Water, everywhere. The sunlight glistens off the waves of the wide ocean. Land is too far away. I see dots of people on the beach. Can they not see me? Can they not hear me? No one comes closer. I hear their laughter as they gather around, building sand castles. Help, I scream. No one hears. Help, hel—

A gigantic wave hits and consumes me.

I sink down deeper into the water. I can’t breathe—I shouldn’t breathe here—I try to stop myself but my instincts crave fresh air, forcing me to inhale, but instead of air my lungs are filled with painful saltwater. I gag, but no air comes out. More water through my nose, my mouth, everywhere, everything burns as I sink.

I see him. Deeper down. Handcuffed. Shackled. He’s alive, no, dead, no, not there at all. I’m falling closer to him every second. I panic and try to fight back against gravity. I can’t be nearer. Not again. Please, I pray as I fall faster. My limbs are immobile. I try to scream but the foul taste of seawater fills my mouth and mutes me.

He looks up and stares at me. He seems to recognize me—of course, how could he forget?

‘Han Gyeowool—’

Everything crumbles down, crushing the life out of me.

I wake up curled up into a ball. The morning is cold. I kicked my blankets away in my sleep. Hands shaking, I pull the blanket up to my neck. The blanket gives me coldness instead of warmth. I realize there are tears in my eyes and bury my face in my pillow. Such a crybaby. Since when have I been like this?

I breathe in. The pillow smells familiar, smells of home. The distinct scent of the laundry detergent my mom likes. It was just a dream. No drowning. No sinking. I’m inhaling dry air. Oxygen. It still doesn’t stop the sob rising from my chest. Stupid nightmares.

I thought I stopped getting them.

I weakly lift my head from bed and glance at the digital clock on my desk. 6:49, exactly a minute before my alarm-

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Oh, there it goes. I drag myself out of bed and press the button on the top of the digital clock, rubbing my eye with the other hand. Great, another morning.

When I step out of my room, I expect the smell of breakfast cooking downstairs to greet me. Or my dad busily preparing for his commute to work. Instead, I feel nothing except the cold floor against my bare feet. I wonder if I’ve waken up in another dream where my parents were, I dunno, dead? Because that’s as creative as my dreams get. Kill parents, kill me, kill others…

I try to recall the face of the man… the boy… that was underwater with me in the dream. I can’t. I try to recall what he sounded like. Still can’t. It’s one of those things—in dreams, everything makes sense. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying so hard to recall his face. His eyes, nose, mouth—everything merges into an ugly blob of paint and melts into the dark. I give up. It’s not like it’s important.

My parents’ bedroom door peeks open and my mom looks out, yawning. I’m surprised that she was still asleep. It’s late, almost seven in the morning.

“Mom, did you sleep in?” I ask, pointing at the clock on the wall. Mom glances at the clock and laughs. I stand there, confused.

“Gyeowool, it’s New Year’s Day.”

Oh.

I vaguely remember staying up until midnight—not like I do on a regular basis or anything—in front of the TV  with my parents last night. After watching the dramas and actors of the year be awarded, the MCs counted down with us. Five, four, three, two, one, happy new year! The screen switched to a live footage of the big bell somewhere in Seoul. A few people held a large pillar next to the bell, and as they always do, they started banging the bell as the countdown hit zero.

I’m nineteen now.

“Did you forget to turn off the alarm?”

I nod. My idiocy never ends.

“We’re not going to go watch the first sunrise of the year, remember? Dad’s too tired.” Mom looks over her shoulder, and I follow her eyes and see dad in bed, asleep. He’s been really busy lately with a new project or something. I haven’t had enough time to ask.

I glance out the window. The morning sky is a slight dark blue. The sun has not risen yet.

“You going to sleep again, then?” Mom asks.

“Actually...” I stretch. “Now that I’m up, maybe I should go for a walk.”

“This early?”

“I could see the sunrise myself.”

Mom looks at me. She’s a year older today too. Forty-… eight? I think. And dad’s forty-nine. We all age on the same day. Maybe I can see another wrinkle, another grey hair. Sometimes I try to remember how mom looked years ago. She was always tall, always strong, always someone to turn to. But now her magical aura has faded away and she’s just a girl who’s aged too much.

