Helping my mom at the shop, hanging out with old people, watching their dramas on TV...”

“Having the time of your life, in other words.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“I have news to share. Jonghyun has not been useless...”

“Which is news in itself.”

Kibum chuckled.

“Anyways, I found out he's been secretly drawing his own manga for months, and he thought that he'd just do it for himself. But I thought it was really good and told him to try and have it published. So, Jjong wanted to know if it's okay if you're in the story. I mean, the story is about his experiences at the cafe and we'll be there, too, naturally.”

“It's okay, I don't mind.”

“Cool, I'll tell him so.”

“You're a good friend, Bummie.”

Something warm sparked in Kibum's chest for a moment.

When I only hear his voice and don't see his boring mug, it's like I'm talking to a big sleepy marshmallow.

“No, I just want him to become a sensation and we'll all get rich. Maybe they'll even make a movie someday, and Kim Soohyun will play me, and, say, Lee Minho will play you.”

“Um, now I'm imagining Kim Soohyun giving Lee Minho head in a park, and I'm not sure if it works,” Jinki mused aloud.

“Well, it works in my head every time.”

“Are the candles burning in your room right now?” Jinki asked suddenly.

They were.

“No.”

“What scent?”

“Cedar.”

He laughed again.

“And the Christmas lights are on?”

“You bet.”

That answer also made Jinki happy, just because his guesses proved to be right.

“Are you wearing your silk pajamas?”

“No, I'm in my bathrobe.”

“y.”

Kibum bit his lip.

“I'm also wearing a moisturizing cucumber mask from Nature Republic,” he said in a breathy seductive voice.

“It moist feel so nice to have it spread over your face.”

He ignored the awful pun so as not to ruin the interesting atmosphere that was beginning to form.

“Yes, it's cool and wet. What are you wearing?”

“My old Star Wars shirt,” Jinki answered with a giggle.

“Ooooh.”

“With red chequered pants. Grandpa style.”

“Oooooooooh.”

“And I'm gonna have a super-size Snickers now.”

“So long and full of nuts, yum. All those calories in the middle of the night, oooooh. ”

“Yes, and I can take it all in one bite,” Jinki promised in a y low voice.

Kibum didn't even notice how his own hand slipped under his bathrobe.

“Are you sure your mouth is big enough?”

“Oh, I've swallowed bigger things before!” the other bragged happily, and Kibum choked on his spit.

He coughed and laughed so hard he almost cried.

The had weakened somewhat.

“I at this, right?” Jinki said, sounding a bit disappointed.

“No, you're just unintentionally funny.”

“Write that on my tombstone...”

“If we're being honest, mine will read, ‘cheap and thirsty’.”

“That's not true,” Jinki argued. “You're pretty high maintenance.”

“Aw, thanks, honey... I wish you were here,” Kibum confessed.

He was high on the scents, and the warmth of his bed, and the longing pulling at his muscles. So what if he was being needy?

“And if I was, what would you do with me?” Jinki didn't sound this time. He just wanted to know.

“Just this... talking... And if we got bored, then I'd rid you of your ancient clothes and ride you hard.”

The other laughed.

“Sounds inviting.”

“Come, then.”

“Right now?”

“Yes. Take a taxi and come.”

Jinki sighed.

“I can't. I feel that I'm not done here... I'm searching for something. But I'll see you soon, I promise.”

“Oh, well...”

Suddenly Kibum heard a woman's voice shouting:

“Lee Jinki, are you going to hang the laundry or not?!”

“Oh, I need to go now. See you, Bummie.”

“Sure. Love you.”

The call ended.

Kibum took a pillow and started hitting his face with it and only stopped because he realized that his cucumber mask was still on.

Love you. Signed, Fool.