There was nothing left between them. Not a single thing they could say to even ease any pain that the other might be feeling. The tears had dried up a long time ago. Their memories of warm summers and sweet autumns long forgotten.

Nothing really was left, but Minho still found himself leaning on the rails of an unpopular bridge, near the outskirts of Seoul, waiting for the one man he made himself believe as a memoir of a long time ago.

I Don’t Love You

Urban Zakapa

What should I say?

Where do I start?

I’m only hanging my head

You’re looking at me

In this awkward silence

Minho played with a loose strand of the red scarf around his neck, watching as clouds of breaths puff out of his chapped lips. These days the band had been busy, too busy for his liking that he had barely enough time to take his personal ghosts into matter. Last year – they thought 2016 will be a better year but everything just went downhill after those first months. And he found it really hard to believe but he, himself, can’t really explain what happened.

It’s like watching a withering branch slowly peeling off the trunk, it’s eerily hypnotizing, because he did nothing but watch as gravity slowly pulled it down.  Why did he just watch it? Maybe because he knew he can’t just simply staple that same branch back no matter how hard he tried.

“You’re here early.”  

Minho thought those TV dramas were wrong. That time suddenly going slower or the distant chirping of unknown birds was nothing but fiction.

But apparently, when he lifted his gaze to see who greeted him, he was wrong.

“Hi,” He answ