Do Kyungsoo finds that minutes pass by in misconceptions of reality. What is time? He wonders, eyes burning holes into the circular face of the bland clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. He notices the sound, and from then on, every single little click resonates echoes through his head. It begins to entice out a blinding headache, and it makes him nauseous.

A brief second, a beat, and Kyungsoo opens his eyes from their formerly closed state. He does his best to suppress the monotonous, aggravating ticking and attempt to concentrate, irises focusing on the bright screen and fingers flexing over the keyboard. The cursor blinks angrily at him, as though taunting him, obnoxiously reminding him that he is devoid of both ideas and inspiration. A poor, perhaps wistful attempt is then made at writing, typing very much unordinary sentence starters. They all seem to begin with ‘The’: a word most hated by any author attempting to take a stab at a piece of literature even remotely unique. “The,” was not a word Kyungsoo enjoyed using in partnership with his writing style, which he longed to be more fluid and gentle, soft on the brain as the words digest. Write. Erase. Repeat. Write. Erase. Repeat.

After typing and back-spacing several sentence starters over and over again, he almost gives up. Slumping back in his chair, a hand grazes roughly through his tangle of black hair. Sweat is beaded on his forehead, a result of stress, fatigue, and the onslaught of feverish illness: a vicious cocktail that can only lead downhill in its course. Rather impatiently, Kyungsoo pushes to his feet and takes heavy steps to the window, where he opens the catch and allows a gust of air into the room, muttering something about his office heating up like a greenhouse. The breeze swirls through the room and rustles the colourful post-it notes lining the otherwise blank walls, playing a melody in the tune of fluttery paper applause. Kyungsoo looks over to his post-it wall, tacked with neon colours so bright and varying in hues that it deserves a double take. He sighs – deep and heavy and tainted with an unhealthy mixture of emotion – and starts toward the wall, wondering if any inspiration is held for him in his past notes.

A door slams further through the house. The shout of a familiar voice drifts through the hallway and into Kyungsoo’s office and he turns. A glance back at the post-its. A glance toward the door. Another sigh, a hanging head, and Kyungsoo starts for the hallway. He spots his husband as soon as he exits the office, glancing down the corridor and seeing him standing just in the kitchen. Executing a perfectly practised smile, he greets with a cheery, ‘Hello, dear.’ Another act of repetition, words forming habitually on his lips before his brain has a mere second to consider it.

Kim Jongin has been married to Do Kyungsoo for three years, and that is enough time to be able to detect when something is off.

---

It was a sunny evening in may, time fading toward midnight yet the sun defiantly remaining comparatively high in the sky. Kyungsoo was happy, regardless of the events occurring at the time. He thought that maybe Jongin was ill, because the boy seemed to be sweating and rubbing his palms against his jeans. Kyungsoo was wrong. Jongin was just nervous. Nervous because he was looking at who he considered to be the most handsome boy in the world. Nervous because the said boy had a heart-melting smile. Nervous because he loved this boy, and though they had been dating since highschool, he sometimes doubted how a man as wonderful as Kyungsoo could love a man as rebellious as himself. Nervous because his heart was hammering and he wondered what Kyungsoo would say when he couldn’t even offer him a ring.

'What’s wrong?’ Kyungsoo finally managed, fearing the answer. But then, he was pleasantly surprised when the love of his life dropped to one knee, goofy smile forming on his lips as he stuttered a simple, ‘Will you marry me?’

And despite the lack of a ring and the nervous sweat rubbing off as Jongin took Kyungsoo’s hand in his, of course the answer was, ‘Yes.’

---

Kim Jongin has been married to Do Kyungsoo for three years, and that is enough time to be able to detect when something is off.

Kyungsoo is smiling at him, as he always does when he returns home from work. But the thing is, as it has been for the past few days, when Kyungsoo smiles, only his mouth moves upwards. His eyes remain stationary, wide as always, and Jongin still thinks they’re beautiful, but behind each lens is a deep misery, veiled in all the repetitions and familiarities and fake smiles. He wonders if his husband even realises the falseness of his own smile. It’s a whole lot of suffering wrapped up in exposed teeth and upturned lips, and perhaps adorned in the brief crinkling of eyes on a good day; the equivalent of a red ribbon garnishing a Christmas present. An extra detail, an extra push at trying.

Jongin is worried, but not as worried as Kyungsoo. Because as the smaller leans in to hug his husband, he detects the smell of cigarette smoke lingering between the fibres of his clothes. A wrinkled nose, and he recoils. A mask of jaundice is plastered over Jongin’s skin, enshrouding him in a blanket of lethargy. ‘Jongin, have you been smoking?’ Kyungsoo croaks, fearing the worst.

