Kyungsoo awakes to an empty living room and the soft sounds of raindrops pelting against the windows. Lay's monitor is still on as the cursor blinks quietly against the white background of the document. Kyungsoo squints at the short paragraph and sighs before correcting the minor errors. He blinks at the calendar lying on the coffee table as he eyes his scrawny handwriting in one of the small boxes, the words imprinted with red ink. He has an appointment, and he groans at the mere thought of having to venture out into the wilderness of the concrete jungle. Grabbing his coat from the coat stand in the corner of the room, he turns back to glance at the emptiness of the once lively flat and lets a melancholic chuckle escape through his dry lips before closing the door behind him. Before reaching the lift landing, he notices the absence of Lay's shoes as the dusty rack remains empty.

He reaches the clinic within an hour and stands before the door with his fist held against the wood, hovering inches away from its surface. Its his turn and he should knock the door before he enters yet he pauses at this stage, his eyes fixated on the patterns on the door. He only wants to write, he doesn’t wish to speak to anyone.

“Enter quickly, Kyungsoo.” He hears the voice call out from behind this physical barrier as he flinches and swallows hard before pushing the door open, entirely forgetting about his reminders to himself to knock the door. He finds himself facing the familiar face behind the monitor screen smiling at him as he sniffs and closes the door behind him gently. The plate is still placed at the same position as last month and he stares at the words printed against the white background. His appointments with Minseok always began like this – awkward silence, self-reflections, denial.

He hears Minseok’s light hums as he seethes with anger. He’s taunting him again, the cue for him to speak, “I do not wish to speak to you.”

“You just spoke, patient.” He stresses on the last word and Kyungsoo scowls at this.

“I am not insane- Quit with your propensity to call every person who sits in this very chair a patient.”

“Your self-denial has come again, strong game.” Minseok chuckles as he picks the stack of papers clipped neatly in a pile on the next table up as he flips over to one of the pages before looking up at Kyungsoo, “How has your writing been?”

“Normal.” Kyungsoo tries his best to avoid eye contact as he watches the goldfish swim swiftly across the radius of the fish tank sitting beside the window. The rain falls outside as he notes the grey filter cast across the city’s skyline.

“What’s the main character going through now?” Minseok keeps his eyes on the paper as Kyungsoo keeps his on the window.

“Denial. Agony. Their love broke down, and he’s contemplating several things like giving up and letting the boy go.” Kyungsoo shifts in his seat as he remembers Lay’s smile from the first time they found out they would be roommates a few years ago. It went by in a flash and they found themselves on the brink of separation at this current point of time.

“Why the sudden breakdown?” The questions follow as Kyungsoo grows impatient, his fingers twirling the ballpoint pen around with an increasing speed.

“Tired. He’s got things to handle, work, self failure, his sudden liking for drinking, and the fact that they’re- they’re polar opposites.” He flinches as he speaks of opposites, and bites on his lower lip hard, tasting the metallic finish of blood.

“I see. Messy business you’ve got there. How are you then?”

“Alive and breathing. Fortunately.” Kyungsoo’s voice becomes thin as he turns to meet Minseok’s eyes.

“Your ability to write and speak- have you lost them?”

“Not entirely.” Kyungsoo shudders as he speaks as he remembers the times when he choked on his words, the moments in which he did nothing but stare at Lay drown along with him in the piercing silence.

“That’s a relief. Take care then, you’re an outstanding writer. See you in a month. And if your headaches start, just take it easy. Don't choke on your words too much.” A warm smile spreads across Minseok’s face, and Kyungsoo replies with a weak grin before leaving the room. As the door closes, Minseok gets up and walks towards the chair Kyungsoo sat in a few minutes ago, only to find his leather book on the neighbouring chair. He inches towards the book and opens it with caution as he frowns at the contents before approaching window where he stares at the busy street below and lets out a soft sigh.

His problems weren’t that simple, crossing the boundaries of losing the ability to write. A breather from the crevices of his heart would’ve been a better choice – in that sense, what Kyungsoo held onto with all his life, namely the ability to write impeccably to the extent that every scene played through his head was exactly the thing which was killing him slowly.

Kyungsoo walks down the busy streets as he watches the people go by with their hasty steps. Things weren’t always that fast for him, his thoughts either came in steady flows or they would seep through the pores on his skin and creep on him for a few weeks before he was able to piece these concepts into words. The entire nightmare of having aphasia proves to be less horrifying as Kyungsoo no longer feels weight on his narrow shoulders. Rather, this space is filled with the ideas he has for his plot, things which would push his story forward. He had a habit of inculcating poetry into these stories – and at times they clicked, at times they didn’t.

He hums as he opens the doors to the old flat, the keys jingling as he turns the main key in the keyhole. The lights flick on with one ecstatic motion and he settles on the couch as he reaches for the spot in his haversack for the familiar touch of leather, yet his hands are met with nothing but the rough finishes of the interior of his bag. He frowns as he proceeds to pour the items in his bag out onto the coffee table, cluttering the only empty space on the bijou surface. Pushing the empty milk cartons and the calendar off the table in his sweeping motions, his search turns out to be futile as he bits his lower lip once again, reopening the skin which had patched up hours ago. He’s choking, and his face feels warm with moisture. Carelessness follows him wherever he goes, and he knew that he probably dropped it along the way back. Breathing heavily, the frowns on his forehead only get deeper as he hauls himself off the couch and rushes out of the house barefooted – he doesn’t care about the dirt beneath his feet, neither does he bother about the glass shards on the floor next to the stairwell. He trudges forward as he runs his fingers through his hair repeatedly, pique overwhelming him quickly. It isn’t the first time, and without the comfort of the leather book lying in his hands, he is as good as dead. Moments like these only serves to prove that Kyungsoo did require his monthly sessions – they speak of his mental state, and he dislikes them. He dislikes the feeling of being vulnerable, the feeling of dependence. He would only trust words, because they came from within his mind, things which depicts his emotions and only his emotions – things which wouldn’t judge him, because without him, they were inanimate.

Hurling himself onto the busy streets once again, he leans against the walls for support against the weakness in his limbs. He’s hysterical, and he knows that he needs to find the book before he loses it completely – he is being forced to admit that he was insane and that the doctor’s statements were impeccably true. Gaining stares from the passers-by, he finds himself curling into a ball against the metal shutters of a closed store as he cups his hands over his ears. Its too noisy, the sound of others chattering away – he feels the intensity of their stares, and he feels as though he hears their comments about him. He appears to be pathetic, is he crazy? Is he trying to beg for money? These comments flood his mind as he shuts his eyes tightly and feels himself falling down a spiral slide, the prickly surface of thorns running against his bare skin – he needs salvation, or rather he needs Lay.

“Yixing.” He whimpers as he feels every muscle in his body tensing up before he relaxes into a weary, slumped figure detached from the liveliness of the evening.