26th of July.

Dawn. 

In every literary work, the character wakes up in this period of time where daylight first peeks through, and unveils the coils deep in there soul and realizes something. They wake up enlightened. They wake up regretful. They wake up guilty. Strong. Welcoming the next day. 

But as I stirred this morning, the only thing I woke up as was blank; the sun making it's appearance in the sky after the twelve hours of darkness meant next to nothing to me, other than a reminder of a new day. And today, I had that fickle appointment with a counselor, Dr. Han Guozhi, he wanted to talk to me about you. Regardless of the fact that I  never agreed, apparently that's a sign of quote unquote 'denial'.

But, alas, I remember how you disliked it when I skipped things to stay on my own, so I claimed I was doing it for you when he gave me a look of surprise as I walked in today, not for him of course. He just took some notes and made me sit, and I pursued studying the contents of his desk as he spoke endlessly about how he knew what I was going through and how absolutely delighted he was that I came.

And again, I reminded him, it was for you, not for him; yet the fact was brushed off and I continued my thorough visual search of his belongings, only disturbed at times when he'd ask me what the Korean word for something was, which I'd answer with in a sarcastic fashion and he'd never catch on.

​Something like this; I'd notice the lack of photographs on his desk, and find that only a small silver locket was all that looked like true family memorabilia, though the probability that he bought it off a cheap Korean-version of a dollar store was also high, then he'd interrupt, "What's the Korean word for that again, Baekhyun?" and by keeping up with the man's drones with only half my attention span, I knew he was talking about 'grief', "Enlightenment," was my reply nonetheless and then he laughed obnoxiously over how he could forget the term and then kept talking. And then I'd notice a proud Chinese dragon snaking it's way across the back of his laptop.

We ate at Chinese restaurants often and the emblem of that symbolic reptile printed onto plastic bags was one that'd often make me grin from ear to ear; the days when you would sneak a couple filled with our take-away meals up to our rooftop, where your bright green post-it with your elaborate of the pen hinted me to await you.

I haven't seen that dragon for so long, the nostalgic feeling refreshes me in the most bitter way, yet keeps me warm with our memories. But nostalgia wasn't anything new, not with everything intricately linking back to us. Park Chanyeol and Byun Baekhyun against the world.

More inquiries of better wording came forth, until I stopped replying; the professional must have been familiar with patients, in this case a unwilling one, failing to persisit in answering his endless question as he disregarded it and maintained his one-sided converstation. Whilst, I noticed vaguely how he stressed on many of the words he spoke, sounding like he was pleading in a oddly distorted fashion, accounting the fact of how his voice was a few notches deeper than the regular man. It's depth was raucous and echoed in the most disturbing way off the few walls that surrounded the room. Had it not been for the large glass panes allowing what little light the day held in not been there, I'd have to use my fingers for poor substitutes for earplugs. 

I was deep in pondering my newly found philosophy when my eyes stopped all of a sudden on a sizable placard, almost like a photograph really, behind his head as Mr. Han shifted the body that made the secretaries all argue over who would deliver his necessary paperwork; but for the record had utterly no effect on me, my eyes skimmed over the small anchor that represented the navy on the very top. And in the midst of trying to decipher the Chinese, heck, I couldn't recognize half the characters, I realized it was in the shape of a tombstone. And in the smallest font, the only couple of words I recognized were 'Family' and 'Remember'; it certainly paid off  to let you teach me how to read off the crummy yet oddly romantic and extremely cheesy fortune cookies. Oh, the irony, Mr. Han Guozhi. 
Which I would have pointed out had I been more interested in talking; or interested at all for the matter.

And I hadn't. Not for a while now, and it hurt to admit that I've reverted to the 'unreadable Baek' that you swore to make change of (and succeeded for the duration of your stay) earlier in our long lasting relationship.

Only two thoughts that kept ran through my head while he spoke for those long two hours and fourty-five minutes were; funny how people get paid to pretend they care about peoples' problems. And then second, there was you, as there always was.

He asked me what I was doing to cope with the stress, I said, almost automatically, there was in fact, no stress. Though I honestly am still too numb to talk to anyone, let alone a complete stranger. 
No one else had the right to know about us. 

