It's 2 A.M and I'm thinking of you again. I'm remembering your warmth and missing it too. My hand feels empty without yours in it. The way when we curled into each other, we fit like puzzle pieces, I miss that and so much more. Red luminous numbers mock me just as brutally as the dates on the calendar.

 

The bed is cold. Even with the heater on, the room is freezing. Nothing helps. You took all the warmth with you. No, you were the warmth. And you took yourself with you, you ran away, leaving me with frostbite in my heart.

 

It's ironic. The early mornings, just after midnight and before dawn, used to be my favorite time of day. Because when you used to burry your face in between my shoulder blades, pressing your cold toes against my legs, and talk in your sleep were things you did right about now. Sometimes you'd wake up and then we would talk about what we had planned for thy day, what we should make for breakfast, our friends, our future.  I dread the A.M, and the P.M; I dread the time without you. 

 

We fought that night around 2 A.M . That's the true reason why I hate this time. Maybe if I hadn't had come home then, perhaps at 3 A.M instead, you'd still be here and we would be taking about chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. But I suppose it was inevitable. You left at 4 A.M after hours of screaming and crying and bitterness. You never looked back.

 

I wonder of you press up against his back smelling of vanilla and cinnamon, burying your face in his shoulder blades. You dreamt of warm beaches the last night we were together, and you mumbled about how bright the sun was against my back. I listened the whole night until your voice lulled me to sleep. Do you do that with him? 

 

It's 2 a.m and I'm drowning in my sorrows again. I'm forever waiting for your return, so the clock keeps ticking.

 

--

 

It's 4 a.m and he's telling me about tours chaînés déboulés and pirouette à la seconde and other moves he successfully completed at practice. We're lying in our bed, looking out the grimy window into nothing special, just a brick wall of the neighboring apartment complex. He smells like Sehun's cologne; he doesn't say anything about this. But I know everything. I listen to him ramble on despite the churning in my stomach.

 

It's been almost six months now. Even with no calendars in the house, I know this. I've been counting the days for some reason. Perhaps I do regret it, regret leaving with you, so that's why I count every minute and every second being with him rather than you. 

 

But he's persistent. He's greedy. Sehun and I are both his. But he is not mine, nor is he Sehun's. He's selfish. One is not enough for him; he needs to break two hearts.

 

His arms wrap around me, and my face meets his chest. Sehun, all I smell is Sehun. But I'm not jealous like Jongin wants me to be. I can faintly smell his scent; cherry bark and musk. A contradiction to your soft, sweet sandal wood fragrance that I remember too well. 

 

He's beautiful. The slight curve in his full lips, the gleam in his eyes, the way he combs his fingers through my hair as he talks mindlessly about his aspirations. He talks about our future together; I don't believe it. How could I?

 

You always talked about getting married in the winter under snow covered trees. It would be a small wedding with just you and I and a selective group of friends. After that, we'd honeymoon in China where Yifan would lend us his summer house. After our five year anniversary, when you were twenty-seven and me twenty-six, we'd adopt a child, preferably a boy. We'd be happy and healthy together.

 

Why did I have to go and ruin that?

 

Perhaps Jongin and I aren't so different. My selfishness is what tore you and I apart. With all my heart I loved you, love you. But Jongin was something foreign, something exotic and provocative and I thought I needed someone like him as well. You screamed, I screamed, tears were shed and in the end, I couldn't mend the broken bonds and left in a hurry without so much as a goodbye; I wonder if you miss me.

 

Jongin places a kiss on the top I my head before rolling over and falling asleep. It's 5 a.m and I'm tempted to run back to you.

 

---

They wake up. Baekhyun drives to his mundane job at his office. Kyungsoo waits at the bus stop for a lift to the cafe where he works part time. 

 

They cross paths. Baekhyun pulls to a stop at the red light in front of the bus stop. Kyungsoo is preoccupied with his MP3 player and Baekhyun is messing with the radio. Red, red, red; the bus pulls up behind the line of cars. Kyungsoo finally glances up and blinks, never looking at the sleek black car as he trudges up the metal steps of the bus. 

 

But Baekhyun does. Just out of the corner of his eye he watches, subconsciously digging his fingernails into the righ leather of the steering wheel to keep himself from throwing himself out of his car and dragging Kyungsoo home. Their home. Only when the cars blare their horns does he notice the light turned green. Because of the ruckus, Kyungsoo loos up, and their eyes connect. Confusion, recognition, pain, guilt, love; Baekhyun was always fascinated by  how Kyungsoo's eyes displayed every emotion he felt. But now, gazes connected by unspoken need, he despises the beautiful auburn orbs because they're slowly lulling him back, reeling him in like he was a helpless fish. 

 

Even though it was a few split seconds, it felt like an eternity. With a shaky breath, Baekhyun slowly turned back to the road and pressed on his gas pedal, lurching forward towards his priorities. Coils of regret and pain slithered up his spin, wormed their way into his heart, despite him trying to brush them away. 

 

From his rear view mirror, he can still see Kyungsoo's hauntingly beautiful eyes gazing after him.