"Remember what?" I ask.

                Luhan turns his head to me. His eyes, punctuating his words:

                "Who you were before."

                My eyes snap open. Cold sweat dripping down the sides of my face like insects. I inhale my first breath of morning air, and my stomach already churns. I can smell his citrusy scent float around my pillowcase, the sweat and aftermath of . After we talked on the train, we went straight back to my place. It was fast and needy. Before he left in the morning, he woke me up to say goodbye. That was nice of him, I guess.

 I walk to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face and let the droplets slide down my neck. There's something unsettling about what Luhan told me last night. His words echo in my sleep, engrained in my memory. I'm even dreaming about him.

                "I heard you got fired yesterday," mumbles Sehun over the phone.

                I hum in response, pouring milk over my stale cereal. Tar stained fingers, black grit underneath my fingernails. Sometimes you try to move on. Get away from an old life, start fresh and never look back. But then you look down at your hands. You see the stains, the calluses and the cuts you get from hauling engines and car parts around. You’re reminded that your back aches from bending down so much, that you’ve got the constant stench of motor oil lingering on your skin. No matter how much you want to move on and forget the past, it’ll always be there. Somewhere lurking in the dark corners of your attic.

                “I don’t really care,” I mumble, mouth full of cornflakes. “I was going to quit the place anyway. The pay was . And the people were worse.”

                “Bull,” chides, “what were you gonna do? Go back and work for Joonmyun? Please. You hated the guy.”

                “Yeah well, I was good with the customers.”

                “You mean the school girls, who just thought you were attractive and kept coming back.”

                "Knowing that son-of-, he probably needs the extra business." I eat in silence for a bit, Sehun giggles at whatever sappy comedy show he's watching. "I saw that guy again last night. The one I met at The Eight."

                Sehun sighs. "Oh yeah? Did you guys hook up again?"

                "Yeah, we spoke for a bit and then went back to my place."

                "Oh, is that right?" I can hear the pissy snark in his voice.

                "Why the are you giving me attitude?" I snap. "You've hooked up before. Even when you're supposed to be on a break with your girl."

                He sighs again and it ticks me off. "Relax, Jong-In. I'm not going to scold you or anything. It's just I've seen you go down this path before. You get attached and then fall out. You're just going to get hurt again and I'm going to have to carry your sorry back to your bed."

                "Luhan is different. I'm not going to get attached." I reason to both him and myself, "He's an oddball and I don't think we mix well."

                "That's what you always say, Jong-In," says Sehun with obvious dread.

                " you, ," I grumble whilst finishing the last of my stale cornflakes.

                "Yeah, yeah," Sehun shoves off, "we still on for tonight? I've been dying for a beer."

                Sehun's girl doesn't let him drink at their apartment. She says it's against God's will, and that you shouldn't be filling yourself up with alcoholic spirits, but with the spirit of God and whatever righteousness he smites.

                "Be here at seven at my house or I'm starting without you."

                "You got it."

                We hang up. I toss the bowl in the sink and run it under water. Looking out at window above the kitchen sink I see high-rise buildings, photochemical smog and the bustle of life below. I don't think I ever want to leave this apartment.

                My phone buzzes. It’s Luhan.

                “You still at home?” his voice echoes through the phone, “I’m downstairs in the lobby. Come down.”

                “I was planning just to stay home today,” I say whilst picturing Luhan wearing an oversized jacket, hands stuffed in the pockets. “A friend is coming over later tonight, so I’m not really in the mood to go out.”

                “Fine,” he snaps, “Do whatever you want, Jong-In.”

                He hangs up and the silence almost feels a tonne.

                A bellowing breath forces its way out of my lungs. They say you shouldn’t sigh because the moment you breathe back in, the devil crawls its way into your soul taking advantage of that moment of weakness. It’ll slowly eat away at you, until there’s not even a morsel left of your spirit. Well, whatever. They were stories my mother told me because she liked discipline. And the best way to discipline a child is to instill fear into everything they do.

                There’s a knock on the door and I can already tell who it is.

