< prologue >

Here's the story I've never shared with anyone because I'm a selfish who wants to keep things to herself. Here's the story about a guy who has so many secrets and worries in his life you wouldn't want to listen to them all, even if you have all the time of the world. Here's the story about the same guy who is so helpless, so desperate it makes you want to cry like a baby, and you just want to avoid him for your whole life, but it's impossible because he is you in into his abyss of despair. Here's the story that makes me feel a bit special because they don't know about him, and I do. I'm selfish. That's probably the first thing you need to know about me.

< part one >

Every Friday afternoon, I would go to that high school a few blocks away because ours didn't have an art club. To all the questions as to why a high school doesn't have an art club, and all the accusations of taking students the creative part of studying away, I seriously don't know and yes, I agree. Let me just say, I went to a really, really lame high school.

The high school a few blocks away, though, had marbled floor and a very rich interior. It kinda reminded me of Hogwarts from the Harry Potter series. The steps looked old but very antique. You thought the ground under you would collapse if you jumped high enough. I tried it. Didn't work out.

I managed the stairs safely, walked further into the corridor, and turned right. The only light provided in this dark corner was the sun shining through the Baroque framed windows. I stopped for a while. Just to watch a few students on the school yard playing basketball. My eyes lingered on their tiny bodies for a few more seconds until my art teacher (with a real beard!) appeared and urged me to enter the art room.

The club would always start with us talking about something creative from the past week. For example, Myungsoo – the ridiculously handsome guy – had talked about his photography last Friday. How he'd found the perfect muse, and how he'd felt complete after having encountered the perfect model for his photography collection. He'd said things like, “She was the missing piece in my puzzle.” And his eyes would shine bright like my mom's diamonds. No song reference intended.

“Woohyun,” I heard the teacher (with the real beard!) call out, “what was your creative discovery for the week?” And he would stare at him through his thick framed glasses, that looked really hideous, and the student under his gaze would feel really uncomfortable and start to squirm in his seat because he looked too funny with his bright smile that was expecting too much from you.

“Um,” he said, looking like he was fumbling for a word to describe his creative discovery. After avoiding the teacher's eyes, he answered, “I found my old poetry book.”

“Interesting,” said the teacher, looking too enthusiastic for my liking. “Poetry has nothing to do with painting, but it's art nevertheless.” And then, he pushed the poor guy into bringing along the poetry book for next week. I wouldn't admit it, but I was just a tiny bit curious about his poems. You know, I'm a really competitive person, and I really hate the fact that some people are good at things I've never tried out before. In other words, if that guy was actually good at writing poems, I would start calling poetry my new hobby.

<;>

The week after that, Nam Woohyun had indeed brought his poetry book along. We were all sitting in that circle, which we usually made to listen to each others' creative discoveries from the past week, warming the seats with our butts besides Nam Woohyun, who was standing like a soldier while holding the thin booklet (It wasn't quite a book.) in his hands. I couldn't help but notice how he was wearing his V-necked shirt a bit too low, and you were almost able to see his s. (Relax, my prude girls. The word is a very commonly-used word. Or do you want me to call it mammary papillas? Ain't nobody got time for that.) In fact, you could see them perking up from his thin shirt.

“Um,” he cleared his throat, looking at our art teacher, “I'm not really good at that. It was just a phase in middle school.”

“That's all right. Just let your inner voice speak to us.”

I glanced at his ridiculously handsome friend then back to Nam Woohyun, who was slightly trembling for unjustified reasons. And after a few more sighs and grunts from the girls in our club, he began, “When all the lights go out / when the sun sets, and the moon says hi / when the night darkens the city, and you wonder why / when people go home / and they see their family, embrace their addiction / when the corners turn into monsters, and you hope it's just fiction.”

“A bit slower,” interjected our art teacher, enjoying this quite a bit.

Nam Woohyun drew a deep breath and started off from where he had been interrupted, “When kids listen to bedtime stories, feeling safe and sound / there's a flower out there that he had found.”

I waited for him to continue, but seconds passed, and he still hadn't opened his mouth yet. When there was this thick silence in which no one knew whether to applause or not, our teacher stood up and clapped his hands like a seal. “That was great, Woohyun. I really like how it just ended so abruptly.”

I couldn't quite share my dear teacher's sentiments, though. For me, a poem has to have some kind of closure. It wouldn't be a poem if it wasn't complete. I don't care if the protagonist dies in the next few pages. I just want some kind of closure. Or else, I'd forever be damned.

So this kind of a mentality got me to confront Nam Woohyun, after our teacher had properly wrapped up his lesson. (See, he knew how to save me some troublesome nights.)

“Lend me your book.”

And he stared at me while I was staring at his chest, that was quite openly displayed in front of my eyes so it honestly wasn't my fault. If two whole packages of chest and smooth skin were to be exposed in front of you, don't tell me you wouldn't look. Though, he didn't really seem to notice as he said, “The library is only open on Sundays.”

