I felt the tears run down my face as I sat in this sterile room. Bleach and cleaner stung my nose and eyes. How could it be that strong?

I look around, the chairs in the waiting room void of people. I sat alone.

I take my phone out of my packet and check the time, it’s after five in the morning. I sniffle and look at room 204. He’s in there. And it’s my fault.

I open my phone and check my texts, the most recent still glaring at me brightly through the screen.

Tae, sorry if this is a bother, but don’t worry this will be the last text I send. The envelop on your doorstep is from me. You can open it and see if or just throw it away, I don't really care, I just needed to get it out of my possession. Enjoy your life.

The envelope remains unopened on my desk at home.

My eyes well with tears. I caused this. He was in there because of me. Found washed up on the beach barely alive, barely breathing. He actually jumped. 

I reach into my pocket and pull out the cool necklace. I have it sprawled across my hand. The found it washed up by him, I gave it to him for Christmas. I run my fingers over the cool metal of the strawberry. I feel like it will be forever cool from the ocean, the ice cold ocean where he washed up. His parents gave it to me earlier, disgusted with it, still not over their son being with me, even though it was months ago.

I ask myself how everything ended up this way, but my question is solved instantaneously. I already know the answer. I was weak. I was selfish. I hurt someone that I love.

All I have for recent memories of him are his pale solemn expressions that he wore like a uniform, walking through school. I see glances of his papers, grades going down by the day from lack of focus. Didn’t take me long at all to know what his focus was on.

I see his tears, his pained expressions when people talk to him. My word travels fast to his ears by other carriers. Jin or Namjoon would always hear me. I guess I meant for it to be that way though. I wanted my words to get to him, but honestly, for what? To show my bravado? That I was tough and better without him? I must have done a good enough job, I convinced everyone but myself.

I stand up and walk to the front desk to get a tissue. This was the most exercise I’ve gotten for three hours. An expression of pity clouds the eyes and face of the male nurse who sits at the desk. His name tag reads, ‘Yoongi’, and he looks almost part of this desk, like they went together. He has piles of paperwork including a folder from him. Jungkook’s name finely typed screams at me, pulses through my heart. It’s all too real. 

Back in my seat, I take out my phone again. I open my photos and find hundreds of me and him. His cute bunny smile that made my heart leap radiated from the screen. Hundreds of photos, laughing, smiling, goofy faces, all ghosts now. The boy in these pictures died a long time ago, even before ending up on the beach. 

The tears running down my face feel natural at this point, like a part of me that’s always existed. I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I'm sitting here crying, pitying myself, asking why he would do this, when it was my fault. I’m angry, ashamed, and every other feeling to between these from A to Z.

I look back over at room 204. I knew he was the only one in there, his family left about an hour ago, needing rest. How could they leave him alone? But then again, it was me who left him alone. Where was I in his life over the past month? Besides in the tears he shed and and curses he muttered? I had no room to talk.

I’ve decided that I’ve had enough time hiding in the waiting room. If I was to see him, it was now or never. My legs are shaky and I stand up. I walk over slowly down the hall, feeling gravitated to room 204. 

I finally get to the door and open it slowly. I do this to not wake him up, even though I knew I could scream at the top of my lungs, cause a cacophony and a scene, but he wouldn’t wake up. It would be a miracle if he ever woke up again.

I walk in the room, and close the door behind me. I grab one of the portable plastic chairs form along the wall and drag it next to his bed, the sound of the chair legs scraping again the floor feeling like a piercing shriek in my ears. I’m sitting in the chair once positioned.

The clipboard attached to the end of his bed is full. Each page full of vitals, statistics, his injuries, like a well written book. One of those stating his coma. That if he were to wake up and have the same brain function it would be a miracle sent straight from the guy upstairs, and I didn't mean some surgery patient from the floor above us.

I slowly force myself to look at him. I let out a gasp when I do.

He’s covered in scratches and stitches, all over what once was his clear, perfect, porcelain face. A section of his hair is shaved from the need to cleanse and stitch up a large wound in the area. They said he somehow barely managed to hit his head at all on the way down, but it was hard to believe that. 

His arms are both in casts, they said 70% of his bones in his body shattered like glass against the rocks. They literally compared his to shattering glass. If he were to wake up, it would be a long, painful recovery. 

I close my eyes together tight, having a hard time seeing him like this. To see someone who used to always smile, that was so full of life, lay here like a shattered china doll, that flew off that ledge by my hand.