“Okay.” She yawns again. “I’m going back to sleep. Watch out for cars, look both ways when crossing the street.” She closes the bedroom door, murmuring mom things like that.

I’m not seven anymore, mom, I think. But then, her concerns are reasonable. I would always be worried if I ever had a kid. What if someone suddenly tried to kidnap them? What if a motorcycle hit them out of nowhere? What if the bus engine exploded? It’s so easy to die in this world.

I take more time than necessary to get dressed. It’s not a common occasion that I get to choose what to wear. Every day, all week, all I wear is my uniform. The only time anything changes significantly is during summer when we get to wear summer uniforms. And then we proceed to wear the same uniform all summer.

After contemplating in front of the closet for ten minutes or so, I end up choosing a simple grey hoodie, thick black jacket, and black pants. Before I leave my room, I open my wallet and take out a green bill. 10,000 won.

That should be more than enough.

The convenience store that I’ve been ignoring for the last week or so is too close to my house. In the freezing windless winter air, I stand in front of the crosswalk, and from far away, I can see the store. I stick my hand in my pocket to check the money’s still there. The traffic light flickers and switches to green. I don’t see anyone else outside. I cross the street.

Kim Namjoon, a face I hadn’t been prepared to see this early in the day, turns his head as the chime sounds like a machine and automatically says “hello” as if he were programmed to do so. Then he recognizes me.

“Oh, hi, Han Gyeowool.” He knows my name. I’m not even wearing my nametag. I guess it’s an easy name to memorize. My parents were overly poetic when they named their child. Well, her last name is Han, and she’s born near the end of December, so why not name her ‘mid-winter’? 한겨울.

“Hello,” I say, but I’m looking for something else. He should be here somewhere. Or maybe he left. I search around Kim Namjoon with my eyes but see nothing. Maybe he did leave, I consider, something sinking in my chest.  

“It’s early,” he remarks. His eyes look fatigued as always. His shifts must be from 10 PM to 8 or 9 in the morning. That must be tiring. “Has the sun risen yet?”

“Not yet.” I walk into the first aisle to avoid more awkward conversation. I don’t want him to ask more questions. I’m still not sure of what I’m going to do. I find a box of hot packs and take them off the metal rack. I return to Namjoon, holding out the box.

“That’s 2000 won,” Namjoon says after scanning the item.

“Could I also have the soy milk please?” I point at the heated cabinet behind him. I feel an odd sense of deja vu as he turns around to get the drink.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense something. Faint, but still there. I don’t get enough time to think on it before Namjoon turns around with the drink in hand.

“Your total is 4000 won, do you want a plastic bag?” Namjoon puts the bottle down on the counter. I shake my head no. The money drawer opens with a satisfying sound.

I point at it with a smile. I’m not sure why I’m smiling. “You got it fixed,” I say.

“Oh, yeah. One of the plastic parts on this end—” He taps the side of the machine. “It was broken. It’s all good now. The manager didn’t charge me too much. At least the other parts were fine, so.”

“That’s… good.” I always choose the most wise and intellectual words to describe the situation. He pushes the drawer in. Smoothly, it slides shut.

“Nice,” he says, more to himself, with a hint of a smile. This might be the first time that I see Namjoon smile for real. It doesn’t last long, though, fading away as quickly as it had appeared.

I wonder if I should talk a bit more in situations like this, social courtesies and unspoken rules and whatnot, but the vague silhouette of something in the corner of the store distracts me too much for me to care at the moment. I pick up the box and drink and slowly creep towards the corner, moving as quietly as I can.

I blink, hoping what I see is just an optical illusion or trick of the light. But it’s still there. The pink. I try to focus on it, narrowing my eyes slightly, and the image becomes clearer. Black stripes. Impulsively, I reach out and touch the pink. I don’t need to tiptoe. Suddenly, the colours are vivid, as if pouring down from where my finger touched. Clear pink. Pitch black. I look down and see the familiar stupid flip flops and jean shorts. I take a step back. Sure enough, a pair of sunglasses is clipped to the front of the shirt.

