I have wide eyes you say. And I’m guessing my eyes are wide enough to see the future. I haven’t considered this as a gift until now, when it seems like everything hangs on a loose thread, and it needs just a wrong decision to have everything fall apart. I can’t let that happen.

My heart is afraid for tomorrow, because tomorrow is an uncertainty waiting to happen. I have no idea if the sun rises tomorrow, and if it will, then mine won’t. I’m trying to think this way, because the same sun that rose this morning can’t be ours at the same time. There’s only mine, and then there’s yours. And probably the lonely moon hanging outside our window is yours, too. I’m willing to give them all to you. They’re all yours. I am yours now. And I hope tomorrow, I still will be.

The first vision came a little too late. My four year old self was sleeping when I had the dream, (of course, no one dreams awake, right) I was sleeping in the dream, and so I didn’t know which one was reality. My parents died in that dream, in a fire known only to gaping eyes, which mine weren’t. The fire was known only to those who didn’t dream, which I did. The fire was known to everyone, except me.

I woke up in the hospital, and then it was over. I was crying, and somehow, I knew that my parents were gone.

My aunt took me in, and she didn’t know how to communicate with me. We just couldn’t connect. It might have had to do with the fact that she wasn’t exactly fond of children, and that I couldn’t speak. The fire left me unable.

The second vision came, and I didn’t know what to think of it at first.

My aunt opened the door to morning, and I just watched as everything disappeared into white. Everything was gone. Light flooded in, killing the already dead shadows, killing grief, and then I was back at my room when the light talked to me. It asked me: “What are you drawing?” And I couldn’t give it an answer because I myself didn’t know, not to mention that I couldn’t speak.

You came home months later, and although it was the first time I saw you, it felt like you were coming home. You were the light that connected me to my aunt. You were our bridge. You were the rope that reeled me in back to the surface, and I was fine again when you asked me that question “What are you drawing?” and I didn’t know what to tell you.

You brought the paper up to your face and started humming a melody I haven’t heard before, as your eyes scanned the sheet. I hummed along with you as you led me through the paper. I didn’t know I could make consistent sounds until then. It felt natural, as though months of being mute didn’t happen.

You stopped abruptly, and your eyes met mine, a deep fold on your forehead. You told me, “My father has yet to teach me these things. He said it was too complicated for kids like me. How do you know this?” You tilted your head to the side, hair falling sideways. “Are you not a kid?”

I laughed for the first time in what felt like years. I laughed, and somehow the sound of my laughter was familiar, like it had always been there, like it had never left me. I found my voice back. I found you.

My eyelids are falling heavy as I watch you sleep tonight. You and your closed eyes and slightly parted lips. I reach out to you, to set your forehead free of that fold. I straighten it out, and I wish I can straighten out more things for you. I wish I can be there to protect you from the rocks that life has yet to throw your way. I can’t though, and I’m sorry.

When you sleep, you’re not the sunny Jongin I came to know. When you sleep, it’s like everything dark and sad slips out of you, seeps through your skin, and through the minty air you breathe out. I can only wonder what you see when your eyes are closed like this. Do you see me? Do you see bad things unfold like how they do in my dreams? What do you see, now that the fold in your forehead has come back and you grunt lowly? I almost dislike watching you sleep.

But I guess you need the darkness in your sleep so you can wake up bright and sunny tomorrow.

You know I wouldn’t have known that your parents had died in a car accident if aunt hadn’t told me. You were always so happy, and somehow your virus got to me, erasing the frowns and turning the corners of my lips upwards.

When your parents died, you said you never thought once that they left you. You believed that they were somewhere there, watching over you, over us. I hope you believe the same when I’m gone.

I hate that I worry you, that I cause you sadness. I hate that you’re worried over the bags under my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping. I don’t want to go to sleep, even though my every cell begs me to lay down with you. I’m afraid I will see more things, but also afraid that I will see nothing. It’s better if it’s my end, because I’d like to see more of your smiles even if it’s just in a vision. But if I see more then it’ll be your end, and if there’s nothing, then it’s mine.