I suppressed a smile threatening to spread across my lips. “Where are you living?”

He gave me a strange look. “Shouldn't we get to know each other first?”

“You know my name, and I know yours. Done.”

It took him five seconds to realize I wasn't kidding before he asked his friend to give him a pen and a paper for his address. I was staring at his poetry booklet all along, hoping to be able to read its content by just staring long enough. It didn't work out. Not that I had believed it would.

He, then, gave me the piece of paper and said, “See you on Sunday.”

<;>

I was more than eager to read the ending of his poem, which he hadn't given a name yet. (Another thing that bothered me a lot.) It might seem like the abrupt last sentence was the ending, but I was convinced there was more to it. I was convinced that there was still a part with a proper closure. And so I waited patiently for him to open the doors.

What greeted me was the bright smile of a Nam Woohyun, who freshly came out from the shower. Small drops of water were clinging onto the strands of his hair before they fell to the ground. I looked up at him, smiling. “Lend me your book.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. “Easy, wild cat. Come in first.”

And so I entered the house that smelled awfully like Nam Woohyun. It was a well-known fact that people smelled like their home. Or their home smelled like them. Which made me wonder just how I smelled. Or how my home smelled. But before my brain could branch out into different topics, I turned to him. “Where's the book?”

“Upstairs,” he answered, disappearing into, what seemed like, the kitchen. “Do you want some tea or coffee?”

I shook my head, declining both offers, but he missed me answering him because he wasn't in the same room anymore. I allowed myself to look around, noticing the stack of books on the small cupboard next to the chimney. (They really had a chimney. How cool!) I was about to stand up to walk there, but Nam Woohyun reappeared with two cups of coffee through the door that probably led to the kitchen.

“Where are your parents?” I asked him to fill in the awkward silence between us, after he had motioned me to sit down.

He wrapped his hands around his mug, staring at the hot liquid. “Not at home.”

I felt this sudden urge to run away, because you never know what kind of ulterior motives are hidden behind words. I strongly believe you will only find darkness in people if you dig deep enough. He must have noticed my sudden lack of self-confidence because he started laughing at me.

“I'm not a creep. Don't worry.” He shook his head in amusement. “I'll bring the book. Wait here.”

Needless to say, I was really nervous because of two reasons. Firstly, I would finally be able to sleep peacefully after having read the ending of his poem. Secondly, I was nervous (as in scared) he might not bring the book back but a riffle. You really never know. Maybe he was some kind of serial killer whose ex girlfriend was an intelligent girl like me, and now he wanted to kill every girl that reminded him of her. I was honestly just waiting for the sign that always saved the girls' asses in the movies.

When he came back, there was no book nor a riffle in his hands. He walked into the living room, empty-handed, and so I asked him, “Where's the book?” Because I was really getting impatient. And he wasn't answering me. He wasn't even returning my gaze. His eyes were fixed on the doors instead. And after a few seconds, someone entered the house.

“Where were you?” I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the new visitor before meeting eyes with an older version of Nam Woohyun. He bowed at me, smiling slightly, before he returned his attention back to his younger self. “Her parents were waiting for you.”

“I had a visitor,” Nam Woohyun answered, stiff.

The older version looked back at me, showing me a smile that didn't reach his eyes. The next words, that escaped his lips, were directed to the other male in the room. “Apologize to them.” I saw him bowing at me again, saying, “Sorry for disturbing you two.” And then, he just disappeared around the corner.

Nam Woohyun was staring at his own feet for a while before he looked up back at me with his crooked smile. I felt this sudden guilt in my gut because for some reasons, it seemed like I was responsible for the tension between the brothers. (I assumed they were brothers.) So I asked, “Have I gotten you into trouble?”

And he answered, “No. Not at all.” But it still seemed wrong. And I knew something was wrong when he followed with the words, “But you need to leave, now. I'm sorry.”

And that was when I had decided to make Nam Woohyun my new hobby.

< part two >

He hadn't attended art club on Friday, which annoyed me more than it probably should. When the teacher was about to start the round of creative discoveries, I had purposely interrupted him to say, “Someone's missing.”

After having already felt embarrassed because of my otherwise not-so-perceptive observations, the teacher had answered, “Woohyun has called me this morning to excuse himself for today.”

It was annoying for two reasons. Firstly, it had seemed like I was head over heels in love with him which honestly wasn't the case. At. All. Secondly, I still wanted his poetry book, and it had looked like he was avoiding me. So the intelligent person I always am, I had walked to his ridiculously handsome friend after lesson to ask for his number.

Now, in my own room, I texted him.

You skipped art club.

Several seconds later, a reply came in.

Who are you?

I almost slapped my own forehead for not mentioning my name. He was probably thinking I was some kind of fan who stalked him whenever he took a shower. Shaking my head, I wildly pressed on the buttons of my phone.