In highschool, he recalls that Jongin used to smoke – their school’s resident bad boy. When they began dating, Kyungsoo forced him to stop, for the benefit of his health. And as far as Kyungsoo is concerned, Jongin has been clean for years. Jongin’s mouth opens very slightly and it almost seems like he’s about to protest, but there is clear guilt in his eyes and his entire body sags after the question is asked. Kyungsoo glares at his husband, feeling slightly betrayed, but more concerned.

‘No,’ Jongin responds. It hurts him. Two letters, one syllable, and it hurts him. He knows that he’s telling the truth. Jongin himself has not been smoking. That much is true. But he conceals a deeper lie within his truth, and this is something he just cannot bring himself to admit to the half-broken man in front of him.

‘Don’t do it again,’ is all Kyungsoo says, firm and demanding, before adding a much meeker, ‘Please.’ To the end. He sniffs and turns to tread back to his office.

Jongin feels sick. The cigarette smoke is still lingering in his nostrils, and yet he idiotically hoped Kyungsoo wouldn’t notice. Though, thankfully, he failed to notice that the lingering scent of lung cancer was mingled with the aroma of luxurious cologne, much too expensive for the two of them to afford. The cologne of another man, another human being who had been much too close to Jongin, much too many times.

Gulping, feeling the lump in his throat, he stares after Kyungsoo, who is regretfully already gone. Sealed away behind the doors of that mysterious office of his. Guilt is an overwhelming emotion, and Jongin feels it burning into his soul, twisting between his ribs and expanding. He starts towards the office door and raises a fist, prepared to knock, but is frozen solid by a small sniff and a whimper and a sob. The guilt within him expands more, cracking into his ribs and his heart and choking his lungs, and for a moment, Jongin believes that he himself is about to cry. Swallowing his sob, he turns away from the door. Kyungsoo, his husband, needs him. And yet, he is slinking away every day to the arms of another man. He almost detests himself.

Time has not run out yet, though, and Jongin considers his possibilities. Kyungsoo does not yet know of his affair, and so he still has a chance to turn things around. I will make things better, Jongin silently vows. I will make it up to you.

**

Kyungsoo is a light sleeper. He always rouses at the slightest noise, and lately the stress has weighed down on him so much that he has barely slept at all. Jongin is the opposite, deeply snoring and settled and content, and sometimes Kyungsoo envies him. He is jealous of his husband: how on earth can he be so happy?

But on this day, it’s Jongin that wakes up early, setting his alarm to vibrate and holding it between his fingers all night. He wakes quickly and gently, resisting a groan and muting the buzzing sound. Kyungsoo stirs, and Jongin almost holds his breath as Kyungsoo lingers on the line between consciousness and sleep for a few seconds longer. And then his breathing levels out rhythmically again, and he drifts off. Jongin steadily eases himself out of the bed, avoiding the springs that he knows creak louder, and careful to avoid shifting his weight too quickly. Kyungsoo remains curled up in an almost foetal position, softly breathing. He looks cute like this, reduced to his most innocent form, with no tension in his facial muscles and absolutely no pretence.

The cold tiling of the kitchen floor is cold in the early morning, and Jongin shivers, wearing nothing but thin white boxer shorts. Placing his phone on the side, he sets about making a cooked breakfast. Kyungsoo’s favourite, he recalls. The first meal that Kyungsoo ever made for Jongin, on their first Valentine’s morning.

Swift hand movements follow whatever his brain suggested, although he didn’t really know what he was doing as it was usually his husband who prepared the meals. As he works, he can’t help but feel overwhelmed by a distressed feeling; sweaty palms and heavily beating heart. His heart beat is not fast, as such, just hard, with each beat slamming into his ribcage. He remembers vividly the previous night, when Kyungsoo emerged from his office with slightly puffy eyes, pretending that he hadn’t been crying. Jongin was hurting to his very core, feeling the dizzying aches of pain in his chest and through all the hollow space inside all his atoms, keeping up the pretence, wondering if he should lie and say that he had been smoking, all to shield him from the truth. Anyone could see that Kyungsoo was slowly breaking, fragmenting into tiny little pieces of the man he once was. Not unfixable yet, just a little chipped, and Jongin feared that news of an affair would finally shatter him.

A buzzing sound startles Jongin, and he snatches his phone hurriedly off the counter, ‘Hello?’

‘Hi, baby,’ a smooth voice on the other end of the phone breathes. Jongin is not surprised to hear the voice, and usually it brings a smirk to his lips and a light to his eyes. Though, this time, the often arousing tones just give rise to the mental image of a sobbing Kyungsoo, and Jongin groans internally.

‘Sehun,’ he almost whispers, intentionally keeping his voice low.

‘Are you coming today?’

Jongin scratches at the back of his head, ‘No... Um... No...’

‘Why?’ Sehun sounds almost angered. Jongin hesitates, and his ears are met with a scoff, ‘I bet it’s your goddamn husband. Playing up again?’