                “I’m coming in,” pronounces Luhan as he pushes past me. He takes his shoes off, black Converse hightops. He strolls in like he was invited in, and I let him. “Did you just wake up? You haven’t even made your bed.”

                “What are you doing, Luhan?”

                “Well someone’s gotta help clean this mess of a place up before your guest arrives tonight,” he replies as he squeezes washing detergent on a sponge and scrubs my cereal bowl.

                I look around. “I cleaned my house two days ago. It’s fine.” Without saying a word, Luhan continues to scrub the bowl, over and over and over. “And I’m pretty sure that bowl is clean as –“

                “Why won’t you let me hang out with you?” he seethes.

                “L-Luhan, what’s –“

                He drops the bowl in the sink. The clang reverberates in my ears. Luhan stretches over the counter, head held low. “I’ll see myself out. ”I sigh, letting whatever demon lurking in the corners of my apartment seep its way into my body. Luhan grabs the jacket he tossed on the couch and puts his shoes back on. Before I knew it, he was opening the door. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

                “Wait,” I say, holding onto the door, “I’ll call you after my friend leaves.”

                Luhan nods.

                “Talk to you then.”

~

                “I think he sounds clingy as hell,” laughs Sehun, “I was wrong. You weren’t the one getting attached. Looks like he was.”

                I kick Sehun’s side. “ you, .”

                Sehun’s over for a beer and round of video games that has been long overdue. You see, Sehun's girlfriend, who I don’t even know the name of, is demanding, strict and regimented. Why he stays with her, I don’t know. He always complains about her, but he never leaves her. Claims that he loves her dearly. Loves her so much that he needs to have periodic 'breaks' from her, consisting of sleeping with other women and drinking and playing video games with me.

                "But seriously, he seems like a mess," Sehun says in all seriousness, eyes fixated on the enemy soldiers we're shooting up, "Like he's carrying some emotional baggage."

                "Yeah well, he's a good lay."

                Sehun howls in laughter. "You're sick."

                "There's something about him though. Something that I can't shake off," Sehun's face falls. "I can't get him out of my head."

                "You should stop seeing him, Jong-In," Sehun says in a tone I've never heard him use. "You're going to get hurt again."

                I pause the game. "Why do you keep saying that? You don’t know I’m going to get hurt. I move on over sad . I move on fast.”

                Sehun unpauses the game from his controller and shrugs. “Just a feeling, that’s all.”

                “Well shove that feeling up your hole and eat it,” and then he shoots me in the head.

                “ yeah. Headshotted, !”

                We spend the night and the very early part of the morning shooting each other, taking shots of tequila and drinking whatever booze that’s in my apartment. I don’t mention Luhan for the same reason why people say they they're ‘okay’ when they're actually not - because they don't want to be asked questions.

                ~

                Luhan calls. "Has your friend left yet?"

                "Yeah," I reply, "are you coming over?"

                “No, not anymore." Luhan says without sounding the slightest disappointed. "My editor said I need to review over a few drafts before the month ends. She loves sticking to schedules." 

                "Oh right, I keep forgetting that you're some famous author."

                Luhan chortles. "Is it because I'm so young?"

                "No. It's because I haven't heard of you before. Do you write under a pseudonym?"

                There's silence for split second, before he changes the topic. "How's your job hunting going?"

                "Not all that great. I was thinking about working for a café that I used to work at. The owner is a friend of mine, so..." The cafe I'm talking about is the one that Joonmyun owns. He's not really a friend of mine. Just an acquaintance from a long time ago. We' re not exactly on good terms after I quit.

                "It doesn't happen to be Infinity, does it?"

                "H-how did you know?" I asked, surprised he could guess it with such precision.

                Luhan snorts with smugness. "It was a guess. I frequent that place a lot. It's my favourite place to write."

                "Small world."

                "Yeah. Very."

                I hear Luhan fiddling with paper on the other side of the phone, smiling at the image of him hunched over his table, editing his work.

                "I'll see you tomorrow?" I ask.