This gift is more like a curse, and it’s suffocating me.

You scoot closer, grunting yet again, and feeling for anything of me. You find me, and I let you hold me as I clear your forehead of your dyed blond hair.

I love how you and I fit together. I love how you and I fit together with music, that it’s something akin to a secret only the two of us share. I love how together we finished the song I wrote all those years ago when we first met. I love how we’re going to sing that song tomorrow, for the recital, or at least you are.

I hate how we’re so close to finally reaching our dreams, and yet it’s going to be the end for one of us. But you corrected me once, and told me that the recital isn’t your dream. You said you’ve been living your dreams ever since you stepped into my house. You said that you’ve been living your dreams because you’ve been doing music, with me.

I cannot emphasize this further. You’re so beautiful, and I know you’ll continue to be so, even without me.

More visions came, and all the time, they were right. It ranged from insignificant things like how you would miss the school bus on the first day of third grade, and how you would become my partner in the lab project in Junior High, to more memorable things like the way the sun rose into the blue sky that day I confessed to you and how you would say yes. I saw it all, even before anything happened.

I consider this as a gift now, because it has given me warning. I’m not sure what will happen, as some things may jinx my vision. Things can go wrong, or right, like how it did when one of our classmates was supposed to die but I always held him up. He was going to be hit by a bus, and I made every effort to avoid that moment. This was back in senior year, when you got mad at me because I kept on missing our dates and I stopped hanging out with you. I couldn’t tell you then.

Things can go wrong, and I’m hoping not, because the end tomorrow will be mine.

You stir in your sleep, the fold in your forehead growing deeper, eyebrows furrowed.

“Kyungsoo!” You call out for me with your eyes still closed.

The things you do in your sleep, Jongin. You’re going to miss me when there’s no one to wake you up from your nightmares.

Kyungsoo shakes Jongin’s arm, and the latter’s half lidded eyes open and sits up to the horizontal line of consciousness. His eyes adjust to the dim light coming from the lamp shade on the bedside table, shedding light to Kyungsoo and his notebook.

Kyungsoo and his notebook. If Jongin doesn’t believe that he and Kyungsoo are soul mates, he’ll start to think that Kyungsoo loves his notebook more than he does Jongin.

Jongin’s eyebrows furrow. “What time is it?” He asks Kyungsoo demandingly.

“A little over one,” Kyungsoo meekly replies, and Jongin doesn’t wait for another word before he grabs Kyungsoo’s notebook away from him and puts it on the table on his side.

“Sleep,” he commands easily, and notices the dark circles around Kyungsoo’s eyes that are seemingly becoming more prominent by the day. “Why haven’t you been getting any sleep these days, Soo?” Jongin pulls the older boy down with him and they lie together.

“I’m busy watching over you,” Kyungsoo teases, trying to lighten up the mood as he puts an arm over the younger man.

“I wake up, don’t I?” Jongin asks sluggishly as he closes his eyes back.

“You call out for me more often these days.”    

Jongin doesn’t even move a little, and Kyungsoo expects him to say something but he doesn’t.

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo whispers, and tugs at said boy’s arm lightly.

Jongin hums a reply and his eyelids slowly flutter open.

“What do you see when your eyes are closed? You never tell me,” Kyungsoo feels a little like a hypocrite demanding for an answer because he has also kept things from Jongin. He’s never had plans on telling him about his gift, mainly because he has long known that something life changing will visit him in a vision, and it has come, what’s more, is that it involves Jongin.

“Bad things,” is all that Jongin mutters before he buries his head in the crook of Kyungsoo’s neck, and breathes in the latter’s scent of safety like how he wishes he can in the many more days to come.

