Chanyeol wished he was there when the accident happened. Unfortunately, he was at a different country for a shoot. The good thing was that the shoot required stoic facial expressions to match the monochrome background, to which he sported with ease. He was even commended for being a natural, when indeed, all he did was to overthink that came with a blank and nonchalant expression. The thoughts that kept him preoccupied weren’t even coherent or cohesive: they were mostly jumbled questions that evolved to a sentence midway, then was reduced to a word for brevity, and then multiple words came together, it often ended with a phrase, then a question would pop up to start the vicious cycle of his brain killing itself over again. In complete honesty, he didn’t even know what to think. Heck, he didn’t even know how to react. But there was something he was sure of and that was that he needed to get this damned shoot over to be able come home to him. 

When Chanyeol picked up the call ringing when it showed Baekhyun's contact photo, he was honestly expecting Baekhyun to loudly singsong in his ear. To his dismay, the person on the other side was Mrs. Byun, she was calling on her son's phone. He could only recall snippets of the phone call because she only had him up until she said "accident." “Baekhyun… blood… hospital… not waking up… car… okay… finish… contract… accident...” Those were the only words he could understand; Mrs. Byun was practically wailing on the other side. The contents of their call was something like that of bomb; it was like someone tossed a grenade over to Chanyeol and he didn’t know what to do it.

As much as he wanted to come home as soon as possible, he can't; his ticket back home was only to be reimbursed once the shoot was over, a.k.a. once the company photographers deemed the photos fit for their next campaign. He does nothing but pray for Baekhyun in the following days. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak — only uttering a word or two, unless a call from Korea hits him up, and he doesn’t mingle with his co-workers, instead, he isolates himself along with his thoughts and scrolls through his pictures of Baekhyun. 

Sometimes, he observes the gloomy Akita landscapes spread out in front of him. The skies here are muted, pale, and nondescript. The atmosphere here is cold, the icy chill seeping to his bones. He wants to go home — he needs to go home. The skies here are different; the atmosphere here is different. And there is someone back home who can make him see colors in the skies; there is someone back home who can make him feel warm and fuzzy no matter how cold it is. There is someone back home, he wants to argue and throw and destroy everything he can lay his hands on, but that someone back home is his strength. There is someone back home, he wants to shout and scream at everyone, at everything, but that someone back home is his voice. There is someone back home, he wants to beg, who needs me. 

The number of days that seemed as if it was eternity in hell frozen over eventually ended, and soon they were above the clouds of Japan en route to Korea. Chanyeol had his earphones on throughout the duration of the trip, but he picked nothing from the various playlists that he had on hand. The silence was more than enough. He was already standing up when they were only about to hit the ground, with the flight attendants trying their best to ask and force him to sit down, but their efforts landed in futile vain. When they landed, he was the first one to leave the airplane, given that he almost sprinted to the exit door. He left the airport without as much as a glance back to the  company staff and photographers, to his co-workers. He only looked ahead of him. 

The ride to the hospital was agonizingly slow; it was as if all the time in the world was trapped an anti-gravity chamber that rendered its movements lethargic. He burst seamlessly through the taxi door, the hospital doors, and was only resisted when he reached Room 04.

“I know him! Please, let me in, I need to see him, please,” he’s almost pleading now. That must’ve been the longest he’s said in awhile. He could almost not recognize his voice. “Byun Baekhyun, right? That’s his room, right? I know him, please…” he tries another time. He's pleading now at the two male nurses who are in his way. Both of them share a look before doubtingly allowing him entry. He stops by the doorway and he peers in. He steps inside with unsure steps. He can see a few strands of brown hair peek out from the silhoutte of Mrs. Byun who blocks his view. Baekhyun’s laugh was resounding throughout the confines of the room, ringing in Chanyeol’s ear, replacing the low drum of his heartbeat that was yielding him deaf in the short span of time he was away. Baby, you’re okay, he wants to exclaim, but he roots to the ground by invisible grapevines. He hears the door behind him close gently and he lets out a sigh of relief that he didn’t even know he was holding, and that’s the only time the people inside the room acknowledge his presence. 

“Baekhyun,” Chanyeol calls out. Worry, relief, and yearning drips from his voice. Baekhyun is uncharacteristically staring back at him in a confusing manner, tilting his head to one side as if he was racking his brain for any information about Chanyeol. Chanyeol stares at back with his heart on his throat, and searches for something in Baekhyun's gaze that grips him and robs him of his verbal ability. The look in Baekhyun's eyes is void. There was no recognition, no anything. “Yes, I’m Baekhyun. You are?” he starts.

Chanyeol wanted to laugh at Baekhyun's petty attempt for a joke. But something else flowers from the way Baekhyun regards him; it tells him that Baekhyun is serious. Suddenly, the vines that are wrapping itself around his feet become poison ivy, tugging at him, burying him in a reality he tried so hard to ignore because he didn’t even think it was possible.