                "Sure. I'll call you." They're his final words before he hangs up. I keep my ear to the receiver, hearing the empty sounds of a hollow night. When the silence settles deep into my chest, I start to clean up. Even though we drink until morning, Sehun and I are clean. We're clean drunks, perhaps. Ones that like to have their drunken antics organised and free from mess. All I usually have to clean up are the stray chip packets, and remnants of salt we used to before a shot. Other than that, it took no longer five minutes.

                So now what? Despite all tequila, I'm not the slightest bit sleepy. 5:48am. The sun hasn't even risen yet. But I know who has.

                "Hey, Joonmyun. It's Jong-in. Long time, huh? Do you have any job openings?"

~

                I walk into the familiar smell of coffee beans and toasted bread. The cafe is bustling with young couples, families and old timers with nothing else better to do. I walk behind the counter and greeted by the familiar wide eyes of Kyungsoo and the sound of milk being steamed.

                "Well this happened," he says, before pouring the scalding milk in a mug. "Nice to see you again." And he walks off, mug in hand to serve a customer. He's always been like this. A guy of few words, or none at all. But that makes him an even better listener. As to why we were never that close, I don't really know. I guess we just never really connected in any deep, personal level. Even if I ranted on to him about my problems. What those problems are, I don't remember. Why don't I remember?

                "Kim Jong-In," seethes a mighty voice. "You're early. That's a first."

                "Joonmyun. It's nice to see you too. I thought I should take the extra effort on my first day back," I reasoned.

                He scoffs and tosses me an apron. "Make a habit of this, and I'll think about letting you stay." When I called him this morning, he immediately said ‘ no’ and hung up. A few minutes later he called back and told me that one of his workers is taking the week off. Said that instead of stretching all his employees out thin, until they came back, he'd give me the week to work. Of course, for the minimum wage legally possible. But I guess it beats rotting away at home. And I might even bump into Luhan.

                It takes a while, but I eventually fall into the familiar groove of working at the Infinity. The coffee grinding, the milk steaming, the meticulous motion of pouring the perfect latte art.

                "You always were the best at making flat whites." Idly comments Kyungsoo in his ever-present mild voice.

                Some regular customers recognised me and asked why I haven't been working for a while. I made up an excuse, saying that a relative was sick out of town and I had to tend to them. Harmless white lies that you tell, hoping that it'll never come back and haunt you.

                "Stop hitting on the ladies, Jong-In," Joonmyun piques, "this is an actual cafe, not some host club."

                I nod, mostly out of obedience and the knowledge that if I up and get more on his bad side, there are no second chances.

                "Oh, leave him alone," defends Kyungsoo in his mild manner., "you must know that most of the business we get here is because of the good looking workers, right?"

                Joonmyun rolls his eyes. "Of course, but I'm not exploiting my customers with this man-." And he storms off into the backroom. His words burn, leaving a sizzle along my skin.

                "Don't worry, he's just still a bit bitter about you leaving last time. He'll get over it soon," comforts Kyungsoo, before serving the customer waiting at the counter.

                It was oddly nice to be comforted by Kyungsoo. His always quiet and calm nature makes him a stable pillar of support in times of need. God knows where I would be if it weren't for him. Not that I can remember why.

                Joonmyun pokes his head through the counter window. "You're on break in ten. Unpaid," he stresses the last word like an incantation for a voodoo spell, before turtle his head back in the back.

                I quickly make myself a mug of mocha, and grab a ham and cheese croissant from the fridge. Tucking myself in a quiet corner of the cafe, I take a seat, a sip and a bite. My phone springs to life. A message.

                Sender: Luhan

                What are you up to? I'm still stuck at home editing.

                Again, the image of Luhan, head in his hands, lips bitten chapped and twirling his pen around whilst he writes keeps me warmer than the coffee I'm drinking. But why do I picture him holding a pen, instead of typing? Obviously it would be more efficient to use a computer.

                To: Luhan

                I'm on break. Started working at the Infinity again. Well, at least for the week. Random question, do you write with a pen, or use a computer?