“Bad things that aren’t real,” he breathes out the words exhaustedly, as if it takes all of his energy to do so, and lets his eyes fall once again but not forgetting to tell Kyungsoo, “Goodnight, Soo. We have the performance tomorrow.”

Kyungsoo waits, and watches as sleep falls completely onto Jongin’s lids, which don’t open again. The crease present in Jongin’s forehead just minutes ago doesn’t come back, either.

Kyungsoo stiffens in Jongin’s arms as he feels the need to get up, reach for the paper and continue writing, but the latter seems to sense Kyungsoo’s desire to go so he puts a leg over Kyungsoo.

The older boy just lets out a rumble of what sounds like delight and gloom at the same time, and curls up to the mold that Jongin is, before he prays to God that he sees nothing when he sleeps.

Kyungsoo embraces sleep, and the black abyss welcomes him into its depth. He doesn’t see anything until he wakes up to the open windows that have caused the sunlight to flood in the room, making the usually invisible dust transpire from their faintness.

Kyungsoo lifts up a hand to block the sun, thankful for the horizontal blocks of the window pane that has made the experience less hurting.

Jongin’s sun has risen, and Kyungsoo notes of the way the fire ball stays at an angle where its arms can reach him. It’s about nine o’clock.

Jongin’s side of the bed is empty, and the white sheets are crumpled into their perfectly imperfect way. The gloomy tune that Kyungsoo first started when he was four fills the air, comes from somewhere beyond the open door, beyond what this four corner room of white walls can carry. 

Jongin’s voice is accompanied by the acoustic strums of guitar strings, and it sounds like Kyungsoo’s last wake up call.

The latter sits up, and his brown hair falls onto his head, but some strands stray as though their gravity has shifted. Kyungsoo notes of the empty guitar case leaning on the wall beside the door, and the way the white blankets are tangled with his legs, the way the fluorescent lamp overhead is off as it’s morning, the way everything seems like it’s in place, and the way they seemingly aren’t. Kyungsoo relishes the fact that this room has been their haven since forever, but that is about to change very soon.

Kyungsoo fixes the bed for what seems like the last time before he walks up to the door—slowly and quietly—wanting to remember how Jongin’s eyes are closed when he sings, how his fingers find every single string to pluck without difficulty, and how his voice is Kyungsoo’s soundtrack wherever he goes.

The music abruptly stops, and a mop of blond hair turns to Kyungsoo, as if Jongin has sensed Kyungsoo’s presence.

“Had a good sleep?” Jongin beams immediately, and puts the guitar down on the table as invitation for the older to sit with him. Kyungsoo does, and wraps his arms around Jongin’s figure before whispering, “Thank you.”

Jongin’s hand ruffles Kyungsoo’s hair more, “What did I do?”

“I slept well. No nightmares,” or dreams in general.

“Thank you, too,” and Kyungsoo reluctantly pulls away.

“For what?”

Jongin’s head tilts sideways, and his blond hair finds gravity, just like how they did all those years ago. “For sleeping.”

 I love how you let me go without question when I told you that inspiration came and I have to write. I love how you didn’t let me go last night as if you knew I would go once you take your hands off me. Do you remember when you and aunt lost me in the supermarket? You were crying when you found me. You never let go of my hands since. You only let go of me when you know I won’t get lost, like say in this house. It’s funny how you cling to me at night, when I for sure won’t get lost under all the sheets.

I’m lying to you so much these days, but this is why I’m writing this letter, so you won’t be confused, so you’d have answers, so you’d know me more than you ever have.

I love you, Jongin. That will never be a lie.

The studio door is open, and you’re free to come in, but I know you won’t.

 I like how I can be alone even when I’m with you, like this.

The vision came soon after we got the invitation to the recital. We were singing, and I found that strange because music was never involved in my visions, so I thought it had to be big.

We were singing in front of a huge crowd, you with your eyes closed and your guitar, you, with me. I felt infinitely happy standing there, singing my heart out. The song was both familiar and strange at the same time, like a long lost memory, but then I felt like I knew it by heart.

