Days passed as ever, Hana's condition didn’t become better, though. Having met the leukemia sick boy, Luhan, didn’t help; it only made things worse than they had already been. The said boy seemed too content with life for Hana's liking. Occasionally, when the girl was walking through the hospital building, or being brought to the x-ray room for the routine examination for her elbow and shoulder, she would see him. And she'd unwillingly find herself watching him, as though waiting for the smile to leave his lips. But sadly, it always stayed. 

“Miss Jung, you're being brought into a different section of the hospital,” a nurse said, snapping the girl out of her thoughts, as she gently grabbed her arm. Hana looked up with a bland expression, but stood up nonetheless. She had nothing to lose anyway. Slowly, she followed the nurse, her eyes wandering over all the faces she walked past. It had been two days, since she last left her room, hadn't it? Hana wasn’t very sure. During the past few days, she hadn't been sure of anything. Hell, the past few months had been purest blurriness for her.

After a few minutes of walking through the corridors, her eyes caught something, or precisely someone, she didn’t want to see: Luhan.

Unconsciously, her gaze wandered to him and riveted on his face. Once again, a small smile was formed upon his lips, eyes as bright as crystals, contentment evident. He looked thinner than before, Hana noticed. But her thoughts drifted off to somewhere, when the nurse told her to fasten her pace. She stole one last glance at him before she turned away. Indeed, the smile never left his lips.

The girl entered the new room, her eyes wandering across it; and not even one second passed before she averted her gaze from the walls and looked at her hands. The room wasn’t special, decorated just like any other hospital room, white and boring, but one thing differentiated it from other rooms: a painting. There was a painting of several tulips, prettily framed, that hung on the wall, attempting to give the room a touch of comfortableness. It had the opposite effect on Hana, though, as it reminded her of what she wasn’t able to do anymore. As it brought back what she desperately tried to suppress. She reacted too fast for the nurses to realize what she was up to and grabbed the painting. Once she successfully unhung it, two nurses rushed to her side. “Miss Jung, what are you doing?” They asked, panic evident in their voices, and held out their hands, uncertain what to do. It wasn’t gratuitous that Jung Hana was being transferred to the mental wing of the hospital, so there was already the hint of caution in the nurses' actions regarding Hana's behavior.

The girl glanced at them, the look in her eyes dark and annoyed. “I don’t want to see this,” she said in a quiet voice and put the painting on the floor. The nurses frowned, but decided to take the painting with them, in case something serious would happen. Before they left, one of them turned to Hana. “Miss Jung, today you will have a session with this hospital's psychiatrist. He can help you,” she said in a reassuring voice. The girl cringed at how soft and soothing the voice sounded, especially when saying something like this. It had come this far. Hah! She thought, cocking her head. Jung Hana had to see a psychiatrist. Already having the next headlines of the newspaper in front of her inner-eye, she snorted.

19-year-old painter genius Jung Hana admitted into psychological care

A chuckle escaped her lips and she threw back her head. Fantastic, how life messed with her, isn’t it? First, it had been like a Cinderella story; from a middle-class-family with high debts to a young painter genius with money and fame. At that time Hana had actually believed that fate was being good to her, fortune was on her side. But with fame, came jealousy, came intrigues … then the accident. Wasn’t it cruel? Like saving your life, only to kill you afterwards. Slowly and painfully, at that. As though someone held out his hand to you while you're close to falling from an edge and you grab it, only to get strangled by that hand.

Hana ran a frustrated hand through her long hair, heaving a sigh. Maybe, she was even fit to be in this section of the hospital. She had never been normal anyway.

-

“Miss Jung, why are you refusing to talk?” The psychiatrist – Choi Myungsoo, a 47-year-old man with greying hair and a kind smile – asked in a soft voice. Oh, how she hated that voice of his, and it had only been ten minutes since the session started.

Hana her lower lip, but stayed quiet nonetheless. Mr. Choi sighed. “I'm not here to harm you. I want to help you,” he tried again, his voice still so soft and soothing. The girl cringed at the sound of it. Couldn’t he stop trying to make her feel as if there was nothing to be afraid of? Why did he have to use that faux reassuring voice? She hated the kind of reassuring voice. One that was so full of insincere sympathy. As if they actually cared. Why would she decide to trust this unfamiliar man who claimed to know her based on a short text about her, written in his document?

Some dull words on a computer screen could never explain Hana. He knew nothing about her, and she wasn’t going to enlighten him.

Half an hour passed with Hana quietly sitting on the chair and the psychiatrist trying to make her speak. “This session is not for me, my dear,” he gently said, although it was evident that his patience was close to snapping. “It's for you.”

He smiled at her. “If you want me to help you, you have to talk to me.”

With a jolt, Hana stood up. She exhaled angrily and shot the psychiatrist a glare. “I don’t want any hell,” she whispered sharply.

“Just because you read some psychology book, doesn’t mean you know how it looks like in my head,” she hissed and grabbed her hair. Slowly, the desperation was becoming more and more evident in her voice.

Mr. Choi gave her a smile that adults gave children wh