“it’s just what i said. i’m tired of you.”

it's february, and it's only been a month,

but the words keep echoing in jongin’s head,

like someone has written them on the back of his skull,

and it’s all he can hear,

and all he can see is the way kyungsoo looks away,

off to the side,

as if the broken boy in front of him

is none of his concern,

like the harsh words lingering in the air

aren’t ones that left his mouth.

it’s march but jongin still can’t sleep,

because whenever he sleeps,

in the middle of the night he turns to his side

and he doesn’t feel that warmth wrapping around him,

all bony limbs and sleepy sighs

and “jongin its four am, stop tossing and turning already.”

all he feels is the cold linens and the hard wall.

it’s april and jongin bought a new apartment,

because he couldn’t stand that kyungsoo’s scent lingered

even if he was long gone.

it was mixed in with jongin’s shirts,

his jackets,

the bedsheets,

and most of all in his lungs;

he’s been smoking often, hoping his insides turn black

so he can forget about that misty scent.

it’s may and jongin went back to work,

and he’s trying to focus on the words,

the syllables,

the vowels,

the consonants,

that make up the questions that keep

stabbing him in the chest,

leaving cat scratches on his wrists

every time they mention his name,

ask if he’s “been around.”

“yes, he’s been around.

he’s been running in cycles through my mind since he left," he thinks.

it’s june and jongin is learning how to breathe properly again

so he lit his marlboros on fire.

and he’s since started running in the morning

so he can train his lungs to work,

to convince them to just live again,

and he’s trying to believe his own words

he’s trying

so he can somehow believe that they’re true.

it’s july and jongin has met a waiter

who gives him extra strawberries in his parfait,

who likes the way he half-smiles

because although he knows that he’s not completely happy,

he knows he's half way there.

he knows.

and that’s plenty enough for jongin.

it’s august and jongin has been memorizing the way

the waiter’s lips softly part while

he’s resting on jongin’s shoulder

after a long train ride home.

he chuckles and tucks a lock behind his ear

then flinches back,

because how can you possibly be happy about this.

you were supposed to be suffering.

it’s september and jongin has been spending his days in cafes and his nights following the waiter home.

on nights jongin seems all right,

the waiter plays his ukelele while they talk until morning.

on nights jongin can't even remember his own name, the waiter leads him to his bedroom by the fingertips

and doesn't complain when not a word is spoken –

gasps and moans and quiet panting

because even though he wish he'd bother to remember his name,

it's better than hearing someone else's.

jongin is barely conscious when he mumbles a name in his sleep.

he wakes up feeling incredibly sad and incredibly empty

when he turns to the wall in the middle of the night only to find cold linens and a lingering scent.

like the inside of a coffee shop.

it’s october and the waiter’s expression changes with the leaves

when one day he sees him holding the picture

jongin kept hidden under his mattress,

and he just stares at it,

his eyes growing sadder by the second when jongin doesn’t say anything.

“you look like you’re in love.”

he knows they're not supposed to talk about your past love affairs,

thats not how one night – six week? – stands work.

so he stays as silent as he can.

but he can't help feeling like someone's kicked him in the lungs when the picture floats uselessly to the ground

and the front door slams shut.

it’s november and jongin finally burns the picture.

kyungsoo’s arms are wrapped around jongin’s shoulders,

his lips pressed chastely onto his temple.

he remembers that day because it was the day they made the joke

about jongin becoming a map for the day;

when they finally left the national park

after being lost for six ing hours,

they concluded that jongin wasn't a very good map.

but kyungsoo remembered that day until the morning he brought it up again,

the same way he brought up a single golden band from under the bed,

and reached across the pillow, hands unsteady

cheeks flushed and breathing heavy,

but the words coming out clearer than day:

“i’ll memorize your roundabouts,

your dead ends,

your traffic jams.

i’ll love every part of you that you hate about yourself

because you always manage to lead me home.”

it’s december and jongin has forgotten things he used to remember.

what kyungsoo made for dinner on fridays,

how he got those scars on his thighs,

why he liked the colour blue.

when christmas comes around, he can't remember what he gave kyungsoo,

even as he stares his own gift,

trying to decipher the meaning behind giving your boyfriend a merry christmas mug

he tries to find something cute, something endearing about it,

he tries so hard but it never comes.

but as he turns the cup upside down and stares at the $4.99 label still attached,

he decides that there was no meaning behind it at all.

after six years, he supposed they both lost the whole point of it all.

he realizes it doesn't matter now.

he tosses the cup into the trash.

the cat scratches fade.

it’s january and as jongin wakes up one morning, it dawns on him that he’s slept the full night.

and he reaches up and stretches

and he can breathe

and he breathes the smell of chai with a hint of vanilla,

as cold fingers snake around his waist and find comfort in his warmth.

he doesn't need to turn around to see who it is,

he knows it's probably the only man that will be able to put up with him.

and even though he feels like it will take time to finally look him in the eye

and tell him that he cares about him,

that he needs him,

that he loves him with every bumpy street corner and deserted highway he possesses,

that when the time comes for him to finally let these words tumble from his lips,

he will probably already know.

"i'm glad you're home," jongin murmurs.

"you're welcome," he gets in response.

the following night, the waiter hears jongin’s whisper while he dreams,

hushed and panicked;

“sehun, where are you?”

jongin turns in his sleep and feels cool fingers combing through his hair,

the softest tone;

“right here. i won’t leave you.”