And as he glanced around his spotless white room he wondered if this was what was left of him. An image of perfection; pure, clean, sterile white. The image that he is consumed by... is this all that's left?

He closes his eyes again placing his arms over his eyes, physically still in bed while his mind runs hundreds of km per second. 

In and out.

In and out. 

He concentrates on his breathing to slow down his mind because it's happening again, he's over thinking, or maybe not thinking at all, because he's screwed up. Again. 

He replays scenarios over and over again in his mind while it all flashes back disjointed yet staggering.

That time where he had a fight with the members, spitting words of poison to anger them, and he did achieve his purpose, his terrible goal. He remembers the satisfaction at causing pain, the sick happiness that others could feel the torment he suffered through. His eyes stun him and breath quickens because in reality the white does not reflect him, it's merely a cover for the tumultuous black underneath, sometimes which stains the white, and spreads out and out, before he contains it and everything is clean again.

He remembers the time on shows where he's slowly slinking into the shadows, disappearing little by little, floating above everything, no longer tethered to the world. He wonders what it means to exist, to feel real,  because the more he stays in the spotlight the more he realises that he's becoming the individual everyone wants - expects him to be while he loses the essence that makes him him.

And so he stays in bed, thinking, thinking, thinking. 

Time doesn't pass, or if it does, it's not relevant.

He doesn't realise how much he's needed this.

To break facade of happiness that plagues him. It's not that he's dissatisfied, he's grateful, he loves his family, s and himself. Most times.

It's because he loves them that he does this, runs away from life to crawl into himself, because that's the ironic thing, you can only be true to yourself when there's no one else you  need to please. It's here that he builds himself back into the person he should be, because with enough time one can practice feigning acceptance. 

He shakes his head once, twice to clear his head. Fill it up again with pretty thoughts. 

And he's back to perfect. 

The door opens and he recognises Heechul scrutinise him, eyes roaming over him in mental check making sure he's okay. But he won't find anything he thinks to himself as he smiles at Heechul walking towards him, because his problem isn't visible.

Or so he thinks as Heechul takes his arm forehead creasing in concern as he murmurs, I'm here if you need. 

His mechanical smile falters and loses a bit of his brilliance. Maybe his mask is cracking.

And that makes his breath hitch because if he doesn't have it to help hide his impurities everyone can see how utterly imperfect he is.

A strong pressure on his arm brings his focus back into reality forcing his eyes to meet Heechul which are huge and full of pure unadultured feeling, true of his being. He can't help but be drawn into the full of life aura that Heechul exudes; he holds no pretense, no false declaration of self. He knows who he is; he is Heechul.

There's a pull in him that longs to become like that but fears still hold him back.

Maybe one day he can release his burden. He's working towards it. 

His eyes stray past Heechuls to the racket emanating from the living room and through the space he can make out s, some on the sofa laughing others in what suspiciously looks like a brawl. The image brings a smile to his face, not stretched ear to ear but a small upturn of lips from the pull of affection in his heart.

He has more supporters than he could possible ask for to guide him along the journey.

It wouldn't have to be a battle fought all alone.

Because he wasn't alone