Anyway, back to the vision. It felt like our peak, because we had never performed in front of a crowd so big. We only busked in the streets, we only sang in the school events. The lights were so bright, Jongin. It reminded me of the vision I had about you, the first one. The lights were overpowering everything else, and soon our voices muted out. Soon, you disappeared out of my vision. And there wasn’t anything left, not even the very bright light. There was only the darkness, and the hollow feeling in my gut. I couldn’t remember anything in the dream. It felt like I lost all kind of memory, except for the song. I didn’t know what I was doing, just that I wanted to get out of that abyss, but I wasn’t even sure if I was there because I couldn’t feel myself either.

You shook me up awake, and I hummed the song to you when I woke up. You wrote the notes down. You soon left me and scurried away, looking for a certain paper, only for us to realize that the song was the very same song I wrote when I was four.

Jongin, I don’t even know what I would do later. I’m not sure if I’d let you go alone, if I’d stay here, or if I’d sing with you.

I want to stay here and wait, but it doesn’t seem like death will find me here.

I’m very confused. Part of me wants to sing with you, and watch as you let go of that smile once the lights dim. Another part of me is afraid that this is it. The end is coming, and I don’t really want to face it just yet.

Jongin, what should I do? If I let you go alone, the vision will just be a dream, and that can’t happen. Things will go wrong then, like how it did with our classmate that I helped. He was murdered months later. I don’t want to mess up destiny that way.

I’m afraid, Jongin. I’m afraid that our fall will happen right after our peak. I’m afraid because I don’t know what happened to you in the vision. You just disappeared, like how everything else did. I don’t want to go back to that abyss.

“I don’t want to go.”

“What are you saying?”  Jongin queries, eyebrows meshed together in a knot, as he runs a hand through his damp hair.

Kyungsoo doesn’t want to face Jongin but he does, anyway, and meets Jongin’s dark eyes, eyes that say so much and nothing at all.

“I’m not feeling well.”

“What’s wrong?” Worry dawns on Jongin’s features as he reaches out a hand to feel Kyungsoo’s temperature.

“I’m afraid,” Kyungsoo says, and he wishes that Jongin hears the word that he doesn’t say. The hand on his forehead leaves him.

“Of what?”

“Of the future,” Kyungsoo lets go of the words with difficulty for he knows that he may be saying more than necessary, more than what Jongin can understand.

“Where is this coming from? The future is a surprise, Soo!” Jongin lets out an easy laugh and it somehow calms Kyungsoo’s insides.

You’re wrong, Jongin, but I wish you’re right.

“If this is the break that we’ve been waiting for, we’re going to face it together. Believe in yourself, Soo, in me. Believe in us.”

Kyungsoo finds himself letting go, standing beside Jongin as the spotlight blinds them and makes them unable to see the huge crowd watching them, waiting on every word and note that leave their mouths.

To say that Kyungsoo can only see Jongin isn’t an overstatement. It’s true, and it feels like déjà vu.

Kyungsoo feels a little numb, a little cold, a little happy and a little sad. Whatever happens from now on is not anymore in his hands. He has realized now that he’s been given this gift so he can ready himself, and not alter the things that have yet to happen.

Kyungsoo meets Jongin’s eyes, and those eyes now seem like they are telling him everything there is to know, but Kyungsoo can only hear the words they’ve written together.

I’ve walked the past as though I’m on a tightrope
Now is good
The sun is shining,
I’m alive
And maybe tomorrow I won’t be
Now is good
With your hand in mine,
I feel alive

The cheers of the crowd are deafening, and so is Kyungsoo’s heartbeat as the performance attains its end. It feels as though he is weightless, and Jongin’s chuckles bring him back to Earth.

“Hey, you both did well!” Park Chanyeol’s voice makes its entrance to Kyungsoo’s system, and the sound is somewhat alarming. Chanyeol was the student council president and he was also known for his talent, perhaps more than Jongin and Kyungsoo were. It’s no wonder he’s here.

