This place is a paradise only if you’re here.

She was well aware of her tiny, shaky, unstable breaths as she sat on the familiar, polished, wooden table. Maybe antiques were supposed to bring back memories, memories of a person she wanted to forget, but all she felt was a wave of calm sweep over her despite the occasional hitch in her breathing.

No more tears, no more hysteria - just a blank state of mind.

She got herself off the table, allowing herself to explore this house. Just a little more, just a little more, she whispered, as she let her heels stab the wooden floor, as though she was telling every inch of the house that she was leaving for good.

She could feel herself trembling slightly as she walked up the stairs (calm down, Jieun, calm down), her heels threatening to break anytime as she wobbled a little with every step she took.

A framed portrait hung prominently on the wall,  and a sharp intake of breath ensued as she felt a sudden chill run down her cheekbones. Something in her screamed at her to close her eyes or run away; instead, she extended her hand towards the cold representation of that equally cold person.

After all, cold exterior aside,  he was well and truly dead, lying in the cold for an eternity.

I must live, I must survive, cause I will stop some day.

His heart skipped a beat.

Or did it - scratch that, could it even beat?

He placed his hand over his chest - nope, that clearly would not work for him any longer - and gave a soundless sigh. It still hadn’t hit him that he had lost everything in a flash, which was ironic when he thought about how he died.

Myungsoo leant against the wall (used to be so cold in winters, now there was nothing colder than his own body) and watched intently as she struggled up the stairs. Weariness written all over her face, a loose strand of chestnut brown hair - was that smudged eyeliner near her left eye? - was this the same woman he had once so dearly treasured and loved? His heart ached (if there was one to begin with) to see her so frail and weak without him. His finger brushed against her cheekbones as she walked towards him, and for a moment there he thought he saw the light from the dusty windows shining like a halo above her - she was his angel, and he was certain that she was here to save him from the cold (yes he was shivering a little).

(She’s coming, Myungsoo, look at the way she pines for you, the way she longs for you as she touches the portrait - wait, what?)

They were side by side, once again. She with her fingers clasped around the edges of the portrait, he standing by her and watching as she touched a poor representation of his chiseled face, not knowing that he was just there, a few centimeters away.

(Look at me, Jieun. Why are you looking at that when I’m just here? Look at me. Pay attention to me the way I do to you.)

His ears buzzed with the sound of her breathing, his hand trying to hold on to her who remained still - everything about her consumed him, the way she always did. It overwhelmed him, yet he enjoyed every part about it, which was why -

He had refused to let her go.

I love you (I’m sure you do too) I won’t do it (you will do it)

She could feel his presence.

The way he would grab her dress, then her hand...it was all too familiar, and she knew that she must be hallucinating.

(He’s dead, Jieun. You killed him -)

She shook her head and gulped. She loved him. She did. He invited her here, made her feel comfortable and welcome. He was just a little persistent, a little stubborn, a little possessive, but he loved her. And so did she.

Their memories all kept in a sack (how did you even find it? He never did let you touch his belongings) as though waiting for her to take them and leave. A corner of the photo album stuck out from the opening of the sack, and she stuffed it back, choosing to ignore it, the same way she ignored the multiple photographs of her stuck on the wall of his room. He was an avid photographer, and she his subject, his muse.

She dragged it across the floor (are you too weak to even lift it up, or are you re enacting that scene) and struggled with it down the stairs. The weight became lighter, and lighter, and lighter, until she was sure that she must have dropped everything along the way.

Not that she cared. The last thing she wanted to do, after all, was to turn back.

I’m gonna hold you in a little longer, I’m gonna look at you a little more

Myungsoo wanted to grab her and stop her from taking all his things away, and stop her from leaving. It was a good attempt - he could take everything back (his camera, his DBSK albums, his photo album) but not her. Everything but her.

(Shout after her. Drag her back. Knock her unconscious.)

He was helpless. He could not imprison her once again in this empty hole of a house (who left the keys on the sofa?) with the door wide open, he could not keep her by his side.

(But Jieun, don’t you see that the world outside is dangerous, lonely and evil without me? Stay. I will be here with you, always.)

He ran after her, trying to envelop her in his arms that slipped away too easily. She moved on with such ease, refusing to even respond to his actions.

(Didn’t you stay with me because you loved me, Jieun? Why are you leaving now? How could you?)

Anxiety. Anger. Fear. Insecurity.

This was what kept him alive. Barely maybe, but still alive.

A sad paradise that you won’t go if you’re awake

She shouldn’t have stayed. Should have said no, should have refused, should have called the police -

(But you love him, don’t you Jieun? Entrapped by his beautiful words, his beautiful face, his oh-so-lovely treatment of you...)

There were no tears. All she knew now was to get out and pretend that nothing happened, that there was no Kim Myungsoo, to remember that she was still the same Nam Jieun who used to love a Kim Myungsoo...

Guilt, hatred, love. His love had kept him by her side, and hers had trapped her in hell forever.

(Hell? You mean paradise. A paradise that has locked you in against your own will.)

I can only watch you while holding my breath

(It’s cold.)

His eyes glazed over at her collapsed figure on the withered grass.

(I don’t know why we ended up like that, Jieun. I don’t even know whether you were the one who kept me, kept yourself here anymore.)

Everything was a blur. Maybe the dead wasn’t supposed to remember so much. He vaguely remembered her in his arms, her whispering for him to let her go, him locking her up -

Or was this the memory he had been fed with?

(How could I even think about the possibility of her trapping me here and brainwashing me I can’t - )

Even if I look shaky and dangerous

Diary entry (14 May 2012)

Kim Myungsoo, Kim Myungsoo.

Everyone says I need treatment. My psychiatrist is making me write this diary so that I can ‘recover’. I don’t even know what I’m sick with. I feel fine.

I don’t remember everything that happened two months ago - that period of time is a total blank slate to me, but this name keeps ringing in my head. I wonder why. When I mention this name to my psychiatrist or parents, they go into panic mode and attempt to distract me with random conversation

Someone yelled at me for being a murderer and burst into tears at my doorstep when I got home from seeing my psychologist. I don’t remember killing anyone. She claimed that I manipulated and locked her son away in a dilapidated house then killed him - where would I even find one? She said that I didn’t deserve her son’s love - who was her son?

Kim Myungsoo.

Maybe one day I’ll find out - maybe.