The girl who is waiting for the library to open.

He responded just moments later.

Ah, Girl Who Is Waiting For The Library To Open. What's up?

I wrote back.

Still waiting for the book.

I was expecting him to ignore my text message because let's be honest, I was acting like some curious who was annoying as hell. In his stead, I would have cut off all the ties with me. But something I hadn't expected happened, instead. My phone started playing my ring tone.

Picking up, I said a bit too nervously, “What?”

A low chuckle erupted from the other end of the line. “I thought you wanted my book.”

“I do.”

“You can replace the word book with ity.” I felt my cheeks burning like fire, and I really wanted to throw my phone at the wall in front of me until he followed with, “I'm sorry. I was kidding. Don't hang up, yet. It was just a failed attempt to loosen up the mood.”

He seemed honest with his apology so I granted him one last chance. “When can I lend the book?”

“Is it so important to you? It's just a lame book from a 15-year-old middle schooler.”

“It is. I want to know how the poem ends.”

He was silent for a few seconds. “What if the poem doesn't have an ending?”

“I don't believe you. I'm convinced it has a proper closure. Even if it ends ugly, it'll be fine. Because telling the truth about life is better than lying and sugarcoating everything.” I answered, realizing how I was obsessing over it. The next words came out as a mumble, “Even if the poem itself was lame.”

He laughed for good ten seconds before saying, “I know. I actually can't write poems at all. But what do you expect from a middle schooler?”

I was looking at the blank wall in front of me, listening to his steady breathing. I didn't know what to say, and I didn't want to hang up, either. I was waiting for him to say something, but he didn't. And we just stayed like that for minutes, not saying a word to each other, until he decided to speak up.

“I'll see you next Friday.”

And I said, “Okay.”

And he followed with, “Bye.”

And then, he hung up.

<;>

A few weeks later, we were talking over the phone about the perks of staying at home when it was raining. The pitter-patter sound moved to the rhythm of my own heartbeat, whereas the dulled beat coming from his room acted against me.

“Can you pause the music?” I asked as politely as I could.

He excused himself, shortly before I heard him say something to his, I assumed, brother. Several seconds later, the music was put on a halt, and the rustling noises of him taking his phone back to his hand pestered my ear. “Okay, I'm back. I think, it's your turn to name a perk.”

“Right,” I prolonged the word to save some time because I still hadn't thought of an advantage yet while he had been busy stopping the music for me. The rules were, if one of us couldn't name a perk within five seconds, the other one would have a free wish he or she could use on Friday. I didn't want him to win because I really needed that wish. Of course, I hadn't stopped my obsession over the closure of his poem, yet. But for some reasons, it seemed like he was winning right now.

“Five, four, three, two, two, two.” I lost track of the amount of twos he had mentioned for the past few seconds. Chuckling, he urged me, “Com' on. It's not that difficult.”

“We've mentioned most of the perks already.” I complained, secretly searching for some info on the internet. I was cheating, but who cares?

“Laughing at umbrella-less people getting drenched,” he stated as if to prove me wrong.

“That's...”

“Cuddling.”

“We've said something similar before.”

“Reading poems to each other.” And he said that so yearningly, I wondered what kind of emotions he was hiding. In some ways, Nam Woohyun reminded me of the rain. It's the most disliked present from Mother Nature for people who like going outdoors, and every homebody's best friend. Like the rain, Nam Woohyun was someone you hated or liked. And I was leaning towards the latter.

“Say,” I started after we both had turned silent, only listening to the rain, “why have you started writing poems back in middle school? It's not exactly the most preferred hobby for pubescent boys.”

I heard him chuckle at my remark. “Trust me. I'm embarrassed by my young self, too.”

“Were you heartbroken? Were you dumped by a girl?” I had searched my brain for every possible reason that could explain why Nam Woohyun had started writing poems back in middle school. Everyone with two hemispheres of a brain should be able to notice that the flower he was talking about in his poem was just a symbol for a girl. His poem was already lame, honestly. It would be lamer not to have noticed the underlying meaning.

“What makes you think that?”

“Because guys don't write poems like yours. Not even when they are young and stupid.” I argued. “Also, you sounded pretty heartbroken in your poem. So, either you got dumped by your long-term crush, or she moved away.”

He laughed at the other end of the line. “It's neither of them.”

And I wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but I didn't.

<;>

On Thursday, my cousin, Sungyeol, came to visit me. He is a very tall and handsome guy, who knows how to get everything he wants by sugarcoating everything he says. This guy has also stolen the title as my favorite cousin in this whole universe. (That was the 8-year-old me talking!)

When he was in my room to, I quote, rummage through my things, he found my phone lying on the bed the moment Nam Woohyun had texted me. Reading the message's content, he perked an eyebrow at me. “Who is that?”

Feeling heat creeping onto my cheeks, I said, “A friend.”

