When I got back to Minho’s place I noticed right away that he was not there. I was used to looking for him by now, to wondering where he was and in what state I would find him. I checked each room in a hurry, concerned over what scene each door would reveal inside, before ultimately finding the handwritten message on his desk in the office.

                  My hearts seized. The last time I saw this penmanship it was on his suicide note. I wasn’t ready—would never fully be ready—to read one again. I gulped back my fear...

                  Taemin-ah, I read, I’ll be back later. I’ve gone to visit someone. Then, a hastily added: The room is yours.

                  That was all it said, but somehow I knew exactly what he meant.

* * * 

                  It had been long enough for the flowers to droop and discolor. That’s how long since my last visit. Of course I came on the anniversary of her death and a few times after, but being that I hadn’t intended to live this long, had not made it back as often as before. I blamed this on my involuntary house arrest. I’d never purposely leave them to decay there; the image of death upon death—I didn’t like it. Flowers, though plucked, were best in bloom. That was the only way they should appear on gravestones, blossoming and bright, just like the life they represented.

                  I muttered a slight apology and replaced the old chrysanthemums with the new. “Yellow. Your favorite. They’re in bloom now. But you already know that…”

                  The sun, which had been beating mockingly down upon my shoulders for the past hour, was beginning to recede in the twilight. I wouldn’t have long I knew, but Taemin’s absence gave me the perfect opportunity to get out of the house. To come see her. I don’t know why I left the note for Taemin; I guess because I didn’t want him to worry. It wasn’t like me but, at the same time, was totally like the person I once was.

                  I found it difficult to talk here; I had difficulty putting voice to the words I didn’t want to hear aloud. “They have me locked up,” I eventually say. I am still staring at the characters etched deep into the marble slate. No matter how many times I’ve seen them, it still does not seem real. “And won’t let me back to work. Can you imagine? Me? I’m going crazy. But—you already know that too…”

                  My face dropped a little. The breeze was picking up. I grazed my fingers against the cold stone, sweeping the rest of the debris and stray petals off of her name.

                  “I miss you,” I say, nothing but the wind there to answer me.

                  I stayed like that a little while longer before the impulse to return directed me back again.

* * * 

                  I was busy enough while Minho was away, getting dinner done and settling into my new and unexpected room. I’d brought just a small suitcase of things, though I imagined I wouldn’t need them long. I didn’t expect to stay but a few days, though Minho didn’t like me leaving and that was fine with me. It was just part of the job, after all. Just part of the job.  

                  It was the first time I’d gone into this room. I’d peaked inside once, but that was all. It was immaculate: the bed was made, not a wrinkle in the bedspread to be seen, and everything around had a proper place. I liked it though; it was a nice room, warm and homely. A stark contrast against the cold and sterile one Minho slept in.

                  Ah, the irony of that statement…

                  I took out my already-wrinkled clothes and began to hang them up, one by one, in the closet. I imagined Minho would prefer that I unpacked and hid my suitcase over keeping everything out in the open. He was a man who liked order and cleanliness, but it didn’t take me long to mess it all up…

                  I’d been given the name “Magic Hand” back in middle school by my ‘friends’ because of my uncanny ability to break, lose, and drop things—but the name stuck with me all through high school any beyond. It was no different now: as I was putting the suitcase on the closet shelf, I somehow managed to knock a medium-sized box off in its place, the contents spilling out over the floor.

                  “.” This was all that came out of my mouth. I really didn’t want Minho coming in and seeing this. He’d never trust me. He’d blame me for snooping or stealing, or god-knows-what went through his dark mind. I struggled to put things back in their place, not really noticing the items themselves: a small ceremonial gown I could tell had been passed down for generations, which I figured belonged to either Minho or his wife. A bundle of congratulatory cards I assumed they’d saved from their wedding shower.

                  But then… a package of polka-dotted onesies. A speckled fleece blanket with the logo “Cutie Honey” stitched on the sides. A ladybug pacifier, a teething ring and set of plastic keys. The deeper I looked in the box now (I couldn’t help myself), the more evidence I found. A mobile of safari animals already attached by silver strings—a small pink bow meant for the soft, fine hair of an infant; a book, still empty, meant for recording milestones and dates...