I will never be able make up for what I did, or have any excuses. I was weak. Having him in my life hurt so bad, and I chose the wrong route. I could have done anything else but instead, I pushed him away, talked bad about him to keep him away. Just because his presence hurt. Every time I saw him I just wanted to hug and kiss him, to have him be mine, but because of the circumstances I couldn’t. Now because of this I could possibly never hear him speak again. These machines are breathing for him, the beeps they emit his only verbal communication. His eyes are closed, unseeing, his mind gone away on some kind of vacation, unable to think.

I force myself to open my eyes and look at him. No mater what I did this image would never leave my mind. I slowly reach out for his hand. I’m grasping it, it’s cool touch, similar to the feel of the necklace. Streams and streams of tears gush out of my eyes, I can barely breathe. I’m gasping for air, cursing Jungkook, cursing myself for even being slightly mad at him because he had done nothing wrong. I can’t help but say I’m sorry, over and over and over again until the words sound foreign to me.

My precious Kookie, the light of my life, lay here, hanging on to the last glimmers of his life. This was my fault, and I would never forgive myself. I lay there, sobbing for what feels like hours, somehow not being by anyone coming in the room. I cry and heave until I have nothing left in me. My eyes are swollen, feeling like they will come out of their sockets at any moment and burst.

I take out a red pen that is in my pocket. I need to leave something.

I’ll always love you

I stare at the characters written on his right arm cast. The red standing out on the canvas of white. I stand, looking over him one last time. I lean over and give him a kiss on the forehead. I reach for his hand.

“Promise me you’ll wake up. I need to see you smile, speak, laugh, even cry, and I will be there to wipe the tears. Please pull through, for me. I don’t deserve this, I know, but you don’t have to do it for me. So it for your family, for your friends who love you. You are a gift to this world and it did not get to finish unwrapping you yet, sweet Kookie. You have so much to give, please just survive to give it.” I beg to his unhearing ears. I’m somehow able to cry again. I don’t know how I have this much water in my body.

“I love you.”

I walk out of the room fast and out of the hospital. My mind is on auto pilot. I scream at the top of my lungs in the parking lot, clutching my chest that feels like it is about to rip open.

“WHY? WHY? WHYWHYWHYWHYWH-“ I scream until my voice gives out. I don’t care about the concerned stares from the people around me. I’m on my knees, barely able to catch my breath.

“I’m so sorry” I whimper, barely able to speak. My throat is hoarse. I’m on my knees for several minutes until I some how find the strength to get back up.

I look at my phone and find that it’s quarter to seven. Dried tears stain my face, making a mask of emotion plastered on my face. I find myself at a corner store a few blocks from the hospital.

Money is placed on the counter in return for two cans of spray paint. I run out of the store, off to find a canvas. I’m soon in the park across from the hospital, the brick walls looking bare. I propel my emotion from the paint cans onto the walls. His name, quickly forming on the wall. I get to the second ‘k’ in ‘Kookie’ when a siren blares. 

“Sir you need to drop those cans at once and put your hands in the air. You are under arrest for the damage of public property.”

I slowly let the can drop, one by one. I slowly turn around, and I feel my hands being roughly put together behind my back, and I’m being shoved against the squad car. The cuffs are digging deep into my wrists, cold and unforgiving. It’s what I deserve. I feel as though even when these are taken off, I’ll always be bound with steel handcuffs of guilt and grief.

My head is pressed down and I get into the back of the car, the lights flashing bright in my eyes. This is what I deserved. I basically killed Jungkook with my actions. I deserved to be locked up. Even if I wasn’t arrested, guilt was my prison. I knew I wouldn't be in there long but it was enough to get away. I couldn't be free to do what I wanted white Jungkook was in a coma, imprisoned in his own mind, unable to think or speak or act. My head hangs low.

***

The trial is quick, I’m only in jail for two days, and now I have 100 hours of community service to do. My parents were furious, unable to understand my actions. 

The envelope he gave me still remains unopened on my desk. I felt like I didn’t deserve to open it, to know what he had done for me.

Jungkook is still at the hospital in a coma. I haven't heard otherwise. I go to school then go for two hours a day to complete my community service. This routine sticks for the next two weeks. Sixteen days after my incident, after seeing Jungkook, I’m at home trying to complete my homework but failing to do so. My phone rings and I’m surprised. No one called me much lately. The number is unknown so I almost don’t pick it up. I slide the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Tae?”

I drop my phone, my heart at a standstill.