“What kind of a friend would text you, 'Rain. Rain. Pitter-patter rain. Let's cuddle.'” Sungyeol asked, shocked. I used the chance to take back my phone, feeling embarrassed that my cousin had read the content.

“He is just joking. We always joke like that.” I defended myself, turning away.

Sungyeol was standing in the middle of my room, probably still thinking about my words. He was pursing his lips like a kid, reminding me of his younger brother. When he opened his mouth to speak, he said something I really didn't want to hear from him or anyone, “That was totally flirting.” Throwing a pillow at his direction, I ignored him and his words. He caught it with ease and plopped down on my bed. “But anyways, that name sounds familiar. Nam Woohyun... Nam. Woohyun...”

“You know almost everyone, and everyone knows you.” I rolled my eyes at him, rereading the text message Woohyun had sent me. It was true. My cousin, Sungyeol, was really popular among the kids in our town. In my class, most of the girls knew him as my tall and handsome family member. Though, I also heard a few people existed who actually hated him.

“Nam Woohyun...” he repeated as if he'd know the answer if he mentioned his name often enough. “Didn't he go to my middle school?”

I shrugged. “Could be true.”

Later that day, my mom told us to come down because dinner was ready. Sungyeol and I pushed each other like two immature grown-ups when we descended the stairs, laughing at our ridiculous selves. At the dinning table, my mom and my aunt threatened us with house cores if we continued joking around like that during the meal. Dad joined us a few seconds later, as he came back from work. He fist bumped with me.

My mom and my aunt were talking about their usual gossips (mostly concerning the neighbors) when I glanced at my cousin who seemed a bit uncomfortable. He wasn't even eating properly, and I assumed it was because his dad wasn't here. The thing is, his father died a few years ago in a car accident. Though, we all know it's just a cover up.

“Ah,” Sungyeol screamed all of a sudden, gaining everyone's attention, “I know it, now.”

I was about to stuff some rice into my mouth when he turned around, catching me looking like a blowfish. He was waiting for me to ask him, “What?”

With a proud smile that suddenly turned sorrowful as if he just remembered that his realization shouldn't actually make him so proud, he answered, “He was almost dating this girl who committed suicide back in 2009.”

And I wasn't really sure whom he was referring to.

<;>

It was a late afternoon when Nam Woohyun called me on my phone. My parents weren't at home so I didn't have to go to my own room to pick up his call. When the clanking noises of the washing machine disappeared into the background, I heard him ask, “What are you doing, right now?”

“Thinking about you,” I answered.

He seemed quite amused by my response. “Care to share?”

And so I began to demand from him much more than he probably could give. But at that point, I didn't really care about his feelings. Like I said, I'm a selfish who doesn't care about others. “Tell me about that girl from your poem.”

“You are still obsessed with that closure?”

“No, not anymore,” I answered. “I just want to know about that girl.”

But he said, “There's no girl in the poem.” And I knew he was lying because I was convinced he was referring to his crush from middle school. The girl who had committed suicide. And I wanted him to tell me about her. I felt like this heavy burden on my chest would be lifted up if he told me.

“There is. Don't avoid my questions.”

“You weren't even asking me questions.”

“Woohyun,” I said curtly.

“You know, I still have one wish from last time because you failed to mention a perk within the five seconds.”

“Woohyun,” I said again, trying to stop him.

“I think I want to use it now.” His voice cracked slightly, and I could swear he was trying to choke back his tears. “Please stop asking me about her.”

< part three >

He had stopped contacting me for days, leaving quite a bitter taste behind. It was true that I was pretty insensitive about this girl he used to like in middle school. I didn't know much about her but from what I'd heard from Sungyeol, she was a really happy and popular girl in her year. People liked her a lot, because she was quite outgoing. No one had probably even considered her to feel so lonely or worthless. No one ever knows such things.

Human beings are hypocrites, anyways. They not only hide their true colors behind the masks they are always wearing during the day, but they also don't really give a about other people. We are selfish. People are selfish. It's the most important lesson I've learned in life. To be human means to be selfish. It's in our nature. If God really existed, he had probably used selfishness as the base to create human beings.

I was thinking of how to apologize to him, because I was indeed an inconsiderate who couldn't tame her inner curiosity when it was appropriate, and I felt like it was my fault for making him skip art club. I knew I was already pretty selfish, but forcing Woohyun to talk about his deceased girl was a whole new level of my selfishness. I couldn't understand why I was still able to look at myself in the mirror.

Though, a strange thing happened when I heard someone ring the main door to my house. Looking quite perplexed, I stood up from the warm couch and went to the anteroom. I didn't bother to ask who it was beforehand, and just confidently opened the door to reveal a quite drenched Nam Woohyun standing on my veranda. I hadn't noticed it was raining the whole time.

“How did you...” I trailed off, not quite believing he was really standing in front of me.

