He wrote down the pros and cons about it.

Then what he liked and didn't like about it.

Then what he wanted and didn't want from it.

And in the end, he ended up writing "I hate everything."

Minho secluded himself in his room every day, distancing himself from his friends; from everyone. The more often he was around people, the antsier he became to start screaming out his frustrations.

He spent more time trying to figure out who he was rather than studying. His grades were starting to suffer, but his father couldn't even be suspicious; seeing Minho was always home 'studying'. His father mentioned tutor after tutor, but Minho only had one in mind.

And then Minho would throw the crumpled paper of the name into the trash.

He didn't understand one bit. He didn't want Jinki, but then he did. It and off constantly, and Minho couldn't figure out how to stop the flickering light.

When he'd think about Jinki, he'd smile, feeling like the happiest child in the world; but then his mind, his body, would feel repulsive of the thoughts. Although he couldn't pinpoint if the repulsion was from the thoughts of Jinki was gross and unnatural or the repulsion was from himself and how he could think these things, unable to accept it.

Minho crumpled a blank piece of paper and threw it somewhere. He could feel his face red with anger, yet his emotions were in another corner, forcing him to cry and beat himself up about it.

He wanted Jinki . . . desperately. He could put up with everything and hold his hand; he so desperately wanted it. But his body kept telling him that's not what he wanted; that he wanted lonliness; that he wanted to keep to himself because that's what he was used to and to change that would mess everything up.

Minho wanted to be open-minded (he thought he was) and move forward, but he himself, not his father, was the one proving he couldn't be. He wanted to stay in the same place, freeze time, and cease from moving.

He dropped his pen and leaned on his hand, watching each meaningful tear drop to his desk; trying to escape the sullen feeling source and give Minho less meaning.

Minho just couldn't feel like he was in control of his own wants; his own feelings. This dominant sense of wanting to stay by himself, get through school, and stay on his father's good side has been in his life for fifteen years. Changing that was as hard as dealing with the loss of a loved one. It just never truly goes away, yet, it's treated like it never happened down the road.

Maybe Minho is his own lost one.

Maybe he was born to be that way.

Just at the thought, Minho's mouth screwed down, the hysteria crawling up his throat and by then, he couldn't stop and calm himself down. Trying to change, trying to accept, trying to move on. . . it just felt like gravity trying to bury him alive.

Why couldn't he live averagely; like everyone else? Was figuring himself out that difficult? Why couldn't he live to be used to change?

Where was his light at the end of the tunnel?

The tunnel seemed to stretch longer and longer; splitting in different directions and Minho had his feet planted in one spot, not taking any step further.

He didn't know how to handle himself; he was a crying mess, trying to stop himself from evaluating everything; to stop caring. But each time he wiped his eyes, he thought about it harder.

  "Why can't I just live?" he whispered, laying his head on the flooded desk top, "Why can't I just go on?"

He laid in the puddle, the waterfalls falling from his cheeks, unable to even put effort into breathing.

Minho was just all lost in his mind and he couldn't escape it. He didn't know how much longer it would take for him to go insane.

He wanted to blame his father for all of it because that was who raised him. Raised him to be broken, confused, and distant with himself. His father was the source of his problems, yet, he couldn't accept that either.

Was it that woman?

Was she the influence?

Or did that go back to his father, the reason for the lack of her presence?

Minho slammed his hand in the puddle again, crying, "Stop it. Stop it, please."

But how could he avoid the thing he's lived with all his life? It was like trying to avoid the next sunrise.

So he kept still there for a whole hour, wallowing in depression, again, unmotivated to try studying.

When the knock of death hit the door, Minho sniffed hard and shot up, throwing stacks of paper on top of the puddle before placing his math homework on top, wiping away his eyes to at least clear up the evidence of his emotional outburts.

  "Minho?"

Minho held his pencil with hostility, refusing to look his father in the eye as he entered his room, "Yeah?"

  "I wanted to ask . . . Um," his father went quite for a moment, "Um . . . are you alright, son?"

Minho stopped himself from sniffing, erasing a part of his math notes just to rewrite it down, "I'm fine, why?"

He could hear his father was just hanging on to his door, awkwardly standing there. If he could just go away, please.

  "Not only your grades are dropping," his father lightly put it, "But. . . you seem really angry or upset, lately. Usually, you know, I'd be beating you down on this because, well, I expect so much more from you, Minho."

Minho cringed, clenching his jaw. Thanks for letting me know.

  "But, well," he could hear his father slowly inching in, making Minho cringe from each creaky step, "I've never seen you so . . . different before. I mean, trust me, from raising you every day, I've seen things come and go. But for a whole month now you've been doing the same routine. You don't go out anymore, and you study like crazy in here, yet you're not doing well," he could hear his father sit on his bed, "And I'm just left to wonder what is my son doing that's making him step off the path. What have you been thinking about?"

Minho gripped his pencil harder, causing it to break in half.

  "Minho?" his father urgently called.

Minho wanted to ask about his mother, wanted to ask how he felt if Minho tried dating a boy, wanted to ask if his father would beat him if he was deliberately avoiding schoolwork.

  "Nothing. Just stress," Minho sighed, grabbing another pencil, "Don't worry about it, I'll do better."

His father breathed, "Good. Good, alright. I guess, um . . . I'll leave you to it, son."

  "Thanks."

As soon as his father left, closing his door, Minho threw his pencil at it. When his father didn't come back from the suspicious noise, Minho just left his actual math homework blank. Instead, he slouched on to his bed and grabbed his pillow, letting the aftermath of his emotions pour on to the object. He was falling harder and harder and he just couldn't get up.

Why couldn't he just rise from the ground, already?

----Note~----

Hi.

It's been a while, MY BAD, OKAY.

But anyhow, here's Minho and his struggles. When I wrote this in my notebook, it looked like I wrote more, so I'm a little iffy with how it is on here. ._.

But anyway, Minho's struggle is a large one. Like I said previously, each character hold a part of me that I'm trying to share rather directly. So, you see this issue. xD

I can't really create a nice note today. I'm distracted by Pretty Woman. xD

(Excuse any mistakes)

So I'll see you next time!

I'm grateful to absolutely all of you! Thank you to the increasing views, subs, and wow, upvotes!

~FlaMinhoe