Park Jimin stands in front of me, dazed and slightly haggard-looking.

His eyes are wide and he doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he’s turned mute or become paralyzed. Then he closes his eyes, opening them again after a second or so. His mouth opens.

“Han Gyeowool,” he croaks. I think I hear pain in his voice. A surge of emotion constricts my chest and makes it harder for me to breathe. I shouldn’t have come at all. No—I should have come earlier. He lifts his right hand, stares at it, and tries to make a fist. Then, he slowly opens his hand again and lets it drop to his side. He carefully takes a step. Then another. He’s too close to me now. I back up again.

“Han Gyeowool,” Jimin repeats, like a broken doll. I turn around wordlessly and start to leave.

Namjoon’s eyes are fixed on me. Again, something about the look seems to say he knows something I don’t. It makes me uncomfortable. I feel like I’m being dragged back into my nightmare again, the water pulling me down and clawing at my senses. I need fresh air. I push the door open with my shoulder and stumble out of the store.

Putting the box and drink down on the plastic table right outside the convenience store, I take a seat in one of the green plastic chairs. I wait for him to come. My expectations don’t disappoint this time, and sure enough, Park Jimin walks through the convenience store door and comes to stand in front of the table. I look up. His face looks so dead. Well, for lack of a better term...

“What happened to me?” he demands, words a little slurred like his speech abilities have been left unused for a while, as if he expects me to know the answer. He’s not wrong. I do. But should I tell him that I do? I look down at the chair next to him.

“Sit.” I nod at the chair.

“Explain first.” His tone scares me a bit, but if I was prepared to back away at that, I wouldn’t have come back in the first place.

“Sit first.” I nod at the chair again. He glares at me. At least he’s not crying anymore. None of us make a move for a while.

“Sir,” I sigh eventually, “I’m here to help.”

“You knew what was going to happen, didn’t you?” he growls. “You know how this works. You’ve known others like me before.”

“I came back.” I bite my lip in frustration. “At least I came back to help, didn’t I?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. I can’t stand the silence.

He doesn’t say anything back.

I decide I don’t have time to wait for the silence to settle again. “But please, sit. I need… I need you to promise me something.” I’m not looking at him when I say this. My eyes are fixed on the sky far away, beyond the high apartment buildings and skyscrapers. Dawn is coming.

He sits at last, eyes still wary. I force down my guilt. I’ve come here for a reason.

So I get straight to the point. “I’ll help you.”

“You’ve already said that,” Jimin snaps back without missing a beat.

“I’ll… I’ll help you find your friend. Taehyun?” I can’t recall his name. It was a generic name is all I remember.

“Kim Taehyung.” His voice rings a bell, and suddenly I remember the day after Christmas too clearly, Park Jimin's teary eyes, how I yelled at him, how he yelled at me. How I turned away and left…

I ignore the memories.

“I’ll help you.” I repeat myself again. The more I say it, the dumber I feel.

“Why?”

“Do you question a lifeboat when you’re about to drown?”

“But really, why?” His eyes look straight into mine. I’m again reminded that this person is an adult. Now twenty… he would have been twenty-two today. But he can’t age. So is he still twenty-one? The gap between our ages shrunk by one year. Still, he’s lived years more than me. Went through those years’ worth of experiences.

It occurs to me that I really don’t know anything about this man.

“But there’s a condition.” I hold up my index finger. “And you need to make a promise.”

“What, sell my soul?” Jimin scoffs. Was that a joke? I can’t really tell.

“No. After… after you get whatever you want, you need to leave.” I sound braver than I actually am as I say it right to his face.

“Whatever I want.” He stresses the whatever, making me feel like I’m a stupid rat walking straight into a trap.

“Not everything. Whatever I can—I mean, whatever I’m willing to do,” I quickly add.

“Huh.” He leans back in his chair. I hold out my pinkie and rest my elbow on the table.