“I asked around,” he answered. I still didn't move in my place to let him in so he added, “I asked your cousin, Sungyeol. Where you live and all.”

Nodding slightly, I stepped back to let him enter. It was pretty cold outside so I quickly closed the door, not before catching a glimpse of my neighbor running back to his house to find shelter. When I motioned Woohyun to sit down for a while, I excused myself to bring him a towel.

I was glad my parents weren't at home yet, or else I wouldn't have known how to explain Nam Woohyun's presence in the living room. It's not like my parents are completely against me meeting guys. They are simply seeing me as their little daughter they have to protect from the harsh human world. They are a bit old-fashioned, I guess.

Joining him on the couch, I gave him the towel. He thanked me with a short smile before returning his eyes to the floor in front of him. He looked really nervous because he was constantly shaking his right leg, not caring about the drops of water wetting my carpet. His elbows were placed on his knees, and his hands were interlaced in front of him. I couldn't even make him look at me for a second. He was just staring at the floor where the rain drops soak through the carpet.

A sigh escaped his lips and for a moment, I thought he was finally going to tell me why he came, in the first place. But he only ran his hand down his face, drawing a deep breath. I was getting a bit impatient, but I tried not to show it.

“I'm willing to tell you about her,” said Woohyun after another long pause of silence. “You can ask me anything you like.”

I stared at him for a while, eyes roaming around his face. His lips were slightly blue from the cold weather outside. His nose had a slight red tone as he sniffed the whole time, trying to stop it from running. I was ready to ask him all the questions that had plagued my thoughts all this while, but I decided not to.

“Then, tell me something about yourself that no one else knows.”

He looked at me, surprised. “Butㅡ”

“Let's start with something simple first,” I interjected, “before we begin talking about difficult things.”

He nodded, finally using the towel I gave him to dry his hair. “Well,” he paused to place the soft piece of material around his neck, “I'm a .” I shot my eyes open, obviously not having expected that. “I mean, people see me and believe I'm not. They think I've already done it a few times because I look like someone who would. But I am honestly a .” I remembered the time he joked around with me over the first phone conversation we had. “I mean, don't you think it's really shallow to judge people by their cover? Like, how people always think I'm a womanizer because I look like that. But in fact, I can't do anything about my face. It's just how God had created me.”

I didn't know he was religious.

“Or how people always expect you to act in a certain way because that's the impression they have on you, but sometimes you want to act out of character because who in this world is consistent, anyways?” He wasn't really waiting for an answer. “Yeah, no one. But they still expect you to do this and that. They expect you to cry and grieve. They expect you to laugh about it and smile. They expect you to come and visit them and their daughter. They expect so much from you and at some point, you'll wonder why you even exist.”

I wanted to calm him down somehow, but I didn't know how. So I just continued listening to him, hoping it was all he needed right now. “Do we exist to serve other people? To make them happy? To make them feel better about themselves? Where's our life? Why can't we decide what to do?”

“Well, you can always do what you want. You can – um, let's say – dance under the rain right now, if you want to. It's your life, anyways.”

He smiled slightly. “No, it's not. Of course, there is this freedom of choice or whatever they call it. But in some ways, we aren't free to choose at all.” He looked up in front of him at the TV. “I mean, in some ways, we are always influenced by the people around us. We think it's our own choice when we decide to do something, but it's actually just an illusion. They make us think we are free to choose. But we aren't, in fact.

“Take Myungsoo, for example. He thinks he likes photography, but it was actually just the idea of our teacher because our friend can't paint at all. And now, he believes it's really what he wants to do because he found something he might be good at. And we all know that people like to be praised and all. It's our own brain trying to make us feel good about ourselves.”

“That's a funny way to see things.” I commented, watching him using the towel I lent him. Woohyun's gaze was fixed on the floor again as he rubbed his knees. I felt like it was the perfect time to talk about the difficult things so I said, “This girl from the poem... It's her, right?” He was silent. “And the daughter you were talking about in your example, it's also her, right?”

Woohyun ran his hand down his face again, making me believe it was something he always did when he was having difficulties with his words. “Yeah, I guess I'm pretty obvious.”

“I'll try not to expect too much from you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“She wasn't my girlfriend. She never was.” He swept his tongue across his chapped lips. “We were actually so close to being boyfriend and girlfriend. But she killed herself before we had the chance. So yeah, I kinda got rejected.” He paused, so I thought I should say something.

“It has nothing to do with rejection.”

He chuckled lightly. “The thing is, people expect me to blame myself for her death. I mean, they don't really want me to feel that way, but they are actually just sitting around, waiting for me to fall deeper into the abyss of regrets. They think it's what people normally do when their loved ones commit suicide. They blame themselves. But I don't think it's my fault that she died. I don't think I should blame myself for her death because I couldn't know about her struggles. I really couldn't. She never let me.

