The door is slightly ajar as Kyungsoo blinks at the messy interior of the flat. Pushing the door open, he hurries into the living room and is greeted by papers strewn all over the coffee table and the sounds of a printer choking. He frowns for a few moments before turning towards Lay’s room. If the printer was on, the only possibility was that Lay was home.

“Lay?” His voice trembles as he takes soft steps towards his room, peeking in as he gets close enough. He flinches as he watches the boy limp across the room, his hair in a mess as papers flutter in his tight grip. Kyungsoo spots the empty glass bottles in the corner of the room as he lets out a soft sigh. His hands tremble a little from the stinging of the abrasions from that afternoon and his vision blurs for a moment. He’s too tired to care about things, his head far too cluttered to even process anything. His love, his passion, everything is slipping by too quickly and he feels the difficulty, the choking feeling rising in his chest as he barely makes it to the couch, the open cut on his right palm brushing against the rough surface of the walls. As he hears the sound of Lay’s cough, he frowns before snuggling closer towards the damp cushions. He’s drained, and the only thing that can cure him is sleep, rest, a break. A clean break perhaps. He squints as he sees Lay’s back against the stained walls and the sound of the gates clattering is the last thing he hears before he drifts off.

He would’ve stayed awake, he would’ve tried to hold onto the older boy’s hands if he had the strength to. But Kyungsoo was aware that if he couldn’t piece himself together, perhaps letting the dove go would do him good. A cage crumbling upon an innocent bird teeming with potential is an inhumane thought, and Kyungsoo didn’t wish to become such a monstrosity.

Instead he lets himself drift, imagining himself within the embrace of clouds. He lets himself fall through surreal fascination, a concoction of violet, blue and black on the sheets of fibre. He imagines a beautiful canvas, and a boy sitting on a stand before it with his chin rested upon his palm – he has sharp features similar to the ones he had once fallen in love with, and he watches in quietude as he hears the boy’s thoughts – his mere daydreams of about the galaxy, a humble depiction of perfection – the closest he had ever felt to empyrean glamour. Kyungsoo knows by then that he is entirely incoherent, the words which used to lead his thoughts replaced by mere flashing images of things with no link to speak of. He dreams about an odyssey into the firmament, a trek along the passionate flames of white innocence – a masquerade amongst the mystique of celestial gems, and a run alongside the pearl seas of vacuum nullity. He wishes for a shooting star, his eyes darting across the night sky in search of an ignited path – his hazel eyes store his emotions and plot ideas – these things kept a beautiful conundrum.

He tastes a metallic finish against his tongue as he bites on his bottom lip a little too hard, cringing at the sudden burst of supple skin.

Perhaps this was what it was like, for a writer to lose his ability to write? Kyungsoo wasn’t too sure as he barely opens his eyes and glances at the dusty window panes. He needs fresh air, but he knows he’s to weak to get there. Placing the back of his hand against his forehead, he shuts his eyes and lets his clenched fist loosen itself. Without his writing, he’s an empty shell. Without Lay, he’s a hopeless soul. And as he feels himself loosing the reigns over his thoughts and emotions, his sight lands on the shimmering object on the corner of the table – and he reaches forward without hesitation, holding the razor up against the sunlight before leaning backwards and grinning before he closes his eyes with a scene left in mind, the beauty of the raxeira cast across the floors a recurring image in his thoughts.

-

The house is nothing but bare, a mouldy blanket lying in one of the corners of the room. Kyungsoo squints in the distance as he takes a cautious step into the quiet flat, eyeing the stained walls. He reaches for a leather book lying against the brown cloth as he frowns at the layer of dust covering its smooth surface before sweeping the particles off the book. The gold letters are printed neatly and the boy pauses at the sight of the name in the corner of the cover.

And as he flips the book open, his lips curl into a gentle smile at the sight of the cursive handwriting which flows across the crisp pages freely.

“Hello?” A mellow voice rings out from behind the boy as he turns to grin at the taller boy standing at the doorway in his uniform, his hair tucked under an onyx beanie. The boy dips his head downwards slightly before proceeding to walk into the empty space, his hands fit snugly into the pockets of his perfectly altered trousers. Breathing in heavily, he stops in front of the boy and looks at him with a meek gaze. Kyungsoo recognises the boy and returns the smile immediately before letting out a soft chuckle.

“We met the other day at the bus stop didn’t we? And in the park that evening.” He starts as he tries to contain his amusement.

“Yes. The boy I always meet at the bus stop aren’t you?” The taller boy laughs as he reaches to the back of his neck and rubs his nape with his head tilted to one side, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my name’s Yixing.”

Kyungsoo remembers this as the first scene in his story, and beneath the scrawny handwriting he notes the scratch marks on the bottom of the page before letting out a dry laugh.

“Yixing, this is ridiculous isn’t it? My writing is growing incoherent by the day.” He barely whimpers as he runs his fingers over the fabric of the couch. He turns towards the left, and he listens to his voice echo throughout the lifeless living room. Its empty, and he sits on the sofa with his arm hung over the space beside him. He’s alone, and he lets his words fill the gaps in his tainted soul.

 

In the tenebrous night they lay hand in hand,

their quiet presence accompanied by

a dainty pastel blue cage with

innocence in the form of beautiful diamond doves –

two of them.

 

When the first halve of the sky left,

she seeped herself into the crevices of

velvet filter paper.

 

When the first halve of their sky left,

he chose to set the other portion free.

 

Their difference was apparent.

 

But.

“The birds, they were more delightful in a pair.”

and so were they.

 

Yet their differences grew blurry,

their decisions intertwining into one,

before eventually swapping
entirely,

when it came to their love.

 

When their interlocks fingers grew sore,

when their loving gazes melted into disinterest,

when their paper house burnt with the brightest of flames,

when the departure of their sky occurred,

they were helpless.

 

Despite being a mutual agreement,

their reactions were distinct.

 

She had chosen to overcome her fear of heights

and rose into the pure fantasy of clouds

against the air currents above the concrete jungle –

an air ticket towards her homeland.

 

Yet he had sunken into his aversion towards water,

his hands floating lifelessly as he remained buoyant,

his thoughts a fumbled mess lost out at sea

as an anchor, heavier than anything he had ever met

pulled him towards the centre of the earth,

unable to walk above the heavy gravity.

 

She recalled he had once said, “How would we keep it alive when its clearly dead?”
and her sonorous utterance replayed within the packed molecules of the clear blue waters –
“We can try, or we can let go and adventure – me into the sky and you into the water, our own separate ways.”