“Promise me.” I look at him intently. After a minute of staring, eyes scanning me like he’s making sure I’m being serious, Jimin leans across the table, holding out his pinkie as well. He slowly puts his elbow down on the table, mirroring my position. When he’s settled down, he moves his hand closer to mine. Still slow enough as to make sure he doesn’t pass through anything. He curls his finger around mine.

“Good?” he asks, tilting his head. I nod. He lets go and puts his hand on the table. His gaze is fixed on the soy milk bottle. I look at his striped T-shirt and suddenly remember something. I take out the hot packs from the box I’d bought minutes ago, hold one in each hand, and start shaking them so they heat up. When the heat from the packs gets too hot to be held in my fists, I put them down on the table and push them towards him.

“Wow,” is all he says. I push them closer to him expectantly. After a moment’s hesitation, he puts his pale hands down on the heat packs, one hand on each pack. It must not be enough, as he starts to lean on the table slowly so his arms are on the packs a few seconds later.  

“Do you need more?” I ask.

“These are expensive,” he mumbles.

“Only 2000 won.”

“It’s not your money you’re spending. That’s your parents’ money,” he chides softly.

“Hello,” says a third voice.

I almost slide off the chair in shock but regain balance just in time. Jimin turns around in his chair. Kim Namjoon stands behind him. I forgot, caught up in the odd atmosphere of the situation, that I must have looked like an absolute insane person to anyone that happened to walk by during the whole ordeal. Making promises and such with...an empty chair. The shop clerk looks taller when I’m sitting down, and the dark shadows under his eyes seem more prominent.

“...Hi,” I manage to answer, internally cursing when my voice goes up funnily at the end of the word. I’m probably just overthinking it now, he didn’t hear anything, he didn’t see anything. Nothing to worry about.

I at convincing myself.

The plastic chair makes a skidding sound as he drags it across the pavement so he can sit. Jimin instantly falls to the ground. His head passes through the edge of the table as he falls, and I see his legs sink in the ground for a split second before rising back to the surface.

“Hey!” Jimin yelps at Namjoon. Oblivious to his late friend’s glare of contempt, Namjoon takes the seat. I slowly look at him. This situation would have been more humorous if I wasn’t currently scared less.

“I have a question.” He reminds me of my homeroom teacher a bit. I don’t think I’ll be able to give him a good answer even before he‘s asked, but I still nod.

“Yes?”

“You said you knew the pink-haired Park Jimin. Right?”

Unless I’m colourblind, that’s right. “Yes?” I’m worried I’m screwing something up, saying something wrong without knowing what. I’m worried I’m making a mistake. The way this grown man peers at me makes me worry.

“Thing is...” He leans a bit closer like he’s about to tell a good joke. “Thing is, no one ever saw him with pink hair except… a few people.”

, what?

I glance at Jimin, hoping he can help me out, but he’s just watching the conversation without intervening, eyes round like mine probably are. . I curse in my head, not knowing from where I messed up.

“You said you were his student,” he continues. I feel my face turning red and hope this Namjoon man thinks it’s just the cold morning air. “Said you hadn’t seen him in a while. You’re in your third year of high school. He only started lessons a year ago. When were you ever his student, then?”

I don’t know what to say.

Kim Namjoon sighs. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt here. I don’t want to think you’re trying to joke around. You know he’s dead, don’t you?”

I find myself nodding.

“So you’re making fun of a dead man’s friend?”

“I…” I’m not. I’m trying to help. But how do I even start this conversation? I’ve never done this before, never even thought of this situation hypothetically. How I am I supposed to know what to do? “I’m not.”

“Okay, then,” Namjoon says, tone even. “Then at least explain for me...”

He looks around. No one is on the streets besides us. His eyes fall on where Jimin is sitting at one point but don’t linger. He turns again to me and fixes his eyes on mine decisively. I feel a shudder run down my spine.

“Who were you talking to?”

_{heyy i'm back!! this time it's only 12 am over here haha}

_{my hands were sweaty writing this chapter,, now namjoon is onto herRrrR}

_{thanks for reading as usual! enjoy~}