Jiyong stared at the rain out of the window of the coffee shop as steam rose from the cup he held in his hand. His hand was burning, but he didn’t really care. He was too preoccupied to mind. He took a sip of the bittersweet liquid, wincing as it scalded his tongue. Finally realizing that his hand was beginning to blister, he set the cup down on the sticky plastic table in front of him and ran his now-tasteless tongue over his teeth.

Blinking, he ran his fingers through his fluffy brown hair, freshly dyed from his photoshoot this morning, and sighed. The fact that he was even famous in the first place was no longer a novelty to him. It was everyday life, something he had grown used to over the lengthening years.

The dancing was no longer fun or exciting, just exhausting. The singing and the rapping was seemed to never be as fulfilling as it used to be, now only filling him with a sense of anxiousness – how could he hit the right notes? What if he messed up? What if he forgot the dance during one of his parts? – Instead of the emotions he used to feel. He was never pumped to perform or energized and ready to go like he used to be, just filled with a bone-deep tiredness that destroyed his emotions and made him ache everywhere.

In fact, the main thing about his life was just tiredness. He was tired when he sang. He was tired when he danced. He was tired in the mornings. He was tired at night. He was just so tired. Of everything. Of his friends, of his company, of his life.

Other people were starting to notice as well over the past few weeks. Seungri was always asking if he was sick, even Seunghyun was dancing with more energy in practice, Youngbae kept sneaking worried glances whenever they performed, and even Daesung, the clueless of the clueless, had started looking at him with puppy dog eyes every time Jiyoung didn’t respond to his teasing words.

He kept messing up in vocal lessons, and his teacher would just shake his head and look at him with his piercing eyes (Jiyoung always swore they could see straight through his soul, almost always at the worst of times) and mumble something under his breath. Jiyoung occasionally heard a piece of a word or a whisper of a thought, but he could easily figure out what his teacher was saying.

He was utterly worthless. What was the point of a pop star that hates what he is doing? Jiyong didn’t hate his job, that was for sure, but currently he was just too exhausted to hate anything. He didn’t even yell at the stupid neighbor’s dog when it barked at night, and if you knew Jiyong, that would come as a surprise.

He was simply torn to pieces ever since the accident.

It had been a Monday. He hadn’t been particularly happy that morning, perhaps a little grumpy because of a late night or because of an early morning, that part was a bit hazy. He had decided on a whim to get some fresh air, and walk to the location where they were shooting the new music video, Haru Haru, since it had been pretty close by. He could still remember the crisp November air causing his breath to make the little foggy puffs in front of his face, could still remember the dampness that layered over everything after the rain, the heaviness that still hung the air and weighed him down.

It had been a particularly busy week, with all the new album preparations. He hadn’t been completely awake, but he had slipped some headphones in all the same and started to play the music for the new album, singing his parts softly to himself. He had seen the cameras and the film crew for the video just two blocks away, and the nearest crosswalk had been back behind him. Humming along tunelessly to the beat in the song that had just started, He started across the recently paved street and smiled at the film crew in the distance, excited for his new video and new parts, thrilled to be able to perform something new for his fans.

That was when it happened.

It had happened so quickly that he hadn’t even known what was happening, and his memory still got fuzzy at that moment, but he could remember the general things that happened.

A drunk driver had swerved onto the almost empty road, and Jiyoung hadn’t noticed. A girl, a high school girl walking with her friend, had realized what was about to happen. She had shoved him across the street, getting hit in the process.

He was pretty sure she had gotten killed for him.

And he had run away, his first instinct to run from the paparazzi catching him in such a situation, what they would think of the girl that pushed him, everything but the girl and her friend crying over her limp form, lying there in the street.

He hadn’t even known her name, known who she was, known what school she went to. All he knew was that he was deeply guilty for not even caring about her.

He still cursed himself to this day for everything he had done that morning. If he had only gone with the rest of his band, if only he hadn’t listened to music, then he wouldn’t have to be so guilty.

He found himself wishing, often times, that it was him who had gotten hit. That it was him who would have been mourned, that he would have gotten killed for being a selfish, idiotic, ungrateful jerk that didn’t give a damn about someone else’s life. That he had been ripped to shreds physically, rather than mentally.

He didn’t even realize he was crying until a tear splashed onto his tender hands, stinging him out of his remorse. He just sat there, staring out into the rain.

Feeling nothing but a tender hand on his shoulder, feeling nothing but joy and guilt and love and happiness. Seeing nothing but the girl’s smiling face, the cast on her leg, the scars on her arms. Crying nothing but tears as he realized she was alive, and she forgave him for being selfish and stupid.

And finally feeling something other than tired.