                   “Oh, my god—she must have been...”

                   How had I never noticed? After watching them for so long, why had it taken me so long to understand this side of Minho’s grief? The sad, sad reality. He had not only lost a wife—but a daughter too.

* * * 

                  I immediately smelled dinner before walking through the door. It was comforting, the thought of someone cooking for me again, someone having an expectation of my return.

                  “I’m back,” I say impulsively, sliding off my shoes at the step and hanging up my coat. It was the first time I’d said this in a long time.

                  The apron strings tied around his back as he paced the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, was all I needed to see. For the first time, I did not mistake him for anyone else. I knew exactly who it was in there and I wasn’t necessarily disappointed—I mean, I was just glad I hadn’t scared him off completely. I’d crossed a very unforgivable line, after all; he was being gracious with me to still be here, serving my needs with an unyielding smile on his face as he said: “Hi, hyung~”

                  I caught his smile and returned it.

                  “Good timing. Dinner’s ready.”

                  “You’re… eating too, right?” I asked nonchalantly, shaking off all hesitancies.

                  There was a slight pause. “I made enough, yes.”

                  “Let’s do it. I’m starving.”

                  Honestly, it was weird to sit across the table from someone this way. Not that I minded because, surprisingly, I didn’t. “It’s good,” I say quietly between bites. There hadn’t been much conversation between us up until this point.

                  “Hm? Thank you.”

                  “Where’d you learn to cook? Usually guys don’t know how—not this well.”

                  “It’s not rocket science.”

                   I tried again: “Is that what you went to school for? To be a chef?”

                  “Hyung,” answered Taemin, “if that were the case, do you think I’d be interning at your company?”

                  Right. Of course not. “Then I don’t get it. How are you so good at these things?” I decided to for some reason: “Unless you’re~”

                  The message was not lost on him. “That’s a funny way to typecast people, isn’t it? By their ability to prepare food?”

                  Taemin seemed a little upset; I suddenly felt a sense of guilt, mostly because I’d been so forward with him a few hours ago. He probably thought I was implying something for all the wrong reasons.

                  “Er, yeah. Guess it’s not really all that accurate. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never met one.”

                  “You probably meet them every day without realizing it.”               

                  I shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe. Hard to say.”

                  “That’s because there really isn’t much difference between them and everyone else.”

                  I decided to drop it but Taemin continued: “And anyway, my parents are on the older side, you know,” he said. “My mom had me in her mid-forties, if you can believe that.”

                  This was surprising, to say the least. “Oh? I didn’t know. So you take care of them?”

                  “I used to. Before my dad died.” He dropped his face here, obviously sad by the thought of his dad’s passing. “Then my mom—she went to go live with my aunt, her sister, in Busan. I don’t really see her much anymore.”

                  “That’s a shame.”

                  “Well, it’s for the best, I guess.”

                  “Is it?”

                  “It’s what she wants; what can I do? It’s what she wants…”

                  “She probably doesn’t want to burden you.”

                  “Hm… maybe.” He seemed distracted by his own thoughts.

                  “Well, you’re good at it.”

                  “Good at what, hyung?”

                  “At… er… taking care of people.”

                  He blushed a little, then quickly added: “It’s not necessarily rocket science either.”

                  Now or never, I thought. Just say it and get it over with…

                  “Taemin-ah—”

                  “Yeah?”

                  “I really am sorry for… what happened earlier.” Finally I saw that smile of his return again, which made my a little more at ease. “I don’t know why I did that—it’s really not like me to be reckless…”  I realized the irony of my words as soon as they left my mouth, then noted the unrestrained pitch of Taem’s laughter after he’d come to the same conclusion: of course I was a reckless person. I was nothing but reckless.

                  “Don’t worry, hyung. We all do things we can’t necessarily explain.”

                  This piqued my interest. “Yeah? Even you?”

