Donghae didn't wake no matter how hard Hyukjae shook him. He wanted to put his ear against his chest to listen for a heartbeat, even just the faintest, but he's too scared. He ran outside the room, heart in his throat, his stomach in a knot, and his vision a blurry haze. He grabbed the first person he saw, frantically grasping at the collar of his shirt. The person understood what he meant, even though he wasn't able to say anything. This, perhaps, wasn't the first time it happened to him. Masatomo and Jiyuu arrived, crying at the sight of Donghae—unmoving, the color slowly draining away from his face. Hyukjae closed his eyes tight, cold sweats and hot tears dripping all over his face.

 A doctor stood beside Donghae, his muscles straining and veins bulging in a struggle to keep or bring him back to life.

Hyukjae walked towards the doctor—he didn't like the way he pumped at Donghae's chest, it looked like it hurt a lot, and he didn't want to see Donghae hurting. When he couldn't walk the way he wanted to, he thought that this was probably a dream, a terrible nightmare, because in dreams, you can't control your behavior and everything does not make sense.

Hyukjae asked a question—to whom, he didn't know. He couldn't even remember what he asked because instead of hearing their voices and his own, he could only hear this persistent ringing in his ear. Ah, this is a dream, he thought to himself.

Everything was in slow motion, the doctor pumping his clenched fists into Donghae's chest and nurses buzzing around. And then this machine that was attached to Donghae—What was it called? I couldn't remember— started to give off a beeping sound and the lines on the monitor remained static, just like Donghae. Ah, yes. A heart rate monitor. 

The doctor shook his head, mumbling words he couldn't process. He stared at the doctor's mouth to read what he was saying but tears shrouded his vision.

Then they cover Donghae's face with a white blanket. And as if on cue, the painful wails of Masatomo and the strained shushing of Jiyuu started to reverberate around the dimly lit room. It was maddening to hear so he walked away from them, hoping to find silence somewhere along the corridors. However, as he freed himself from the noise, he was greeted with equally maddening silence, making the ringing inside his head even louder.

In dreams, this is the exact moment where your eyes flutter open, and you gasp and choke for air but relieved that it was just a dream. So, Hyukjae just stood there,  watching people slowly disappearing from his vision in a haze. He diligently waited for his eyes to open. But he was wide awake.

And there in the hollow hallway of the hospital, he started screaming.

Donghae's funeral went by in a blur. He couldn't remember the people who paid him a visit nor the consoling messages they left him with. But what he did remember is that he never shed a single tear ever since the day at the hospital. Jiyuu said he collapsed and lost consciousness after screaming his lungs out. He had no recollection of that happening. He didn't want to remember. 

'Can I love you now?' 

Please, just let me forget.

Donghae was buried in Mokpo, his hometown, beside the grave of his mom and dad. The funeral site was flooded with people, most of them he didn't recognize. s were there. They were brought back together after so many years, but all of them silently wished it was for a different reason. In the end, Donghae lived up to his role. He always brought them together. He was their glue that sticks them. Donghae was Hyukjae's rock. What would I do now, Donghae-ah? Tell me. 

'Can I love you now?' 

Please, I don't want to remember.

Hyukjae retreated away from the mourning crowd. He didn't want to cry alongside those people. He didn't want to share their pain because he knows they'll forget and move on weeks or days after. Hyukjae knew he'll never heal. They'll never know his pain. They'll never be able to fathom it. 

He was back in Seoul. A newspaper was tucked under his door, and the headline glared at him in mockery—we will not let you forget. It said in bold letters, "Ex Super Junior member, Lee Donghae, dies of stomach cancer at the age of 53."

Hyukjae kicked it aside. 

Once inside his room, all of his strength escaped from him. He slid down the floor, brought his knees up to his chest and silently wept. Memories of their last day together flooded him. He tried to shrug them off but they were as persistent as his tears. 

'Can I love you now?'

You told me you would love me from then on.  And I'm going to love you back thrice as much to make it up to you. I told you I'd love you forever and if forever ends, I'd love you some more. You didn't have to end it that quickly. 

Hyukjae screamed his lungs out at the excruciating grip that clutched at his heart, and he finally shed the tears that have refused to come out the previous days. He screamed, sobbed, wept. He pulled at his hair, punched his chest and the cold and hard floor, hoping it would alleviate the throbbing pain he felt in his chest, but his heart kept getting tighter and heavier, and he was hurting more and more.

"It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault." He was repeating those words over and over, voice slurred and hoarse from screaming. He laid on the cold tile floor, almost becoming one with it.

He couldn't stop thinking how happy they could have been if he wasn't so afraid. They would have built a f