                Joonmyun eyes me, before muttering something to a co-worker that doesn't know of the history between me and him. About how went down, and I chucked a tantrum during a shift, coffee was thrown onto him and plates smashed onto the floor like a symphony. I managed to quit before he fired me. What I fought about I have no recollection. But it must have been serious for me to react that way. Why I can't remember? I'm not sure. My memory has been on the spritz lately. It's not that I have problems with short-term stuff, or something as serious as amnesia, but it's more like I have gaps in recalling some events. Like why I quit the Infinity in the first place, or why I decided to work at Wufan's Mechanics instead.

                Luhan replies back.

                Sender: Luhan

                What time are you done? I'll drop by. And I write with a black Parker pen. It was a gift from someone a while back. Why do you ask?

                To: Luhan

                I finish at 11:30. It's nothing. I just pictured you writing with a pen, rather than typing. And thought it was weird, since no one writes with a pen anymore. But then again you are weird, so I guess the image is fitting.

                I devour the rest of my ham and cheese croissant. The sky finally falls dark, the orange mercury streets lights flicker on. Something bubbles up in my throat, a clump of wordlessness déjà vu.

                From: Luhan

                I’ll pretend I didn’t read that. I like writing with a pen. Something about the physicality of ink helps the words flow. Anyways, I’ll talk to you soon.

                Skulling my mocha, I clean up and finish off my break.

                The night melds into one big blob of mindless work. The good kind – the kind where you don’t think at all and just do. It helps take your mind of whatever worries you have, giving you a reprise from everything else. At least for a few hours. It felt good finally doing something enjoyable. Sure the pay was better being a mechanic, but making coffee and serving customers is just so much more direct. You can actually see the weight of their shoulders lifted when they take a first sip. Unlike at the mechanic store, most people tensed up at the sight of the bill for the repair.

                “Jong-In, get the doors!” shouts Joonmyun from the back room. I lock the doors, and flip the ‘open’ sign to ‘close’. I peek out onto the streets. It’s empty. I go back to stack the chairs, sweep and mop. It’s a familiar routine that I haven’t shaken off yet. “Seems like you haven’t lost your touch closing up.”

                “It’s hard to forget something that your boss drilled into your head,” I chide.

                Joonmyun chortles – a real one this time, genuine. “You did good today.”

                “T-thanks,” flushed at his sudden change from sick-of-your-bull to you-did-good attitude towards me. Of course, I welcome it. No matter how much of a dickhead he may be.

                A few minutes into cleaning, I hear a loud on the front door. Kyungsoo shouts: "Sorry,we're closed for the - oh, it's you."

                I look up, and see Luhan in a grey beanie. Brown hair sticking out from under it in directions I've never even seen before. He carries a duffel bag, and the bags under his eyes. When he spots me, he beams brighter than a lamp in the dark to a fly. And maybe I'm the fly.

                "H-he's with me," I mutter, "you think he can wait inside until we're done?"

                Kyungsoo stares blankly at me, before switching his neutral gaze to Luhan. He's in some deep thought, probably. "Fine, but you can tell Joonmyun." He unlocks and opens the door, before walking away with quiet steps.

                "Thanks a bundle," says Luhan. He sits down on one of the empty booths. "How long you going to be?"

                "Probably another twenty," I reply. He eyes the mop in my hand and suppresses a smile. "What? You think me mopping is funny?"

                "I think it's absolutely hilarious," replies Luhan with an obnoxious laugh. "It's funny. When you told me you were working here tonight, the first image that came into my mind wasn't of you making coffee, or chatting up customers, but of you mopping the floor with vigor." I'm reminded of the image of Luhan editing his work over his desk twirling a pen. "I guess I just have a very accurate imagination."

                "I guess so."

                Luhan takes out a thick spiral notebook filled with fluorescent page tabs and a black Parker pen. "Don't keep me waiting for too long, okay?" He beams that devilish smile and shoos me off.

                I head to the back to find Joonmyun busy doing stocktake. "Uhh, a friend is waiting for me to finish off. He's sitting in a booth." 

