“I said you’re not going to USA! Study here all you want, but you’re going nowhere no matter what stupid scholarships they give you! I don’t care if your parents disown you for this – they can go to hell!” Myungsoo shouted at the top of his voice. He raised the chair in front of him above his head and threw it to the opposite wall with great force. The resounding crash made Sungjong literally shake. He watched with terror as Myungsoo’s hand crashed down on his cheek.

Slowly, as if not being able to believe it, Sungjong touched the quickly flushing skin of his cheek. Myungsoo watched him with a wild ferocity in his eyes for some time before abandoning the bed room. A few minutes later, Sungjong heard the main door slam shut.

He slowly made his way towards the chair, which now lay against the wall, the back broken. He tried to make it stand – it did but with a cripple-like bearing. It was the only thing that tied Sungjong to his brother, who had died years ago. It was the sole possession of his brother that he had and seeing it mutilated, he found himself crying bitterly.

If only Myungsoo understood his sentiments…

Sungjong knew he had to escape somehow. But he loved Myungsoo deeply, to the core. And yet he was tired of Myungsoo’s overbearing personality, his failure to listen to reason and his lack of understanding.

As far as he could see, there was only one escape route open in front of him. He dragged the broken chair to the centre of the bedroom, right beneath the ceiling fan from which the strong rope he had collected earlier hung, ending in a loop. He had known this moment would come, and he was prepared.

Why had he chosen the broken chair? It wasn’t only because it held memories of his departed brother, but it also held memories of Myungsoo. And it was also the last thing Myungsoo had touched before leaving, the last thing if you count out the slap.

It was difficult to gather the courage, but Sungjong had done it over time. He was prepared. He felt the cold wood beneath his feet, some splinters grazing his sole. He felt his brother and he felt Myungsoo as he gave the chair a firm push with his feet. He couldn’t exactly explain all the vivid thoughts running through his mind like a waterfall. They were too fast for him to comprehend, for him to grasp. He almost felt nothing.

If only Myungsoo was there to stop him…

Myungsoo returned late. His rage hadn’t entirely cooled down but it had soothed enough for him to seek Sungjong’s presence. He didn’t knock on the door – it was open anyways. He imagined Sungjong, sleeping on his table, worn out from crying.

How many times Myungsoo had come back to find him there with dry tear streaks on his face?

He would be sitting with that chair of his, his brother’s legacy. Myungsoo had tried to get rid of it – it didn’t match with the other furniture at all. It was like an anomaly and it wasn’t even ashamed of being different or tried to be decent. It always had its head raised and Myungsoo had to be embarrassed in front of his friends for having such a terrible taste (Myungsoo was always quick to point out that the chair was there by Sungjong’s choice and not his). The chair was so selfish - it didn’t fit, made no amends for its faults and presenting it to society only brought embarrassment – and yet it took up its place in Sungjong’s heart, in Myungsoo’s home. Sungjong apparently loved it. How Sungjong could love such a hideous object, he had no idea.

“Sungjong,” Myungsoo called. There was no reply. Myungsoo casually opened the door to his bed room. The scene that met his eyes was too cruel for him. Without even knowing it, he was screaming Sungjong’s name. The lifeless form of the boy hung loosely, the broken chair lying at his feet.

Sungjong had decided to leave him after all, going to a place where Myungsoo couldn’t reach him. He hadn’t cared about his anguish, his pain, his loss.

If only Myungsoo knew Sungjong’s pain…

Whenever Myungsoo came home, he found Sungjong sitting on the broken chair. It was as if he had an invisible link to the broken piece of furniture. He embraced the splinters, the cracked wood as if they were his soul, his love. Myungsoo hadn’t moved it an inch from where Sungjong had last placed it. In fact, he hadn’t even touched it. He was too scared to annoy Sungjong. What if he took offence and left? Myungsoo didn’t want that to happen.

“Sungjong, I’m so sorry,” Myungsoo said, as was his ritual. He would do it every day when he came back. Sungjong didn’t reply. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t – it depended on his mood. Today he was probably irritated with Myungsoo for some reason. After all, Myungsoo irritated Sungjong in almost everything he did.

It was true that Myungsoo was not the most sensitive person on earth, and he sometimes (most of the times) lacked manners and he didn’t know how to handle situations gently – he listened to no reason or explanation; but he had valid reasons to insult Sungjong’s parents and friends, they were always trying to separate them. He also had to restrict Sungjong’s freedom – what’s wrong with protecting one’s love (who wouldn’t want to have Sungjong)? But he was simply being cautious.

And yet, Sungjong was mad with him. It was unfair.

If only Myungsoo tried to feel what Sungjong felt…

Sungjong had finally spoken to Myungsoo today. He had said so much, he had given Myungsoo all the answers to the questions he had been puzzling over.

He knew it all now – it felt like lead in his stomach, acid in his eyes, poison in his veins.

It was ironic indeed, he was all that he had deemed the broken chair to be – he was hideous, unfit to be in society, an embarrassment to Sungjong and yet Sungjong had cared for him, loved him. He was the broken chair. Sungjong had made a place for him in his life and Myungsoo had, in return, only found faults with him. Sungjong had given, Myungsoo had never tried to give back. He was content with taking.

If only Myungsoo could tell Sungjong how sorry he was…

But it was too late.