You’d love to be anywhere but the hospital right now.

And you make that known.

“I’d rather not be here.”

“Sass isn’t going to get you anywhere,” Doctor Lee monotonously refutes as he checks your charts and messing with a few things. 
“Apparently, my sass got me here,” you mumble and he chuckles.

“Well, hopefully at the rate you’re going, you can be discharged next week.”

“Wow, because next week is in such a short time and it’s Monday,” you drawl, emphasizing the word “Monday”.

“You’re allowed to be up and walk around. Just be careful,” he ignores.

“I wasn’t allowed before?”

“Nope.”

“Too bad.”

“_______.”

“Howon,” you retort.

“Yah, formalities.”

“Tch, like I need to use any with you, oppa,” you scoff with a smile forming afterwards. Howon reaches out and cutely gives your nose a pinch before retracting your hand because you’re swatting at it. “Yah, I’m not ten anymore.”

“You act like one,” he suavely says before leaving with a wave.

“YAH!”

-

That is basically what goes on when you’re in the hospital. You’ve been here for about a week for reasons you do not wish to discuss. There’s really nothing to do except to eat, walk, fold, and ogle at the boy across the hall.

Every time you step out of your room, you furtively peek through the window across the hall and soften your gaze at the sleeping figure. Howon said he has a little less than two and a half years to live.

But at your calculated second, his eyes open and you open the door to walk through. Your feet shuffle across the ground and you plop into the chair next to him while putting your elbows on the edge of his bed. Your hand drops the plastic bag in the process of doing so. He turns in your direction and smiles while attractively blinking the sleep from his eyes. “Morning, Mr. Sleepyhead,” you grin happily and truthfully!and fix some of his bed head. Daehyun slowly clenches his hands into fists and lifts them to his face to rub his eyes like a ten year old. You continue to sit there, not accomplishing the feat to look a bit attractive, and wait for him to come to his conscious senses.

-

-

Running, panting, struggling. It’s a whim of the moment situation and you find yourself in crowded streets while searching left and right for some random convenience everything dollar store—oh do you even make sense?

Finally, your eyes latch onto the little Japanese store and you all but gently burst through the doors in a sweaty mess and the ahjumma at the counter is startled. After catching your breath, you breathe your sorry in Japanese and ask her if she sells the thousand paper set. Your Japanese class got you somewhere, at least.

She smiles beautifully, her wrinkles making her look like some precious grandma from a fantasy book. Her head shakes up and down as she points to the far right corner where all the folding papers are and you thank her before calmly strutting to the back. They’re there, just what you need, and you find yourself unnecessarily fretting over the different designs.

“Oh, it,” you mumble under your breath and grab a random pack. Placing it on the counter, you reach for your wristlet and pull out some money before a hand stops you and causes you to look up in confusion.

“What—“ you start in Japanese.

“What are you wishing for?” She somewhat eerily asks.

The thoughts of him sadden you and you place your wallet on the counter before settling your arms on the counter so you can bend at the waist and rest your head on the crossed limbs.

“There’s a boy in the hospital. He has less than three years. He wants to sing. He wants to be a famous singer. He won’t tell me what he has, but I just want him to be able to achieve his dream.”

By this point, the ahjumma has bent down to match your eyes and you continue.

“He sang to me once, and it was beautiful. I want to do something, and I’ve heard all the tales. I just hope it works,” you sigh longingly before standing straight again and taking out the money. Once again, a hand stops you.

“You don’t need to.”

“But—“

“You’re sincere. Take it. I hope it works, too,” she gently hopes with you.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

You want to cry.

She puts them in a bag and you wave before rushing out the door and heading in the direction of the hospital.

And that’s when honking too close to your ears arrives along with a painful crash of your body against the metal automobile. Everything spins, there’s warm liquid near your head and hands, and all you can do before you slip away from the world of the conscious is tightly holding onto the plastic bag.

-

Daehyun picks up his iPod from his nightstand and plugs his earphones in, head automatically nodding to the beat and voice quietly singing the lyrics. His head is in the direction of the window, away from you, and you sigh nostalgically when you follow his gaze and slump back into your chair. The bag rustles clamorously as you take the papers, strings, and beads out so you can continue to fold. With all the time you’ve had in the hospital and it also being summer, you’re currently halfway done with the tenth string, which means you have twenty-five and a half strings left and, with your progress, can hopefully finish them before the end of the year. By the third one in this session, it becomes muscle memory. Your eyes slightly glaze over as your mind wanders off. Half of it is on the origami while the other half is submerged into your other thoughts that are dark, deep, and protruding.

“Folding again?”

You hysterically jump from your chair and the half-done paper crane flies from your hands and lands into Daehyun’s waiting and outstretched hand. Your bottom lip pulls out into a pout as you childishly snatch the paper from him and plop back down into the chair. He chuckles and carefully reaches over to ruffle your hair before wincing. Hoping you wouldn’t notice, he groans when you urge him back into his original position on the bed and pull the blanket further up his body and under his arms.

“Geez, nothing passes by you,” he states.

“Nope.”

“How is it that I don’t remember some people but I can remember song lyrics?” he randomly ponders out loud.

Your fingers stiffen for a moment before frigidly folding the paper again. “I don’t know.”

“You seem a little familiar.”

“Really now?” you breathe. “You say that every other time I’m here.”

“Just trying to remember.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” he asks, completely bewildered by your response.

You stuff the finished paper crane into your bag and make a mental note to string it along with the others. “I have to go. My check-up will be in a few.”

“Hey—“

You’re out of the door before he can tell you to wait and come back.