‘- into a world of seven billion people, none of whom he could ever truly love.’

Woohyun typed the last few words and punctuated the line with a full stop. Stretching his arms above his head, he yawned. He was tired, but satisfied. He had finally finished his seventh novel, and with his usual luck, it would surely become an instant bestseller, just like the other six of his novels.

The reason he was feeling extra hopeful was because it had taken him less time to complete this novel than the earlier ones. Counting today, it had taken him exactly seven months. Seventh novel, seven months – he wondered if he had gotten lucky.

He must have.

He was a man who believed in Destiny and somehow, it seemed that he was destined to write this novel.

Truth be told, the inspiration for this novel had come to him in a strange way. He still remembered the trip to his friend’s photography shop. He had gone to get some of his pictures washed. After he had signed the receipt, he was chatting with his friend – it was a slow day and there were no other customers. That was when a man came in, a young man with a pale face and a slim figure. He was asking if he could get some letters laminated. Woohyun’s friend had written him a receipt and told him to collect them a few days later.

That had piqued Woohyun’s curiosity. The fact that an attractive young man would want to laminate seven letters was peculiar. The letters looked worn, as if they had been read several times. The inquisitiveness got the better of him and he begged his friend to show him the letters.

When he had read through them, it made him even more curious. Being a writer, Woohyun sniffed a story in the letters, an extraordinary story. He arranged it with his friend, who knew how stubborn he could get if he got the whiff of a story, and called on the young man, Lee Sungjong, with the laminated letters.

Sungjong was surprised to find him on his doorstep, but when Woohyun explained why he was there, and apologised for reading the letters, he had forgiven him. Over coffee, he had agreed to tell him everything about the letters. It seemed he had decided to trust him.

Woohyun hadn’t hoped for this much but Sungjong wanted to talk to someone about it. He probably hadn’t told anyone, but maybe because he didn’t know Woohyun, because he was practically a stranger, it made sense to talk to him. There would be no burden, and even if Woohyun judged him, it wouldn’t matter.

So he started visiting Sungjong, and he would tell him over coffee or sometimes tea and cake, about the letters. At first he spoke about Sungyeol, his late boyfriend but then he crossed into his life story. Woohyun hadn’t stopped him when he had done so – it was fascinating to hear about Sungjong. And there was something about his voice – Woohyun thought it sounded like sweet music.

It wasn’t just Sungjong’s story, but Sungjong himself that inspired Woohyun’s story. He had asked permission of course, and Sungjong hadn’t minded. He had said that it didn’t matter if people knew about his story or not, because they didn’t know him.

“And besides, Sungyeol’s story is worth telling.”

But for Woohyun, it wasn’t just Sungyeol’s story, it was Sungjong’s story as well and even though Sungjong had put his late boyfriend at the center of it all, he was oblivious to the fact that he was the cause, Sungyeol was the effect.

Breathing in, he took a sip from the cup of tea on his desk. It had gone cold. He had forgotten about it, in the frenzy of finishing the manuscript. He did that sometimes.

Scrolling to the top of the manuscript, he found the title of the novel. It was unusual of him to title his novel before finishing it, but this time around, he had chosen the title even before he had started to write. The letters now stared back at him, bold and mysterious – CURSED.

No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t find a more fitting title for this story. Besides, he liked it too much and he was sure he wouldn’t let anyone change it, neither his editor nor his publisher.

Nam Woohyun’s seventh full-length novel would be called Cursed.

Pleased with the rest of the manuscript, he emailed a copy to his agent and his editor. They would obviously be surprised that he had done such a quick job. Normally, it took numerous calls and emails from them before he handed in the manuscript. He wondered what they would think about the story. Even though he had added in fabrications and decorations, the story was Sungjong’s story. It was his life, the life he had lived. Would anyone else realise that it was indeed a replica of a true story?

Looking over his shoulder, he shouted out Sungjong’s name. There was a patter of running feet and the next moment, a pair of arms clung around his neck.

“Hi,” Sungjong said softly, rubbing his nose against Woohyun’s cheek. “Did the tea get cold again?”

