Hoya knocks on the door and walks in. Sunlight skims the top of the window, landing in neat squares on the floor. The curtains are pulled around Dongwoo’s bed, and Hoya hears faint snores coming from behind them.

            He replaces the water for Dongwoo’s flowers, quietly setting each vase back in its spot on the counter. He then grabs the usual stool, parts the curtains, and sets himself down next to Dongwoo’s bed.

            The white sheets are crinkled and tousled around him, but Dongwoo sleeps like a baby, although the dye coming out of his hair simultaneously makes him look like he’s turning gray. His head is tilted to the side, facing Hoya, and although the skin around his eyes is dark and sunken, he looks relaxed. His face is smooth and his snores are steady, as consistent as the waves in an ocean, rolling in and then drawing out. It’s comforting to hear, it could probably be used in one of those sound reels of “relaxing noises,” that help people to sleep. Hoya’s personal lullaby, though, happens to be hip hop music, loud and fast, blared into his ears by a set of purple headphones.

            Against the white sheets, Hoya can already tell that Dongwoo’s arms are more pale than before, the skin lying loosely under his bones rather than filled by muscle. His hands have always been somewhat slender, and Hoya looks at the long expressive fingers of his left hand which loosely cradles something… that small black button, and a bony thumb rests on top of it.

            He looks up from the button and stares straight ahead at the yellowing curtain on the other side of Dongwoo’s bed as a sudden inexplicable feeling of dread rises in his chest. He suddenly feels the overwhelming need to shake Dongwoo awake, to ask him if he pressed the button, but he sits absolutely still, his face is fully composed. After all there’s no need for that, he already knows.

            Dongwoo awakes with a low groan, and the first thing he sees is Hoya’s face, with that same hard, blank stare that he’s gotten so used to lately. Immediately, he feels guilty, and he tries to shift his left hand away from the black button, and that only confirms what Hoya already knows.

            “You did it,” he says.

            After a long silence

 “I’m sorry, Hoya.”

            There’s a sharp rap on the door and the doctor walks in. Dongwoo continues to look down, quietly answering Dr. Park’s questions.

            “Can he go home today?” Hoya asks.

            The doctor hmmms for a bit.

            “Well, I wouldn’t recommend it, but it’s really up to the patient at this point.” He looks over at Dongwoo with raised eyebrows.

            Dongwoo feels like throwing up with guilt. He wants to make it up to Hoya, he really does. But…

            “No, not today,” he says. He remembers the pain from last night in the burn of his stitches and the soreness of his stomach.

            “Not today, then” the doctor says, turning to Hoya. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he tells Dongwoo, before turning and walking out.

            “You know, if you came home, we could take care of you well. I would run to the pharmacy if you needed medication or anything-“

            “Not today, Hoya.”

            “Tomorrow, then?”

            “Yeah, maybe.”

            “I’ll drop by tomorrow, then.” Hoya picks up his bag and, brushing aside the plastic curtain, leaves.

            Dongwoo stares resolutely at the curtain when Hoya leaves.

            There’s a quick rap on the door, and Dongwoo forces himself to sit up, biting his lip. When Dr. Park walks in this time, he’s able to face him properly.

            “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to discuss this in front of your friend. I’d like to talk with you about your treatment,” Dr. Park says, taking a seat next to Dongwoo’s bed.

            Dongwoo nods.

            “We removed the tumor from your liver, but in order to truly eradicate the cancer we will be moving on to radiation and chemotherapy.”

            Dongwoo shifts nervously. His arm brushes against his hospital gown, just above his stitches.

            “So, the surgery wasn’t the main treatment,” he says.

            “No.” Dr. Park responds. “In your case, removing the tumor treats a symptom, but not the cause. In liver cancer, after a tumor is removed, there’s a tendency for more to pop up in its place. There’s evidence that your tumor has metastasized, so we also need to anticipate tumors showing up in other areas as well, especially the lungs.”

            Dongwoo imagines the black thing from last night, laying its eggs in his rotting liver. He feels sick to the stomach.

            “How does the therapy work?” He asks.

            “We’re essentially using radiation and chemicals to kill the cancer cells in your body. Unfortunately, healthy cells are affected as well, leading to side effects such as inflammation, exhaustion, and hair loss. The treatment plan I would suggest for you would have you coming in about once a day.”

            “For how long?”

            “It’s hard to tell. We’ll have to see how your body reacts to it. At least two weeks for the radiation therapy, and probably a follow up of about a year of chemotherapy.”

            “Will I be able to work during that time?” he asks.

            The doctor rubs his upper lip.

            “You’re a… singer, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “Not for a while, definitely not during radiation therapy, at least. We’ll have to see. Different people react differently to chemotherapy.”

            “How much time do you think I have left?” He asks.

            The doctor responds quickly, as if he’s used to getting that question, and used to giving the same response. “We don’t know enough to offer an accurate prognosis.”

            “Just give me your best estimate.”

            “I’m sorry, I can’t. There are too many variables involved. You could live for a some months or years.”

            Some months. And suddenly something Dongwoo had thought was unthinkable, impossible, not even worth considering: death, is on the table.

            Dongwoo finds himself in a landscape faintly illuminated by a pale moon far above, which moves across the sky slowly, like the hour hand of a clock. He’s standing at the edge of an abyss, and abyss so dark that even the doctor that’s supposed to have all the answers can’t illuminate it for him, and the shady moon above doesn’t stand a chance. Echoing in the darkness is the steady tick of a clock. It’s so familiar to Dongwoo that it takes him a while to recognize it. It’s always been there, inside him, powering the rhythms he created in rapping, dancing, and on the patica. Only now, though, does he feel each tick’s weight, because now he realizes that the clock is counting down. The ticks fall from the space around him, their sound coalescing into a rushing river, urging his feet closer to the edge.

            Dongwoo braces his legs against the current, but his body is already much weaker than it used to be. He manages to stay standing, though, with his feet bent and spread apart. Looking into the chasm before him, he notices a glimmer far down, the slight distortion of a pool of clear fluid which fills the bottom depths of the abyss. He knows that the final click will send him falling into the void, and then into that pool.

            Dr. Park’s heavy hand on his patient’s shoulder as he stands to leave brings Dongwoo back to reality.  He looks up at the doctor.

            “About my friend. Don’t worry about him from now on, you can tell him what you tell me.”

            The doctor nods and leaves. Dongwoo reaches down and slides his laptop out of his backpack.