Dr. Han looked disappointed but persisted, asking me if I was at least attempting the sick thing he called the 'Journal Project.' His exact quotes, or at least how it sounded to my head, "I know that it's hard, hard  to forget one you've grown so accustomed to seeing everyday disappear from your life. And it's harder when they were the only one that talked to us--" I scoffed inwardly, that sure hit me head-on, "--but we must learn to deal with it. Thus, the Journal Project is an utterly successful way to overcome these these unbearable cycles of human life--" oh, I hated how he emphasized every other word with that expression of faux concern, "--and has helped loads off people's shoulders. Sure, it brings back memories--" you mean of second grade, when we had the 'Daily Journal' projects? "--Trust me. Forgetting is the best solution. Write a letter to yourself talking about how you can let the deceased go and then watch it burn into flames. It's pure magic how they just vanish with all your previously beloved memories--" and then I refused to listen anymore, blocking him out completely. 

And the minutes ticked by, each dragging till it's full sixty seconds and lingering here and there as if mocking me before the clock's hour hand finally moved to hover over the next digit.  Thirty more of those segments of time. Dr. Han seemed to be too engrossed in his own words, speaking with his hands clasped and elbows against the expensive glass of the table, to notice that I had long gone dismissed myself from his speech.

All that I could hear was the repetitive ticking of the clock, as my eyes traced the surface of the desk all the way to where his lopsided stack of papers stood, keeping myself from heaving at the sight of the pink heart post-it atop the stack with the repulsively cursive lettering inviting the reader to the staff room at noon.
Admittedly, you had performed similar actions, but I could tell, this was certainly not one where the writer of this note had intentions of any sort of playfulness. There wouldn't be home-made sushi (which looked sort of sloppy, yet in a way only you could make appear appetizing) and a plan to escape the monotonous office place that 'lacked color'. The swirls of the handwritten note were definitely an invitation for something, in this context, completely foul to my mind, I forced the thought out of my mind and moved my gaze back to the ornate clock for the upteenth time.
Fifteen minutes.

Observations of the modernised office place kept being made until a sentence Dr. Han spoke finally penetrated my force field. Now fully awake I looked back at him and stood up so briskly that the office chair that served as my seat spun off to loudly collide into the polished maple table and cause the delicate urn to sway ominously behind me. The counselor showed a slight momentary grimace before sticking out his arm as if that would stop the teetering vase. As calmly as I could, I asked him to withdraw his words, looking him right into his clear, rounded eyes that Asians of this region would pay millions to posses for the first time, and he let out an obnoxiously long sigh as if of pity, and I clenched my fists against the edge of the table as I awaited his apology.

But it never came, as I half-expected. He just uncrossed his legs and stared right back at me, explaining his statement as if my silent outburst had never happened.

And I swear to whatever almighty power, if I had been just a degree less sane, I would have hollered all the profanities known to man into his perfect face, or maybe that would be the sane thing to have done at the time. Silence can be more dangerous than speech, no matter what volume the speech is, and the evidence of that is how I would then be thoroughly embarrassed of my outbreak (hopefully), be taken away by security (most likely) and sent off home never to come back (doubtedly; they'd make me a permanent patient). And I wouldn't be staring holes into the Chinese therapist and contemplating how to hit him right where it hurt inside. 

And I would have if the man didn't stare right back at me with those all too clear eyes, from which the pitying look of theirs had faltered, and instead replaced with one of true mutual split-second understanding. And for some reason, it hit me right in the gut, threatening to double me over. 

I finally had the courage to point out the portrait and repeat the two phrases in his local language; that was all I could return that would leave him similarly wounded.

The urn finished off its last dance against the edge of the table, and took its unceromonious leap off the table, the harsh echo of the perfect porcelain against the marble floor where I was once standing ran in my ears. The slamming of a door only heightened the ringing, and when it reduced to a faint lul, I was at the doorstep of our shared apartment, and the gold metal curved into the digits '368' were blurred in my vision. It would be a while till I realised why they were so; several minutes' fumbling in the pockets of my coat and entering the memorable doorway to be exact. 

"Byun Baekhyun, you're clinging desperately to those memories, you're trying hard to avoid the possibility of forgetting."