“It did,” Woohyun replied, placing his hand on top of Sungjong’s. “But you’ll be happy to know I’m done with it, the novel I mean.”

“Oh, congratulations!” 

Sungjong pressed a small kiss to his cheek. Woohyun felt warmth flooding him. He turned his face to meet Sungjong’s lips.

“Come here,” he said, motioning to his lap. Laughing, Sungjong sat down on his lap. He almost didn’t feel a thing. Sometimes he was so shocked by how thin Sungjong was, maybe even unhealthily so. Tightening his arms around Sungjong, he said, “Are you sure you’re okay with the novel though, I mean I wouldn’t dare to tell you to read it but…”

“It’s alright, I trust you.” Sungjong leaned his head against Woohyun’s shoulder.

Even though Woohyun was happy about the story and his completed novel, the best thing to come out of it all was Sungjong. The day Sungjong had walked into the photography shop, Woohyun had felt an attraction towards him. The more he got to know him, the more the attraction had grown and the day Sungjong had said he felt the same way about him had been his happiest.

Even though he knew everything about Sungjong, he couldn’t stop wanting him. Sungjong was not just an inspiration, he was his muse. As a writer, Woohyun had a strong sense of imagination but he was still not prepared for something like this, for someone like Sungjong to come and sweep him off his feet.

And Sungjong, he seemed so sincere about him. The way he looked at him, it tugged at his heart. His eyes were pure and soft, innocence only and no pretences. There was no way Sungjong would lie to him, no way he’d say what he didn’t mean. Sungjong was the epitome of beauty in this ugly world.

Woohyun didn’t mind if he could never write again, he didn’t mind if he’d be so heartbroken that he’d never walk out of this room again. He didn’t care about anything else.

He had loved Sungjong yesterday, he would love him today, and he would love him tomorrow, the day after – until hell was upon him.

“I love you,” Sungjong added in a whisper.

“I love you too.”

But they both knew one of them had lied.

---

Daeyeol put down the binoculars, exchanged it for the knife. He knew from keeping watch at the apartment building that Sungjong would be out any moment. His writer boyfriend would see him out and then go back to the apartment while Sungjong made his way across the street towards the bus stop. That would give Daeyeol exactly five minutes to do what he had planned.

Five minutes was enough to drive the thin blade through Sungjong’s heart, to watch him in pain, to hear him scream, to see blood gush out from the smooth wound he would make.

His sufferings wouldn’t come close to how much he had made Daeyeol suffer, it wouldn’t change anything – but Daeyeol was tired of watching him smile. It reminded him of his brother – Sungyeol had only ever wanted to see Sungjong smile.

It was time.

Right at cue, Sungjong appeared, waving at Woohyun. The writer was gone, and now Sungjong was treading towards him, towards his death, oblivious to his fate, to Daeyeol. He took measured steps towards Sungjong, his grip tightening on the knife.

Daeyeol was ready – everything was premeditated, there was no scope for mistakes. The countdown had begun.

Five, four, three…

Sungjong was looking down at his cell phone, unaware of Daeyeol. It was too easy – he was inching closer and closer.

Two, one…

Zero.

“D-daeyeol?”

He swung forward, he struck at Sungjong – it was just as he had dreamed. But why was there no blood? Why was there just shock on Sungjong’s face and no anguish?

Why was his blade clean?

“No Daeyeol, you can’t.”

That voice – it sounded so much like…

He fell on the ground, clutching the knife in his hand. Tears poured down his cheeks.

“H-hyung?”

Maybe his senses were playing tricks on him, maybe the world was against him, but he didn’t care – Sungyeol was here, with him, within him.

Sungjong was looking at him with terrified eyes, his hand over his mouth. He had a sudden urge to comfort him, tell him it was alright.

He took him by the shoulder, causing him to drop his hand from his mouth.

“S-sungyeol?” he stuttered, half-awed, half-frightened.

Daeyeol’s eyes burnt, his head spun. He was losing control, but that was okay because he could hear Sungyeol’s heart beat alongside his.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you till the end Sungjong. I’ll fight for this love, always.”