As he sits, cross-legged and squashed in his plane seat, Baekhyun begins to wonder how long he can actually keep this up—if travelling the world and collecting frames of his life are becoming distant memories of a past mistake (a hallucination, even).

There are no more intoxicating jolts of exhilaration, nor any enthusiasm in the familiar words of, “I’m a professional photographer, you know” —no more thrilling rush in seeing the world move before his very eyes.

His camera burns his fingers with a scalding linger of regret and guilt—even the homely trigger of a snapshot doesn’t bring him solace anymore.

And for the first time, Baekhyun wonders what it’s like to not see a single spark of light or beauty—or if darkness itself was another form of beauty.

He wonders what it’s like to not have to worry, to sit unmoving (beside the streets and under the lamplights), to bring his knees close to his chest and shiver in silence, to curl up during the winter (under scraps of retrieved warmth), to feel the darkness of both day and night.

To have nothing and everything all at once.

To be completely, absolutely still.

(And for the first time, Baekhyun wonders if it is possible to run after a new dream.

And if that dream still sat waiting behind a sign that read:

Spare change for the blind kid, anybody?)

❖