                  Like a kid caught in a lie, Taemin’s face fell bright red. “Well, sure—I mean… I guess I like to watch people.”

                  “Watch people what? Oh, you mean, like, have ? ~”

                  “What—no! Hyung!” His face was fully aflame now. He was not like a typical guy to me, more than ever in that moment he seemed like a frail and innocent little boy. Which was just really ing weird, considering I knew damn well that he was less than a decade younger than me.

                  I wonder if he’s a , I suddenly realize. But I didn’t dare ask him. I didn’t want to embarrass him with this overly personal question.

                  “So… like what then?”

                  “Like—you know, if you have a crush on someone? That kind of thing.”

                  “Like a stalker,” I reply flatly, not thinking on it long.

                  “No, not stalking. Admiring. Caring.”

                  “That sounds like a line some ert would feed to the police after getting caught,” I laugh.                      

                  Taemin was not laughing with me though. In fact, he was frowning for the first time. “I’m not… I’m not a ert. Or a stalker.”

                  “Okay, okay. Relax. Wasn’t trying to insult you.”

                  He still seemed lost in his own mind. “Didn’t you—didn’t you feel that way about her?” he asked, his voice slightly trembling. I could tell he was nervous about asking it; this was a side of him I had not yet seen. “Didn’t you just want to be with her all the time, even if she didn’t know you were there? Even if she didn’t know you existed…?”

                  I cleared my throat and put my utensils down. I really didn’t want to talk more on this than needed. “Thanks for dinner, Taemin.”  

                  “I’m sorry—I’m not trying to be insensitive.”

                  “Then stop talking.”

                  There was an uncomfortable silent pause between us. I really didn’t have a strong desire to leave the table, no matter how I tried to make it look like I did. I liked being around him for some reason, even though he pissed me off at times. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?” I redirected once again.

                  “No.”

                  “Never?”

                  “Not really. Once, in elementary school, I thought I liked a girl enough to want to date her.”

                  Jesus, maybe he is a . I was starting to feel even worse about my ‘attack’ on him than before.

                  “Dating in grade school~” I chuckled. “What’s your ideal type then? What kind of girls do you go for?”

                  “No offense, hyung, but you ask a lot about my love life, especially for a disinterested third party.”

                  Yeah, I guess I do. But only because I feel bad—

                  He continued: “I dunno… tall, lean, nice hair, round lips—”

                  “You just described me,” I laughed.

                  “Lots of people fit that description,” he quickly added. “Even your wife—”

                  Why did he keep coming back to her in the conversation? It made me mad and curious at the same time. “How would you know?”

                  “Pictures, hyung. You have them all over the wall.”

                  “You’re tall and lean and have nice hair and lips,” I redirect once again. “So, in a way, you’re your own ideal type.” We both laughed a bit here. “So, aside from admiring, what other sorts of hobbies do you have?”

                  “You mean, besides taking care of overly-inquisitive suicidal people?”

                  “I figure babysitting grown men isn’t something you do often.”

                  He shrugged. “It’s not such a bad gig.”

                  “I hope you’re getting paid well for it at least.”

                  “I am.”

                  “Then what? Like, what are your future plans? Goals? Ambitions?”

                  Wow, I must have been feeling super ing guilty for earlier… I never talked or cared this much.

                  “One day at a time—that’s my motto. You have to just learn to enjoy the day you’re in, because tomorrow can always change the course of your life…”             

                  “So… you don’t have any plans for your future? Didn’t you just graduate? Not very smart, if you ask me. You can’t be an intern forever.”

                  “It’s just a means to an end.”

                  “What does that mean exactly?”

                  “It serves its purpose for now. But I’m open to new things.”

                  “I can’t tell if you’re a man or a child when you talk,” I say. “You’re confusing.”

                  This only made him snicker, as if it amused him. “Hyung, what do you think of me?”