‘Yeah,’ Jongin gulps, detesting himself for agreeing so easily.

‘Pfft,’ Sehun scoffs again, and a sneer can be detected in his voice as he says, ‘He’s a broken man, Jongin. You said it yourself. All he does is work all day, and he’s just going to work himself to death. And then where will you be? Smoking again?’ He pauses, more for dramatic effect than expecting an answer. Voice dropped to a snarl, he issues what can almost be considered a threat, ‘If you break this off with me, Jongin, I won’t be there for you to come crying to. That good-for-nothing husband of yours is going to end up killing himself, probably because of your ing attitude, and you’ll be all alone.’

He stops there, and leaves Jongin fumbling for the words to say.

'Jongin?’ A voice drifts inquisitively down the hallway, and Jongin jumps, eyes widening.

‘I have to go,’ he mutters hurriedly, slamming the phone down and returning to his cooking station, faking a smile as Kyungsoo meanders into the kitchen. Eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement, he looks around, ‘What’s going on?’

Jongin turns to him and draws in a sharp breath. Despite his sleep, Kyungsoo’s eyes are weighed heavily down by bags that no amount of milk-soaked teabags nor cucumbers could cure, and the unflattering light sifting in through the kitchen enshrouds him in heavy fatigue and a vague jaundice tinge.

Jongin adopts the most realistic smile he can, ‘I was making you breakfast.’

A faint smile graces Kyungsoo’s chapped lips, and barely a second passes before Jongin closes the gap between them, engaging them both in a soft kiss. Kyungsoo’s heart rate increases, and Jongin feels sick. Why can’t I feel anything?

---

Years previously, in highschool. They are in a relationship that can be summarized by two slender boys sitting side-by-side, shoulders just brushing against each other with legs dangling lazily over park benches. A scene of all the naivety of adolescence, filled with rosy-tinted cheeks and dizzy pulsations through the head; exclamations of “I think I like you,” and spontaneous eye contact followed by “can I kiss you?.” Hands running over bodies excitably, first times and head-spinning happiness.

The first time they kissed, Jongin had initiated it, bumping up their relationship status from “just friends.” Kyungsoo was confused, perplexed, but he liked it. No, he loved it. It left him with a warm sensation in his belly, content and satisfied and wanting more.

Only Jongin could possibly has stronger feelings, after denying it for so long and keeping his hands off Kyungsoo, convincing himself that any other advancements would be rejected. But then they found themselves with hands intertwined, smiling at each other. So Jongin kissed him again. And again. And again. And again. Wherever they found a spare moment alone, they would exchange secret kisses, pecks on the cheek followed by passionate lip-locking.

Every time they kissed, Jongin felt the rush of electricity through him, the adrenaline in his veins and the spark of lustful romance. It was perfect, a captured timeframe of desire and love, the epitome of racing heartbeats and fingers brushing through hair, only to be described by the most beautiful of epithets. Jongin loved his kisses, and he was sure it would remain that way forever.

---

He pushed harder, pulling Kyungsoo tightly into him and feeling him slump against him, barely able to stand. Jongin crushed their lips together until it almost hurt, desperate to feel something, anything, for his husband. But nothing arose.

Kyungsoo groaned in protest, maybe an ounce of pain, and curled his fingers around Jongin’s biceps, pushing him away. ‘Jongin,’ he pants, half into his partner’s mouth as he desperately tries to free himself. Jongin finally pulls away, doing his best to act like what he just did was totally normal. Kyungsoo seems hopelessly concerned for him, eyes wide and clouded with deep emotion.

Jongin hurries back to the stove, breaking eye contact, and begins dealing the food evenly out onto two plates, and setting them on their little table, where Kyungsoo is already sitting. ‘I even made orange juice,’ he says warmly, and Kyungsoo attempts a tiny smile.

‘Aren’t you dancing today?’ He glances at the kitchen clock, wondering why his husband has not left for work already.

‘Um... no,’ Jongin answers, scratching the base of his skull with an arm folded over his head, ‘I was just going to... spend the day with you.’

‘Oh...’ Kyungsoo feels guilty. Shouldn’t he be delighted? Yet here he is, feeling empty as ever despite his husband taking a day off for him, ‘I was just going to write today...’

‘Kyungsoo, you’ve been getting really stressed over the writing thing,’ Jongin crouches beside him, rubbing a thumb gently over his cheek and gracing the bags under his eyes, ‘I can tell. Take a day off with me, please.’

A knot tightens in Kyungsoo’s stomach, and he gulps though his throat his dry, ‘Okay.’ He croaks, the hoarse sound of choked back tears just tainting his voice.

