Kyungsoo flinches as he feels the warmth fade away from the palm of his hands.

The empty spaces between his fingers swallow him whole. And Kyungsoo finds himself slightly bewildered from the absence of touch.

And flesh.

And skin.

And the creases of another woman’s palms.

He finds it rather depressing, really– a repetitive loop of love letters, sad poems, and the never-ending smile from a distance.

Kyungsoo’s eyes are wide with pain and grief as he watches her hips sway. But no, he does not feel guilt.

Only the stretch of self-pity and constant apologies to himself.

Why?

Why him?

Why does he have to put himself through useless and monotonous strings of relationships?

A hand through his tangled mess of hair, a small hint of regret– no, relief– and a large breath that he has been holding in for too long.

Kyungsoo sighs.

Number four.  Gone.

~~~

Kyungsoo smiles bitterly as he watches her face contort with pain, and then, anger.

A hard slap across his cheek.

And then, the tingling sensation of a relentless throbbing.

Kyungsoo’s half-hearted explanations and carefully thought-out speeches– a vain attempt at fixing wounds that he will eventually cause.

A huff, a sharp turn, the clicking of pointed heels against marble surface.

The distorted sounds of a betrayed girlfriend– they merge into one jumbled clutter of familiar reaction.

And he finds himself strangely comforted by those melodies.

Kyungsoo walks away.

Number seven.  Gone.

~~~

Kyungsoo closes his eyes as she tugs at his arm.

He had a feeling this would come.

And he wonders, for a brief moment, why everything seems to be coloured out of place.

He wonders why the faces in front of him seem to blur past in a whoosh of forgotten features.

He wonders why his hours have been reduced to the obsessive planning of destructive and torturous break ups.

But he’s not a cruel person, is he?

A heartless man, probably.

Then again, in this pointless game of society, isn’t every human an ignorant player?

Doesn’t he deserve the right to at least pretend to fit in?

Kyungsoo feels the sore and aching lump at his throat.

Number eleven. Gone.

 ~~~

Kyungsoo’s eyes twinkle as they squeeze together in tiny crescents.

This one is different.

She speaks with a soft, airy voice like cotton. And her locks sit in flawless curls above her collarbones.

Kyungsoo has long since forgotten what it’s like to laugh.

But here he is, now, in a run-down studio apartment with no bed, no chairs, and no table.

Only the flickering lamp like a hovering firefly, and the peeling wallpapers that have faded from their bright colour.

And Kyungsoo hates himself for what he is about to do next.

Because she isn’t the one.

Inhale.

Breathe.

Close your eyes.

Kyungsoo prepares his long long speech.

Number thirteen. Gone.

~~~

Sometimes, the devil exists in the dustiest corners of heaven.

And as he sits and grows, he wonders if he really belongs to such a beautiful wonderland.

He’ll cough and splutter and vomit and cry.

But he will never find his wings.

Because he doesn’t believe in his own existence.

He is lost.

Sometimes, the devil exists in the dustiest corners of people.

And as he sits and grows, he wonders if he really belongs to such a beautiful body.

He’ll lie and hurt and stab and kill.

But he will never find himself.

Because he doesn’t believe in his own soul.

He is blind.

Just like how Kyungsoo is blind.

And how counting is too tiring when the numbers get bigger.

So, he decides to start at number zero again.

~~~

Kyungsoo finds it incredibly difficult to recall the last time he cried.

Yet, it is unusually simple for the tears to form at the rims of his eyes.

And gradually, they start to fall.

But the beauty of it all… is that Kyungsoo doesn’t realise it.

Number one. Gone.

~~~

Kyungsoo can’t remember, but he has lost track of his relationships.

And his elaborate plans have deteriorated into faded footsteps in the background, and untraceable cellphone numbers.

His tracks slowly disappear into nothing.

It’s easier this way.

He doesn’t have to hurt anyone.

Number three. Number four. Number five. Gone.

~~~

Kyungsoo flinches as he feels the warmth fade away from the palm of his hands.

The empty spaces between his fingers swallow him whole. And Kyungsoo finds himself slightly bewildered from the absence of touch.

And flesh.

And skin.

And the creases of another woman’s palms.

No, it’s not the creases of another woman’s palms that he is yearning so desperately for.

This time, his want morphs into an undying desire to feel the soft flesh of the man in the far-away end.

Kyungsoo feels the loud, burning palpitations of his heart.

And the small thread of hope echoing across his bones.

He feels his lips curl upwards in the most unfamiliar way possible.

And maybe, God has been forgiving all along.

Because Kyungsoo finds himself strangely attracted to this male in the corner of an old coffee shop.

Or maybe Kyungsoo is imagining things and this is all just a dream.

Number six. Perhaps.

~~~

Days go by and Kyungsoo sees to it that he visits the coffee shop every evening– in a stupid attempt to catch the attention of a quiet visitor.

He finds the man’s face a curse upon all men in humanity– a cast away expression of no emotion, a simple stretch of worn-out muscles, and Kyungsoo is falling deeper into this man’s trap of seduction.

Inhuman features carved out in flawless perfection. The smooth curve of his signature smirk.

Kyungsoo prefers to sit and stare at the stranger’s silhouette. No talking needed, just silent observations.

Number six. Maybe.

Possibly.

~~~

But all silence will eventually morph into small talking.

And small talking will morph into light laughter.

And light laughter will morph into sharing a cigarette on top of a balcony– a lighter in one hand and your lover’s palm in the other.

Soon, Kyungsoo will find himself loving more than he has ever loved.

Broken promises, and interlocked pinky fingers.

Cuddling under the blankets, and rocking the bed in a sensual rhythm of togetherness.

Trips to the shopping mall, and ripping sweaty clothing apart.

Soft dancing of the fingertips on the other’s skin, and sharp jerks of crescendos on slippery dance floors.

Sweet kisses, and the dulcet scent of lovemaking.

Hesitant singing, and loud choruses that reverberate from the dark depths of his voice.

Kyungsoo has learnt more than he could ever have asked for.

About his undiscovered talent for constructing melodies at the edges of his chapped lips.

About this strange man in the corner of an old coffee shop.

About his lifelong passion for music.

Best of all, Kyungsoo doesn’t find himself worrying anymore.

Because, with this man, there is no future to worry about.

There is no past to dwell on.

Only the endless row of todays, with the occasional battle of light versus dark.

The moving seconds on a broken clock.

The thumping of his lover’s heart.

The staggered breaths that resonate beneath his skin and bone and muscle.

The nose-to-nose and forehead-to-forehead of sleepless nights.

Jongin.                           

Kyungsoo has learnt that this stranger’s name is Jongin.

But he prefers to call him Kai.

Because the word falls effortlessly across his tongue, and forms smooth kisses on the nape of his neck.

“Kai.”

Number– No, Kyungsoo doesn’t want to count anymore.

~~~