                He stares at me with eyes that start to simmer. "Who?" He seethes.

                "You might know him, he said he regulars this place a -"

                "Luhan?" He snaps, lips forming a thin tight line of judgment.

                "Uhh. Y-yeah. You know him?"

                Joonmyun turns to hide his head away before muttering: "Do you?"

                "I-uh, I don't, but we're getting to know each other. And it's good. I feel like it's something good in my life for once."

                He nods slowly. "Alright. Just hurry and finish up."

                Joonmyun continues stocktaking. It feels different though. Like some sort of shadowy burden on his shoulders after I mentioned Luhan. Just what is Luhan to him?

                I head back out to the front of the store to Kyungsoo wiping the windows while chatting to Luhan.

                "...so you're saying there are things like parallel universes?" Asks Kyungsoo as I catch the tail end of their conversation. He nods at my entrance, whilst Luhan lets out a short sweet grin. I continue to mop, being the wallflower to their chat.

                "Theoretically, perhaps," replies Luhan, "but it is almost impossible to experiment to reach any sort of conclusion."

                "Then doesn't that make your books more science fiction?"

                "In some sort of way, yes it is. But the actual science behind the parallel worlds is not explored, because it is not the focus." The two keep chatting until clean up is over. At first the topic was on Luhan's current novel, and then it moved onto his inspirations and then onto favourite foods. Trust Kyungsoo to direct conversations to food. Watching Luhan talk about his work surprises me. I've never seen him so animated. He uses little arm gestures to accentuate points and he sits at the edge of his seat. His eyes zone out. They're not even focused on Kyungsoo, but on the worlds he creates and the fiction he writes.

                We manage to clean up before midnight. Joonmyun shows his face a couple of times, giving a small nod and smile to Luhan, but nothing more.

                "Do you want to stop by my place?" Asks Luhan as we walk out of the store. "It's not that far from here."

                "Lead the way."

                The cold nightly air stings my cheeks as we walk towards Luhan's place. I imagine it to be a high rise apartment, overseeing the whole CBD. A small, but very elegant lobby. Windows the size of walls. White in the living room and grey carpet in the bedroom. He's a hoarder. He collects things. Old pocket watches, vintage badges and jewelry. He's got a whole rooms dedicated to his collection. He also writes in that room.

                What I actually see, is close to what I imagine. It really is a high rise apartment in the hearts of the CBD. Small elegant lobby. Windows the size of walls and tiles in the living room. Luhan drags me by the collar into the bedroom. He's already ing his shirt. I see the carpet, a grey mesh of softness, before I melt into the softness that is Luhan.

                ~

                I wake up to the sound of the house phone ringing.

                I nudge Luhan with my knee. Our legs tangled with the blanket and the dried sweat from last night. "Someone is calling.”

                “Telemarketers. Ignore it.” Luhan groans, before shuffling further away from me. The phone eventually stops ringing and I shuffle closer, wrapping my arm over his warm waist. If there is one thing I never expected from Luhan is his softness. Everything about Luhan is soft - his skin, his hair, his touches, his purrs when he's underneath me. But he's all lean muscle. His waist, hardy but soft to the touch. He's got hard lean muscle all over his body, but he's still the softest thing in my arms.

                "Sleep in for once, Jong-In," says Luhan muffled by the pillow he's hiding in.

                "I sleep in plenty at home."

                "Sleep in with me," he emphases.

                I flush at his sudden outburst. I never took Luhan to say such embarrassing things that easily. "Eww, no thanks."

He kicks me. And not lightly either. “Oww. You kick hard for a writer.”

                “Well before I started writing, I wanted to become a soccer player. But things didn’t work out. Injuries, parent’s expectations, bad luck. That sort of stuff.” He shrugs it off like dust on his shoulders. He untangles legs away from me and gets out of bed. His lack of warm softness almost stings my skin. “What did you want to be?”

                “A dancer.”

                Luhan snaps his head back with a cheeky smirk smeared on his face. “You dance? Like, what type of dance?”