                   It really didn’t occur to me for quite some time later that many of the things I said to him that night at the table could easily constitute as flirting. I didn’t consider it because he was so easy to talk to; the words just flowed naturally and without pretense. I enjoyed egging him on, easing more and more information from him in order to get to know him a little bit more. I felt as if we were beginning to dive into new territory. I was finally comfortable (somewhat) in being this way with him—honest and open, if for just a moment. I felt like I owed it to him after what I did. I felt like… anything he asked for, I owed it to him.

                   “You strike me as a person who has a lot of secrets,” I honestly answer. “You’re seemingly simple but actually very complex—that is what I think.”

                  “That’s it?”

                  “Are you looking for something specific?”

                  “No…”

                  “What do you think about me?”

                  As if I don’t already know…

                  “You? Hm…” he was pondering over the question a little too long. “Lonely. Dangerous. Melancholy. Misunderstood—”

                  Sure, it was true but it still was disappointing to hear.

                  “I also think… you’re a nice person.”

                  This I did not expect. To my surprise, he kept going: “Loyal. Protective. Charismatic. Sentimental…”     

                  “Oh? I did better than I thought I would. You forgot handsome though~”

                  What the was I doing? Why was I still teasing him like we were kids on the playground? Something about him made me want to talk this way, but I never considered it anything other than just fun and games. I didn’t mean anything by it. Not really…

                   “Well, you said yourself that you fit my ideal type,” he shrugged. “So I would obviously think you a nice-looking person by default.”

                  “Default!” I grinned. “I don’t like mercy wins.”

                   “Your whole life is like a game, isn’t it? You seem like a very competitive person—definitely a perfectionist.”

                  “I just like to be the best at everything, is all.”

                  Even when there’s no reason for it…

                  “Ah~ you don't like to lose at anything, that's  clear."

                  "And you—" I start again, "you seem to like extreme things. They don’t scare you.”

                  “Why do you say that?”

                  “You didn’t even react when you saw a person trying to hang himself right in front of you—”      

                  “I figured if it was the only thing that would make you at peace, then it was worth it.”

                  “You’re so strange…”

                  “But I knew you wouldn’t. I knew that there were other things that could make you feel that way.”

                  “Why?”

                  “Because she would never want you to end that way…”

                  “You wouldn’t know. You didn’t know her—”

                  “No one would ever want that for someone they loved. That’s what I know.”

                  My heart is racing. I don’t know why. I don’t know what to do with all these emotions.

                  “This is the first time we’ve really talked, you and I,” I say instead.

                  “You should talk about her.”

                  “Who? My wife?”

                  He didn’t necessarily answer or gesture either way. “To someone…”

                  I didn’t want to be upset with him. I really, really didn’t. “Look, you’re a nice kid, Taemin, but stay out of it—”

                  “Don’t you want someone to talk to? Someone who will listen to everything—someone who will understand…?”

                  “Oh—and you think that’s you?” I snapped. “You think you could possibly understand me?”

                  He was quiet now.

                  “I’m going to bed,” I hastily inserted as I got up from the table. “Don’t bother me.”

                  Still quiet. I waited for him to object. But he didn't. Even as I walked out of the room and heard his lingering sigh, he didn't say a word to stop me.

                 We all have secrets.

                 All of us…

_________

A/N: Sorry it's been awhile since my last update. I've been working a lot on my new OC fic "Seducing Mrs. Choi," but am working on finalizing chapters for this story soon, as it was never meant to be long. The topic seemed fitting this week; I lost a friend to suicide on Thursday. The shock of something like that is never something you expect. I wasn't terribly close to him, but more to his wife and now I have had to watch her grieve which is just hard to watch (esp because they have three kids). Suicide is just never a good answer, okay? We all feel the urge but it's never a resolution; it leaves so much heartache for those left behind. :(

At any rate, this is the longest conversation 2min has had so far and it has revealed many things, even if they are not fully aware of each other's revelations yet. Minho's come a long way, I think; Taemin's now wrestling with his own demons of sorts but is trying to go about it the best way possible.

I can't f*ing wait for Jonghyun's comeback on M! Countdown (5/23). OT5... it's been so long. I'm already teary-eyed~~~

<3UM