“I mean, of course, you could have tried harder to dig deep enough. You always have some space to fill. But I only had a crush on her, you know. I didn't love her. It was just infatuation, and you can't possibly expect a 15-year-old pubescent guy to care about a pretty girl's struggles. I was too young to understand all this.

“And the adults. They were only waiting for me to explode. Her parents, my parents, my brother. All of them. Even my teachers. They always came up to me and asked, 'Are you all right? Can we help you?' But I never needed help. The girl I had a crush on killed herself, for God's sake. Who could actually help the 15-year-old me fill up the hole she has left behind?”

“No one.” But he wasn't actually expecting a response.

“I mean, she just died like that. I still don't know why she did because she never left a note behind or something. When we used to hang out, she was always happy and smiled a lot. We laughed at the most stupid things, and we never had a fight, once. We were so close to being a couple.

“That's the thing about her. You look at her from the surface, and you'll think she doesn't have any worries at all. But if you actually tried to understand her more, which I never did, you might understand her decision.”

I looked at him, a bit lost. “But like you said, her decision wasn't free from influences.”

“Of course, not. There was a reason why she has chosen death over life. Reasons we probably won't understand, anyways.” he mumbled the last part. I watched the rain starting to subside, wondering about that girl Woohyun had a crush on. I wondered just why people would decide to leave this place. Not that life is worth living for. But it isn't too bad either. I guess, it's still better than the state of nothingness.

“Do you have any more questions?” he asked after a while of silence. “I'm still willing to tell you everything.”

“Why?” I wanted to know. “I mean, why would you tell me about all this?”

“Aren't you curious?”

“Sure, I am. But still...”

He chuckled, looking straight into my eyes. “I think I like you.” I didn't know what to say. “I mean, it's not the infatuation kind of like. Or maybe, it is. I don't know.” The ends of his eyes creased. “I just feel like I should tell you.”

“Okay.”

He laughed. “Okay.”

“Then,” I began, trying not to get too affected by his laughing face, “if you don't blame yourself for her death, why can't you let her go?”

He looked a bit conflicted for a moment, and I thought he wasn't going to answer. But then, he smiled at the far distance and sighed. “It's not like I still love her.”

“It's not?”

He gave me a strange look. “Hell, no. Haven't you listened to me when I told you about my feelings?”

I was really trying hard not to get affected.

“It's not even that I can't let her go. It's that people are constantly reminding me of her death and all. Her parents expect me to visit her whenever it's her death anniversary. Like last time, when you came over to my place. But I actually don't want to stand in silence in front of her tomb anymore. I mean, I really hate this feeling. It's depressing, you know?

“And yet, I feel obligated to do that. Since I was the last guy she liked. And I might sound like an for saying this, but sometimes I really wished I wasn't. I really wished she has liked another guy, instead. Because this responsibility is a bit too much for me,” he explained, looking outside the windows next to the main door.

For once, he looked peaceful. His features softened, and his hair had finally dried off after our conversation. Small drops of water remained on his arms, but his clothes were mostly dry. I noticed his left hand lying between our thighs, and there was this sudden urge to feel his warmth. I resisted, though.

“Do you want to know how the poem ends?” he asked after a while, still looking at the windows.

“I don't expect a proper closure anymore.”

“No, really,” he said, turning back to me. “I've written the last part of the poem.” He moved the hand that was between our thighs away to take something out from the pocket of his jeans. “Contrary to your belief, there really was no proper ending. At least, I haven't written it yet until yesterday.” He unfolded the slightly drenched piece of paper. “I wanted it to end happily, you know. Quite different from reality. Back when I was 15, I wanted the poem to end up with the guy finding the girl. I mean, no one really wants to know that the girl will die in the next lines.”

“What changed your mind?”

He looked at me, and it was the first time I noticed how affectionate his gaze on me was. “You.” He laughed. “I mean, I'm not trying to say you are an object. Because you should've changed the question into who, instead. I'm just saying that you might be right. Maybe we should stop presenting the things in life with all those flowers and rainbows and sunshine. Maybe we should tell the things the way they really are. Like, how I never loved her in the first place, and that I will always see her as my beautiful first crush. Only with the addition that I don't grieve anymore. People need to let go, at some point. I understand that her parents can't do that so early. But I won't lie because I really don't grieve anymore. It's a pity she died. It really is. But life has to go on, anyways. Mourning and all. That won't bring her back. Remembering her probably would. That's what we should do. We should paint pictures of the real her. We should tell stories of what really happened.

“I mean, we will all be forgotten one day. After decades and centuries, we won't be remembered by one single person in this world. We are nothing. We mean nothing. Memories aren't trustworthy since they change every time we retell them. It's our dreadful destiny.”

“Woohyun,” I interrupted, a bit lost by his jumbled train of thoughts, “what are you trying to say?”

“We can't exist forever. One day, we will all have to die, right?” I nodded. “But it makes me sad to realize that we meant nothing to the world. That we are just – what do they always say – a speck of dust in the universe?”