                “Hip-hop, you face,” I go for a light knee in his back, but he dodges.

                “I’m going to take a shower.”

                I watch Luhan sway his hips ridiculously to the ensuite. Letting out a deep breath, I melt into the bedsheets. For a guy like Luhan, his bedroom is sparse, almost minimalistically bare. I hear the shower turn on, and I take it as my signal to sneak around.

                Exploring Luhan’s apartment was easy, only because there was barely anything there. All he has are the bare necessities, a microwave, a refrigerator with some fruit and leftover pesto pasta, and expensive coffee machine with a milk steamer, a fancy leather couch and a television a size bigger than the cinema. I guess rich people have it different than us commoners. I search around looking for that writing room where he hoards a bunch of old stuff, but there's no such thing. There's an empty guest room. A room that used to have furniture. It still has the indentations of bookshelves and a table on the carpet, evidence of a past life tucked away in landfills. It smells of a second hand bookshop. Dust still lingering in the air, floating in zero gravity. I guess this is what an empty shell feels like. But if there is one thing nice about this room, it's the natural sunlight peeping through the window. I lie on the soft carpet, looking up onto the ceiling like it’s the night sky and I'm a cosmonaut. Usually the first thing I wake up to is the ceiling of my bedroom. That paint-flaking dulled white, with cracks starting to form and water leak stains. No matter how degraded that image is, it was always a sense of home and continuity. It was always there, and I can always count on it being there. But seeing this ceiling for the first time, it feels nice. Not as comfy as my bedroom ceiling, but so close it almost feels like it's always been here, shading Luhan's empty room full of empty shells.

                "Just do you think you're doing?" asks Luhan from the doorway. I lift my head up to see him drying his hair with a towel in a bathrobe. He smirks. "You bloody creep."

                "Taking in my morning sunlight." I reply, dropping my head back down and feeling the warmth of that bulbous fireball in the sky.

                "Like a plant?"

                I shake my head. "Like a sunflower."

                "Alright, sunflower," he deadpans. "Can you make me coffee?"

                "Sure," I reply, flipping myself up. "Flat white with two sugars?"

                Luhan looks overly surprised. "You remembered. From cafe near the bookstore. How sweet. Never took you as the romantic type,"

                (how did you know?)

                "Yeah yeah, now show me where your coffee beans are."

                (it wasn't from cafe)

                He leads me to the kitchen pantry, swaying his clothed in front of me like a red flag taunting a bull.

                As I start making his flat white, he plops himself on the kitchen stool with a pile of his work. Black Parker pen in hand, Luhan writes away. This feels nice, normal almost. The sound of steaming milk and coffee grinding fills the silence between us. If only life was always like this.

                I hand him the mug. "Flat white with two sugars. Specially made just for you."

                Luhan beams a smile worth a thousand suns. "Thanks."

                After cleaning up, Luhan tells me to play the voicemails left on the answering machine. There are three, the first one concern deadlines from the publishing, and the second was Luhan's agent, telling him to hurry up with the editing, before the publishers drop the project. The last message was about something entirely out of this world.

                "Hello, I'm calling on behalf of Aster & Star, a company that deals with removing memories, affecting trauma, shock and clinical depression. You may not remember this, but you were a client here...quite a number of times. I know it's against policy to allow past patients to know of the existence of these files, but I personally feel that showing you is the  morally correct choice, as I myself have been kept in the dark of past memories I have chosen to forget. Please, this is not a prank. I have posted your personal files to your mailbox directly. If you have any questions, please call me on mobile xxxx-xxxx. Thank you. And I’m very sorry for any trouble caused.”

                Luhan and I stare blankly at the receiver like a dumb post. I'm the first to speak. "Well that was interesting. Any clue what that was about?"

                His eyes are fixed at the receiver, deep in thought. "I-I don't know. Probably some scam that I ain’t gonna buy into. But I should probably check my letter box for any bombs.”

                Aster & Star. I whisper it under my breath and I feel disgusting. It leaves a filmy aftertaste in my mouth, like bad mouth wash. It makes me feel this sense of déjà vu that unsettles me to the core.

