Kyungsoo sat silently in the corner of the dim room, his hands cupped over his knees as he looked out of the window, his head titled and leaning against the dusty window grills. It might’ve been to much angst for his own good but his thoughts never quite went the way he wanted them to, especially not on days where he could watch the raindrops plummet from the overcast sky, especially not on days where he could look down and watch the people walk across the streets, colourful umbrellas bobbing silently above the grey of the city; especially not on a day when his words couldn’t form coherent sentences.

He peers up at the clock in the living room, watching the minute hand move quietly across the surface as he taps his finger against the surface of the parquet flooring. He remembers the things the website online stated, how rhythms might help people get their flow in speech, how he should engage a speech pathologist for rehabilitation, how computer-aided therapy might work on him; but something stopped him from taking action, his hands trembling each time he decided to reach for the phone, his voice hoarse when Lay brought the topic up. It felt artificial, as though his new ability to write and speak would’ve been a second-hand kind of thing, something that didn’t entirely belong to him – of course his worries would’ve been passed off as baseless and queer uncertainties but these things hovered in his mind too much. Its 11am, and Lay has just left for work, leaving the house silent and filled with the scents of his light cologne.

“Your ability to speak and write might not be entirely impaired, so that’s a good thing. But the only bad thing is even though things may flow to you, even though you might feel like nothing is wrong – you’ll notice that the things written and spoken don’t make sense. They’re usually just seemingly coherent nonsense. And that’ll be the most painful part of the illness.” Kyungsoo recalls these words, his fists clenching as he slams the floor next to him in slight pique as he wonders about the things he’s written, pondering about how he would go down the streets and smile in confidence as he spoke as he usually did – but it wouldn’t be coherent. He shivers at the thought, and the realization that such an event could happen anytime soon hits him hard as he stills for a moment, his soulless eyes fixated on the same speckle of dust lying innocently on the glass panels. There was a possibility however, that his speech would just become slower and more hesitant, and that thought delighted him. Despite the implications of having more emotional turmoil over the fact that he was actually aware of his own disorder as he struggled with his inability, he wasn’t entirely lost yet; and that cheered him up.

Kyungsoo flinches at the light chimes of his phone as the familiar name flashes across the screen. He glares at the sunlight for a moment before turning back to the phone, noticing how dusty it had become due to his decision to leave it on the cabinet for a few days before Lay urged him to keep it close to him when he left the house that morning. “Do something that’ll take your mind off things.” The message read, and Kyungsoo takes a few moments to comprehend the boy’s words as he eyes the emoticon at the end of the sentence. Nodding slowly, he types a curt reply and pushes himself off the floor. His palms have marks imprinted by the wires he pressed on as he pushed himself up, and he rubs his palms together as he walks towards the red cabinet in the corner of the living room. Pulling the peach drawer open, he peers in as he stands tiptoed while digging through the contents; flipping through pieces of paper with his handwriting on his worst days, and the polaroids he had once taken with Lay. He smiles at the sight of these things as he reaches a small box in the corner and pulls it out to place it on the carpet. Opening its lid, he picks out the envelops within and lays his pens out, different shades of gloomy hues. He scratches his head for a few moments before picking one of the pens open and leans against the couch, his knees tucked inwards so that he could place the crisp paper against his kneecaps. Picking one of the pens up from the array he had placed carefully over the brown carpet, he flicked one of the caps off the sleek body of the pen and pressed it against the paper, watching the ink spread across the fibre as he bit his lip and clenched his fist, the grip on the pen tightening. He rubs his fingers against the back of his neck as he distorts his face into slight anguish before turning back to the window, peering down the street – he had meant to write things for Lay, things he wished to say before he lost his ability. Of course he knew that his aphasia wouldn’t last forever, neither would it actually kill him but the temporary loss; and the struggle sounded like hell.

“In case I lose my ability to write and read, and go through a phase of angst and anger I thought I’d write you a letter.” Kyungsoo pauses, as he squints at the words and how his handwriting had always been slightly cursive when he used gel pens; they felt smoother, and he loved watching the ink spread across the paper. It felt like it was a plant growing in fast motion, it was a season passing by within minutes, it was like how cancer spread, how illnesses spread, and how souls eroded away before they died. It brought him through the entire spectrum from life to death, and these thoughts kept him alive. Ironically. He loves metaphors, and things that feel beautiful. Anything gorgeous interests Do Kyungsoo – that was a statement Lay came up with on one of their afternoons together. He smiles at the memories and bits his lip again, breaking through the skin as he winces slightly before turning back to the paper and shifting himself into a proper position to continue writing.

“There are many things I’d like to tell you, but I don’t know if I’d get the chance to. I remember the time you told me that humans were fragile and living was just a bunch of clouds, something used to hide something larger. And for once I agree with you, because of how incompetent a chunk of skin, bones and water can get.” He pauses and shuts his eyes to contemplate about what to write next before breathing in heavily, “And with aphasia I’m beginning to lose my confidence in the foolish notion that humans are quite infallible as long as they keep themselves alive. Surviving is difficult in its own nature; and perhaps living would’ve been a chore. I always thought that perhaps if I kept my heart healthy and beating, I’d be proper. But it was my head that gave me problems- and its amusing to think about it. There’s so many things I loved in this empty chunk, so many memories and words that I want to remember, I want to remember the way they slipped off my tongue, and use them on a daily basis. But if I keep up in this swamp, pulling myself towards the ground with the help of gravity, I’d be accentuating the entire problem wouldn’t I? I could get intolerably annoying, tiring, a burden – and if at anytime you need a break or perhaps it gets too much to handle, let me know. And you’ll be set free.” Kyungsoo stops as his hand grows limp on the floor next to him.

Perhaps he needed to set him free, free from his own burdens, free from his presence. Because there’s no point in keeping a bird beside a deaf man to sing for him, no point in keeping a fish in a tank when there’s no water; no point in keeping a man when there’s no such thing as home.