Logic and reason gradually slim into straight lines and meaningless curves of energy. The clock near the corner window seems to stare into the orbs of Chanyeol’s dead eyes, burning his insides with a chilling grip.

He tries to absorb everything within the few minutes that he has left—how the paint on the walls have succumbed to their ageing and limitations, turning into a grey slob of concrete. How the heavy indentations of childhood memories have carved themselves onto edges of the dusty wainscot—smeared print of childish scrawl now a mere whisper amongst the sea of forgotten drawings. The wooden planks have lost their ability to hold on, peeling from the floor in uneven strips of splinters and sharp ends.

And for a moment, Chanyeol is lost—lost in the moment of flawed perfection against an impure world. How is it that the most unlovable of features are the parts that he will miss the most? He walks across the room, to the remains of his broken and smudged window. The snow squeezes its way in between cracks and spaces, finding solace in his room—an awful façade to hide the emptiness of an austere surrounding.

Outside, the night is lined with uncertain lamplights, an incoherent spill of profanities, followed by the occasional punch of laughter. There is something promising and warm about the way each lamplight flickers in its own distinct harmony—a little like fireflies—with the kind of something that lingers just long enough between the creases of my palm. Chanyeol traces the hard wax of a melted candle that takes its place on the edge of his study table—with a close, shimmering form of perfection. Its permanent stain is marked with a lopsided smirk and an incessant ring of obstinacy.

He finds himself taking one last drag down the corridor of his youth—his life. There is a timeline of memories captured in between the cobwebs, blemishes, and recurring noises. They string themselves into long stretches of chance against truth. His fingers hover over the cracks of walls, which seem to encompass the entirety of his being in a snug fit.

Reality unravels within the vulnerability of his mind. It wraps around him like vines, strangling the very last remnants of his breath. Chanyeol remembers the promises that he has to keep; the bright spark that he will have to forsake. For there is no such thing as faith, trust, hope, love, dreams—nothing—only the brittle recollections of innocence and a senseless belief.

He grips the handle of his haversack and folds the sleeves of his green uniform.

~~~

Dreaming is the stabbing pain in Chanyeol’s once-jaunty heart.

Dreaming is the eerie warmth of his mother—who never fails to meet her son at the doorstep of their house, as he tugs at the laces of his thick and heavy boots.

Dreaming is the haunting linger of hugs and kisses, soft cries and a brave mumble, the feeling of loss and the pretense of hope. It is the vain muttering of, “be safe,” and, “come back soon, okay?”

But dreaming is also the carving of empty promises and cruel lies. For they both know what is to happen—what Chanyeol is to become—though neither dares to speak the truth. War creates monsters of people, and Chanyeol is no exception. The rifle will take its place in his hand; he will become a murderer. And his life will wither away, with the eventual escape of a harsh death.

Dreaming is an inevitable distance—a permanent loss of home and the ghostly remains of a now-broken boy.

~~~

Chanyeol’s mistake doesn’t lie in the harsh nature of growing up.

It lies within the trap of his dreams.

Because they have collapsed.

And he is left with nothing but the burden of truth and the crumpling of lies.

Chanyeol hates his dreams.

~~~