“Yeah, that's what they say.”

“Right. And that we aren't special at all in this world. Though, I beg to differ between us and the other people. We are slightly more special than the others, I would say.” I smiled at that. “But jokes aside, what I'm trying to say is, the only things that will make us live for eternity are the paintings we draw and the books we write.”

I smiled even wider for some reasons.

“I mean, look,” he began, pointing at the drenched piece of paper, “I ripped this off from the poetry book you always wanted me to lend to you.” He was looking at me again. “I never told you this, but it was actually something she and I had exchanged between each other. She would write something in there - a poem or a little note for me - and the next day, I'd reply to that.” He looked back at the piece of paper in his hands. “Yesterday, when I decided to finish the poem, I reread the things she's written.”

There was this sparkle in his eyes that I couldn't quite explain. He continued, “And although she died long ago, and I can't see her smile anymore, and all my memories of her might be inaccurate and aren't really reflecting the truth, but by rereading her words, she was able to live in me. The true her was able to exist in the words she has written in this book, you know. The one who would always throw a tantrum because I too much. The one who couldn't cook and still forced me into eating her sandwiches because she liked how I would always endure her inedible cooking. The one who would lie to get whatever she wanted.

“I mean, after her death, people have started to remember her as the happy-go-lucky girl. And yeah, most of the time, she was that happy-go-lucky girl. But other times, she was that annoying and manipulative woman who would even dare to slap me without the bat of an eyelid,” he went on, “People always change the truth just because someone died. They want to remember someone by the good deeds they've done for this world. They want to remember their loved ones in their good light, even blanketing the dark truth. But in my opinion, we should remember the people with all their shortcomings and flaws. With their faults and mistakes.

“That's the least we can do for them.” He looked at his own hands. “Remembering their true self.”

<;>

On a night, where his parents weren't at home, where his brother was at his girlfriend's apartment, and where I had told my parents I was sleeping over at a friend's place, we lied next to each other on his king size bed, trying to figure out what was actually going on between us. He'd somehow confessed to me a few days ago when he suddenly appeared at my door steps, but I wasn't sure myself.

“Have you ever heard of the poem Steps To Oblivion?” he suddenly asked, shifting in his position. I lifted up my head from his chest to allow him space for movements, shaking my head all the while to his question. He continued, “It was written by a student whose teacher told the class to write a poem about their inner struggles.” He brought his hand to my head, twirling strands of my hair with his fingers. “I think it goes like this,

“Step one, close your eyes / Step two, imagine their smile / Step three, grab their hand / And step four, let go.“

“Is it a poem about forgetting their deceased loved ones?” I asked, seemingly interested in the topic.

“I don't know. That's the thing about poems. You can only wonder about its message, never being completely sure. Since we can't possibly dig out their corpses just to ask them about their poem.”

I laughed. “But we still remember them through their words.”

He nodded, smiling. “Exactly. I mean, it won't stop us from wondering just what they meant with let go, but it will make us keep on thinking about their words. They will continue living in us. And even if we slowly start to forget them because we've stopped dealing with their poem, someone else will pick them up. Someone else will start busying themselves with it. The circle will begin anew.”

“And that's what you are trying to achieve?” I asked, glancing at the newly bought notebook on his desk. He hummed in response, brushing away a strand of hair from my face. I thought he was going to kiss me but instead, he softly pushed me off his chest to stand up.

“Let's a write a poem,” he suggested from his position next to the desk. Picking up his notebook, he came back to join me on his huge bed. “Let's tell true stories. Let's not beautify the ugly or cover up the hideous. Let's paint pictures of the reality and live in the world we create ourselves.”

And so we started writing poems we never finished; painting pictures we never completed. We started writing about the truth; we stopped filling the world with lies and began seeing the world through one pair of eyes. He wrote about the girl he used to like, about the things he always wanted to tell her and the ties he wanted to cut off. He wrote about his brother, his parents and about himself. They were bundled in poems, little notes for me, letters to the respective people, diary entries, dialogues, scripts, prose, instructions, etc. I wrote about him, about Sungyeol, about his father and the woman. I drew pictures of Myungsoo, his photography and his muse. I wrote diary entries in my aunt's point of view and dialogues I had picked up from school. I wrote poems of my parents and letters for my future children. We continued doing that and much more until night's blanket was slowly fading away.

With my head pressed on his bare chest, I listened to his heartbeat drumming in unison to my own as the pitter-patter sound of the rain moved against us. He was playing with my hands, his eyes almost shutting close. We stayed there for a while, not uttering a word, because for once, we didn't need to say anything. The silence surrounding us was so calming, it felt like the rain stopped just for us. I wasn't expecting him to say anything. Though, it felt like some words needed to be said. And when I almost closed my eyes, he whispered my name.

“I think I like you.”

And I said, “Okay.”

And he laughed and followed with, “Okay.”