                “When do you have work next?” asks Luhan, sipping on his flat white.

                “Tomorrow morning,” I reply, taking a seat next to him.

                “That means you can stay here for a while, right?” he notes casually.

                And by some cosmic irony my mobile rings on the table, vibrating violently as if to snap us out of our living minds. It's from a number I have not saved into my contacts.

                "Hello?” says a deep male voice, “Is this Kim Jong-in?”

                “Y-yes it is.” It’s the same voice from Luhan’s voicemail earlier.

                “Hi, I’m calling from Aster & Star. This is not a telemarketing scam, or a prank call, so I would like you to stay on the line. Can you do that for me, sir?”

                “Of course,” I reply. Luhan quirks his eyebrows up at me for a second before continuing with his work.

                “Aster & Star is a company that specializes in removing trauma, shock and clinical depression that are sourced specifically from memories. You may not remember this, but you were a client there for quite a number of times. Meaning you have chosen to remove multiple memories in the past years.”

                I step out onto the balcony to be left alone. “And what do you want from me?”

                “I would like to return your personal files to you. In fact, I have personal placed your files in your mailbox. You can read it, or you can burn it. It is up to you. Just know that there was a reason why you wanted those memories to be removed in the first place. So read with caution and an open mind.”

                “Just who are you?”

                “I was an employee at Aster & Star. The receptionist to be exact. I saw clients, just like you, come in everyday wishing to lose their memory of lost ones, their dead dog, their divorce and even embarrassing moments in childhood. If anything put the client at ease, we did exactly that,”

                It takes a while to digest everything, but whoever is on the phone gives me the time. “Luhan.”

                “Sorry?”

                “Did you have a client named Luhan? Did you call him earlier this morning?”

                “I’m not at the liberty to answer questions about other clients.”

                “Well you don’t work there anymore. So you’re at the liberty to do whatever you want.”

                He hesitates, “Yes, I did call him earlier. Concerning the same matter as yours. If you two do know each other, I suggest you stop contacting each other now.”

                “Why?”

                “Because after this blows over, there will be no Aster & Star left to relieve you of your pain,” he says, with no menace hiding behind his words. There’s only truth, redemption and justice. “I have many others to call, so I will have to hang up now. Thank you for your time. And I’m very sorry for any trouble caused.”

                The silence mutes even the loudest of bangs. There’s a stillness in the morning air that sends shivers down my spine, almost as if time stood still. Whenever I feel like this, I do a sort of reality check. I stare at anything that’s meant to move, like trees in the wind, or birds flying over me. Craning my neck up, I spot the misty clouds overhead. Relief. I let out a huge lump of held in breath, seeing the slight movement. Time is still alive. Whether it’s moving forward or backwards, I don’t know.

                The balcony door opens. “Is everything alright?” asks Luhan, walking up next to me.

                “Y-yeah. Everything’s fine.”

                He leans into me. I can feel the warmth radiate off his skin like acid fumes.“Who called?”

                “J-joonmyun,” I lie, “Got pulled into work. Sorry.”

                Luhan looks disappointed. He moves away from me and the warmth disappears and I suddenly feel a million degrees colder. “It’s fine. I’ve got due tonight anyway.” Staring out into the city landscape, should make me feel liberated. Free from the shackles of society, emotion and even gravity.  “Say, do you hate being with me?”

                “What do you mean?” taken back by his sudden question.

                “No, it’s just…whenever I’m with you, I feel this overpowering sense of déjà vu. But the thing is, it’s not the good kind. Not the kind where your heart fills up with warmth at some fond sense of nostalgia. But more of a… grimy feeling in your bones. I don’t mean it in a bad way, but… no one has ever made me feel this way. And it’s weird, because I can honestly say that I don’t hate the feeling.  If anything it feels as though I almost crave it.”

                Car horns and the sound of construction fill the air. “I kind of feel the same way too, Luhan. Every meeting with you speaks volumes of ty nostalgia and pangs of regret, but I persevere because it’s hard for me to ever let go.”

