Twenty years old, and the last place you expected to be was in your bathtub, watching a young man you only came to know recently confess his approaching demise. You can’t tell anyone, he pleaded you.

There was something inherently out of place about the whole situation, and you sat there, legs drawn up against your chest, one set of fingers playing with the zipper of your jacket. Your bracelet made a sharp ping on the tub’s enamel whenever you moved, or drummed your fingers. You reached out, bumping the faucet with the toe of your sock, catching the stray drops as they fell.

Youngjae knelt beside you, the imprint of him in the bathmat. It was almost almost seven in the evening, and colour was beginning to filter out the privacy window, catching at odd moments on his nose, his grey mouth, the fall of his dark hair when he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the smooth porcelain of the toilet bowl.

They’d been here for an hour, and he hadn’t thrown up, but you shouldn’t be surprised by this. You went through this stage before, too, once, because how could anyone empty themselves of utter despair? That was exactly what despair was: emptiness, an ache so bone-deep and black that one could only stay on one’s knees and pray that one could throw it all up, just vomit until that nothing was gone—and it wouldn’t help; it wouldn’t make you feel better, but you could hope. And because you understood this, you didn’t ask for details, instead you asked him the only question that was important to him—who have you been living for if it hadn’t been for yourself?

Maybe all the people he knew, even the double-crossing ones, the mean ones, the cruel ones, or only the ones he loved—maybe just the one. Because he just smiled, he only smiled that sad smile at you because you already know.

Earlier, you had convinced Youngjae to stay, not trusting him to drive alone. Then, just as you both made it to your apartment, he ran to the bathroom and you followed, because you were strange like that. You looked him with the wide, dilated eyes and said, “When?” because you were not stupid and you knew that people of his kind were not as invincible as they made themselves seem; knowledge had always killed the best of mankind.

“Not long now,” he muttered, like an incantation he’d chanted too many times, yet it had never lost its terror.

Twenty years old, and you, Choi Junhee, was stupidly, insanely, unhappily grateful that it hadn’t been you. Hadn’t been your fate. Hadn’t been your life.

You moved again, scuffing against the sides of the tub, simply to make noise, to remind Youngjae that you were there. That he did not have to go through this alone.

“It didn't come like a miracle—it volunteered. You didn't have to trap it or torture it. That was all just you.
What if you had no future. What couldn't you do then? If you were very alone, and very wise, and very kind, you couldn't just stand there and watch children cry.” 

— Steven Moffat  

What Junhee got from this was that nobody could live forever.

“Life is short Juniel,” Youngjae said, back flattened against the edge of the bathtub, staring aimlessly at the open door. She sat inside, behind him.

“It’s Junhee, Youngjae.”

She carded her fingers through his damp hair, because what could one ever do to comfort the dead or the dying?

“Junhee. You know what’s funny?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“What?”

“Outliving yourself.”

The words did not claw at Junhee’s insides; she had expected it, but hearing it spoken out loud terrified her just as much. She swallowed, hand momentarily pausing on the top of his head, then slid down to cradle his cheek. Youngjae turned around to face her, chin leaning on the edge of the bathtub, forehead damp from sweat.

“You know what’s funny?” she asked back, giving him a hesitant smile. Youngjae closed his eyes and hummed a ‘what?’ “We are all dying. We’re dying as we speak.”

At that, Youngjae slipped out an unintentional smile, letting out a tired chuckle, sunken eyes blinking open. There had always been something morbidly funny and fascinating about death. Youngjae laughed.

“Only if everyone has your sense of humour.”

Half an hour passed between them with everything and nothing as they continued to stare at each other. They were friends now. They had to be, because circumstances like these could never just slip by without bringing people closer. Finding out somebody else’s fate had long been carved on a tombstone at only fifteen was one of those circumstances.

Even death affected the least of humanity; imagine what it could do to the best of it?

“You know what I don’t agree with?” he asked after a while.

“Everything…?”

“People. You, specifically… you and your Junhong,” he said, frowning a little. She waited for him to elaborate. “You’re making yourselves ill. I find that extremely offending.”

Junhee reacted as she did, a mixture of affection and guilt rising up . “What if we’re all just…bad dreams?” she muttered, meaning to be gentle.

Youngjae grunted. “That’s an understatement. Your ‘dreams’ are pulling the world apart.” Junhee’s gaze focused on him and Youngjae looked at her then, eyes darker than a void. “Ask,” he told her. “Ask what you already know.”

Shadows swam in her vision, fear was a smooth-edged blade through the ribs, and every dream anchored in her skin dragged on the way up, barbed with dread. The heat of Junhong’s skin, the brightness of his eyes, Junhong’s young smile… death and darkness waiting behind every take of breath.

“I– can’t.”

Youngjae closed his eyes. Junhee couldn’t breathe.

“This isn’t real,” he answered anyway. “The nightmares are.”

A pause as Junhee took that in, what she already knew. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, forehead on his, felt the damp and feverish skin, the tang of his breath. He lifted his arms, one on the bathtub, the other to cradle the back of her head, tangling into her hair, as if afraid she’d pull away sooner than he wanted.

They were alive, that was all that mattered right now.

“I want to help,” she decided.

Youngjae sighed as something twinged in Junhee’s memory.

“You’ll have no power,” he mumbled. “You’ll be on your own. All you’re hearing and feeling now are only shadows compared to what you’ll experience if you wake up.”

Youngjae opened his eyes, gaze boring into her. Their noses brushed but they took no notice.

“I want to help,” she repeated.

Youngjae’s eyes darkened at the sound.

“You have two options. Stay… dwell. Even though it’s not real, this delusioned life—forever waiting for the boy you want—isn’t a bad option. Or wake up. You might find haven but reality will hurt you. You will be twisted until you struggle to remember ho