And then, we fell asleep.

< epilogue >

I think I will stop this story here because it ends with him and me finding each other. I know I'm being contradictory for withholding the truth even though I used to say I need a proper closure. I know I'm doing exactly the things that Woohyun didn't want me to do. But that's just how I want it to end. I don't want to tell you what happened with Woohyun. I don't think anyone really wants to know. Because in some ways, you can imagine that it didn't end up with us staying together.

I know I used to say I would want an ending even if it ended with the protagonist dying. I remember me saying that. I really do. But I'm selfish. That's why I won't keep my word. I'm a liar, too. And I really don't want to paint pictures of the reality right now. I don't want to tell the truth about life, because lies are sometimes a tiny bit better. Just sometimes.

That's why I won't tell you the things that made me cringe or hate him a little. I won't tell you about his ugly sides. I want to remember him as the smiling guy who used to think a lot about life and who pondered about things I've never even considered before I met him. I want to remember him as the guy who had his way of telling things, who was witty enough to keep people interested in him, and who couldn't write poems for his life. He doesn't need to be remembered like Picasso or Leonardo da Vinci or Van Gogh or J.D. Salinger or Martin Luther King or Mother Teresa or Jesus. He doesn't need to be remembered by the whole world. It's just me who wants to remember him. I just want to remember the guy who liked me. Not just things about me, but who really liked me. I want to remember him as Nam Woohyun who was able to paint my heart.

For all we know, the things I told you about might be inaccurate, after all. They might not even reflect the truth. I might have remembered things wrongly or just partially, but it doesn't change or alter the feelings I had for him, I guess. He was right in some ways. People will be forgotten one day, and people will be remembered through their works. It's our dreadful destiny.

I guess, the reason why I have written this down on this piece of paper is because I fear his oblivion. Memories can't be trusted, and I need to remember him as accurately as I can. It doesn't matter if this gets lost or burned or torn in the distant future. I don't care. I just want to be able to read it when I'm old and have dementia. I want to keep on reading it. Again and again. Until I'm in the state of nothingness.

Oh, by the way, I do have written the truth about Woohyun a few years ago. About the story's ending and all. But I've burned it somewhere. Or I've lost it. I don't remember. Maybe someone else will find it. Maybe not. But I won't talk about it here, anymore. I can tell you about Sungyeol and his father. I can tell you how his father committed suicide, and how it was concealed by the adults. I can tell you that some people still think it was an accident. I can tell you that his father wasn't a good person, and I can tell you about the woman. But I won't tell you about Woohyun anymore. I already told you enough. 

To conclude my story somehow, I decided not to grieve or mourn anymore. Like the poem he told me about - how was it called again? Steps to Oblivion? - I think I know what the author has tried to say with letting go. Letting go as in remembering them without the mourning part. Letting go as in let go of the blames and regrets. That's what I should do. Yeah, that's the least I can do for him. I will remember him.

Thank you, Woohyun. I'll let go, now.

- Unknown

A tainted flower (he did give it a name after I had told him)

When all the lights go out,

when the sun sets, and the moon says hi,

when the night darkens the city, and you wonder why.

When people go home,

and they see their family, embrace their addiction,

when the corners turn into monsters, and you hope it's just fiction.

When kids listen to bedtime stories, feeling safe and sound,

there's a flower out there that he had found.

(here comes the part he has written for me when he was 18)

A flower tainted with dark thoughts and really disturbing noise.

On its heavy steps to heaven, trying to make its own choice.

Alone and unwanted, the feelings of despair,

where's the fearless hero who does not hesitate to be there?

A flower withering, not knowing life's treasure,

when light leaves the city, who can say he knows better?

- Unknown (although we all know it was Nam Woohyun)

(and this is by far my favorite poem)

S T E P S

to infinity

Step One, take a pen.

Step Two, write something.

Step Three, bury it.

Step Four, let go.

- An unknown couple

______________________________________________________________________________________________________



This story is loosely based on that one day in my middle school.

People mourn and stop mourning.

People forget and remember.

There are a few things I want to say:



(1) Holy macaroni, I never intended it to be so long.



(2) I've worked on this for 12 days. Like, how's that possible? I don't usually take this much time for a chapter. OTL



(3) It took me forever to figure out this story.



(4) If someone noticed, as Woohyun recites the Steps to Oblivion poem, he recites it a tiny bit wrongly. It was intended.



(5) I won't tell you what happened with Woohyun. Even if you beg me in the comments section. I won't. I want you to have your own interpretations. I know. I hate it, too, when writers don't say what happened at the end. But I won't spoil the story and its purpose. I'm sorry for leaving you hanging like this.




(6) Thank you for reading and subscribing. Really. I heart you all. (Although I feel like this story is lacking a lot...OTL)



(7) If you underline the part between the signature and the last sentence of the text, you will bricks.

It's a secret message for those who are clever enough. Haha.