                He cracks a smile. “You almost sound like a better writer than I am.”

                I let out a chuckle that breaks all the tension in my body that I can feel tears wanting to push up. “If only.”

                I shower and get dressed before Luhan shows me to the door. I lean in for a kiss, but he hugs me instead. Saying to save it for later and that he’s all spent from giving his affection from last night. Before I leave his building, I check his letter box. And in it, I see a thick yellow A4 envelope addressed to him. I look at the back and it’s from a ‘Park Chanyeol, (on behalf of Aster & Star)’. I tuck it into my bag and head home.

                Of course, when I arrive home, the same yellow A4 envelope lies in my letterbox like trapdoor spider, only it’s addressed to me. Once I unlock my door and get in, I take the envelopes out and tear mine open first. Inside, are a bunch of files labeled ‘Treatment #01, #02, #03, #04…’, tape recordings labeled ‘Audio Diary…’ and a sheet of paper for an executive summary.

EXCUETIVE SUMMARY

                Patient: Kim Jong-In

                : Male

                Date of Birth: 14/01/1994

                …

                …

                Procedure: Module memory erasure (MME) through procedural amygdala reconstruction

                Number of Procedures: FOUR (4)

                Subject: removal of the subject of a male named Luhan (patient number #xxxxx)

                Reason for Procedure/s:

• Date: 20/06/20xx
  • TRAUMA and mild DEPRESSION
• Date: 19/12/20xx
  • TRAUMA and mild DEPRESSION
• Date: 13/04/20xx
  • TRAUMA and DEPRESSION
• Date: 02/01/20xx
  • TRAUMA and DEPRESSION

                 Comment/s: Has had REPEATED PROCEDURES on the same subject. Was suggested PSYCHOLOGICAL TREATMENT after the second procedure, but client DECLINED. More invasive treatments were used for the third procedure, but client still returned a fourth time…

                I play one of the tape recordings ‘AUDIODIARY #01-2’.

                “It’s Luhan. It’s always him. I can’t stand it. He’s ing crazy. I’m sick of him. Sick of his bull ing . All that ing he gives me. He always harps on about how I don’t deserve him, how ing clingy I am to him. Well him! He’s the one who approached me. He’s the one that opens his legs wide for me to him that night. ing . That little ing-“

                I stop it and play the next one. ‘AUDIODIARY #02-2’.

                “I don’t know why I even got with that . It’s his ing fault that I kept going back. All I wanted was a nice one-night stand and that was it. But he kept calling, and I kept going back. Was he that good in bed? I don’t ing know. All he does his moan out my name like a little . He doesn’t even ask for money. What kind of ing doesn’t ask for money. I must be that ing good. I just want him gone from my ing life.”

                 I stop it and play ‘AUDIO DIARY #03-4’.

                “Why is it him? Why do I always have to go back to him? He’s the loose thread that I keep holding onto like my last life line. I can’t help it. I think I love him more than I have ever loved anyone. And even if he leaves me, I… I don’t know how I’ll be able to breathe -”

                The tape ends abruptly.

                 I lay on the floor, on a blanket of papers and tape recordings. I debate whether or not to open Luhan’s envelope, but just the thought of it repulses me.

                 I stare at the ceiling. My old familiar ceiling. I wait for that sense of stability and comfort to sink in, but it doesn’t. I do a reality check. I try and find something that moves, but nothing ever does. Time is frozen still in that river of stars and skies. With a grimy feeling in my bones, I melt into the floor. I don’t know where my body begins and my mind will end.

______________________________________

  I would like to apologise for the late update. I can't promise when the next one will be, but I want to finish this fic before university starts, so expect more regular updates.

  If there are any inconsistancies I would love for you to point them out. That would help immensly.

  And yes, this fic is strongly inspired from the movie 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind'. I love the premise of the film, and thought a fic based on it would be fantastic.

And I would like to thank those for staying with me. I know my empty promises and lack of updates piss you off, and I have no excuse. 

So, thank you.