The smile on Chanyeol’s face allows a row of teeth to be seen, but something in the way his eyes bore into Kyungsoo’s brews distressing feelings down the latter’s guts.

“Thanks!” Jongin replies easily, and as if on prompt, Chanyeol holds out his phone, where a picture of a building in fire is shown.

“Don’t you live in this part of Apgujeong?”

Kyungsoo has his mouth open, but his tongue struggles to speak, his eyes gaping at the screen. It isn’t his voice that is heard next. It’s Jongin’s. “That’s our building.”

Kyungsoo’s knees are weak from the aftermath of his nerves during the performance, and yet it feels like he’s been relieved of his problems, when they run to the parking lot after the news of the fire is heard.

It surely is bad news, but Kyungsoo can’t help but smile knowing he hadn’t stayed at home, that they are here, they are still alive and breathing. It feels like their fates have taken a turn away from the inevitable end.

“Jongin, why the rush? Our building is on fire,” Kyungsoo extends a hand to turn on the radio, altering between stations, looking for the right one.

“It’s been my home since forever. Do you think it has reached our floor yet?” Jongin asks worriedly as he steps on the gas, and Kyungsoo holds on the door handle.  

The ten o’clock Wonhyo Street is free, and it feels like the thirty minute drive to the auditorium earlier can reduce to ten.

“I hope not,” Kyungsoo says as his finger stops pressing the button and settles for a station.

“Breaking news: It took about ten minutes for the firemen to put out the fire in a well-known apartment block located in Apgujeong, district of Seoul. Word from authorities says that the overall loss reached about 500 million Won. The cause of fire has yet to be identified.  Fortunately, no lives were lost in the incident. The casualties have reached a number of two.”

“It’s fine now, Jongin. You can lift your foot off the gas,” Kyungsoo’s warning comes a little too late, he realizes when he sees a pair of lights speeding from the adjacent street on the right.

“Soo!” Kyungsoo sees Jongin scurrying to his side. Jongin’s call is the last thing that Kyungsoo hears. He expects the crash to come, the loud bang, and the screeching of wheels but there’s none.

Kyungsoo knows he’s still alive, but he can’t feel anything, not the carpet under his feet or the seat belt around his waist. He can’t see anything, and he realizes that this place is familiar. It’s the abyss he saw in his last dream.

“Jongin,” he calls, and notes that he hasn’t forgotten everything else. He remembers Jongin, and that’s new.

“Soo,” the voice appears from behind him.

Kyungsoo turns, only to find the same darkness welcoming him.

“You’re here?” he queries, though the question is directed more to him than Jongin.

“I’ve always been here,” Kyungsoo can sense the smile in Jongin’s tone although he can’t see it. “This is the place I see when I sleep.”

“I always look for you in this place but I never saw you, and even if I did, you would always disappear right before I reach you.”

“Where are you, Jongin?”

“Right here,” Kyungsoo can smell Jongin’s minty breath. A hand slips itself inside Kyungsoo’s and after minutes of being blind, Kyungsoo finally sees light flooding in every inch of this place. The darkness fades away to white and it feels like a dream, or a memory from fifteen years ago.

The brightness hurts his eyes so he squints, and soon finds comfort in the horizontal shadows provided by a window pane.

Kyungsoo tries moving his legs only to be held back by white sheets tangled with his feet. Kyungsoo realizes that the white walls and the dead fluorescent lamp are familiar, so is the empty guitar case leaning on the wall beside the door. This is home, and everything is in its place.

Another figure blocks the sunlight and provides shadow, and it comes in a mop of messy blond hair and dark eyes.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Jongin sing songs as he reaches out a hand to ruffle Kyungsoo’s hair and the latter lets his head fall back on the pillow just to tease Jongin.

“I’m awake.”