Cutlery clanking against ceramic plates can sometimes fill the atmosphere with a happy vibe, at least when combined with the chattery environment of a busy restaurant. However, when combined with tense atmosphere and only two people, occasionally stealing glances at the other across the table, it can make everything ten times worse. Kyungsoo stares at his plate as he consumes the food. ‘You burnt some of it,’ he remarks casually, daring to flicker his eyes up and meet Jongin’s.

‘Hey,’ Jongin chuckles, though it seems almost painful, ‘I’m not the chef around here.’

Kyungsoo smiles, and it seems more genuine this time. Jongin never realised before how much he had missed it.

‘What’s today’s plan, then?’ Kyungsoo queries, noticing that conversation between them doesn’t flow as easily as it used to.

Jongin his head, considering for a moment, and then the right side of his plump lips twists up, ‘You’ll see.’

**

‘Jongin,’ the word comes out as a stammer, dangling limply from Kyungsoo’s lips as his jaw remains open. ‘You remembered,’ and this time, when he smiles, his entire face lifts with it, lips curling into a perfect upward curve as his eyes form crescent moons.

Before them, across the street, lies a coffee shop. Nondescript, with a quaint wooden door and a few shiny windows. ‘I did,’ Jongin feels pride swelling within him, like he did a good job. This was the same shop they visited every day after school as best friends, fingers lingering on each other’s a second two long as coffee cups were passed between hands, longing looks spent when the other wasn’t looking.

Kyungsoo is tugged across the street, led by his wrist until they enter the warmth of the little cafe. Soft wood colours blending into cream walls, the scent of coffee brewing from somewhere in the shop, and the nostalgic memories seeped into the invisible cracks. Coffee cups emitting swirls of steam, beads of condensation rolling down the moist windows, quiet chatter between friends; it slows everything down, relaxing the mind until everything sharp is now soft, corners becoming curves and lines becoming smudges. It even makes the bags under Kyungsoo’s eyes seem more appealing, blending into his smooth skin. ‘I love you,’ Jongin whispers, draping arms over his shoulders and whispering the words softly into his ears.

‘I love you too,’ comes the reply, soaked in less meaning than Kyungsoo had intended. ‘I do.’ He says, almost trying to convince himself rather than Jongin.

Autumn rain patters the windows in a grey drizzle outside, drenched pavements dotted with patches of soil from the undersides of pedestrian’s shoes. It’s a miserable day, and Kyungsoo thinks that it reflects what he feels in his heart. Yet, the pain in his chest shifts slightly, perhaps relenting a little, when Jongin habitually orders his favourite drink. ‘You remembered,’ he says again.

Jongin nods, a little smile playing across his lips, ‘Of course I did, baby.’ He says it out of habit, and instantly feels the pang stabbing him in the gut. Sehun always calls Jongin “baby,” and now the word is ruined, poisoned by the lies of a secret affair. He attempts to steady himself, his smile only briefly twitching, only briefly losing face. But Kyungsoo notices, and the twinge is back in his heart, worse than it had been before.

Eyes burn holes in the table as he looks down, unwilling to ever see Jongin’s expression faltering again. Rising suspicions and unwanted images pop into his mind, but he pushes them all away, assuring himself that all writers are messed up, and he is simply succumbing to dramatic romanticism that he reads in novels.

Jongin’s fingers brush against his when he hands him the coffee, but this time there is no intentional lingering, no pause while the stomach flutters and the heart soars. They stopped indulging in simplistic pleasures a long time ago, but somewhere along the line the spark ran out. Kyungsoo supposes that a spark will either cause a raging flame, or just get stamped out. Little did he know that Sehun, Jongin’s colleague and dance partner, was the one who stepped on their little flicker of fire.

'Tell me about it, then,’ Jongin eases into his seat and abruptly, pouting to blow cooling air onto his coffee. Ripples spread outward from the centre, little waves lapping at the sides of the mug, fingers curled around the pottery as skin absorbs the warmth.

‘About what?’ Kyungsoo asks, only the rounded shape of his eyes visible over the rim of his cup. He looks cute, Jongin thinks.

‘Your book.’

‘What about it?’

‘This is your first book,’ Jongin says, ‘I mean, you’ve written a lot before. But this is going to be your first published book. I’m excited for you. Tell me what it’s about.’

‘Umm...’ Kyungsoo pauses, a flush rising in his cheeks as he looks down to avoid Jongin’s penetrative gaze. ‘It’s about us.’

'Us?’ Jongin repeats, cocking his head.

‘Yeah,’ he admits rather sheepishly, tracing the circles in the wood with his eyes.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well... It’s kind of – our story – but told through the eyes of characters – which represent us – and... I can’t explain it.’ He is becoming frustrated; Kyungsoo has always been better at writing things down than saying them aloud, and in his anger his eyes flit up to meet Jongin’s again. Relief washes over him when he sees Jongin smiling. The latter reaches his hand over and takes Kyungsoo’s fingers in his, gently caressing them, ‘I like that,’ and his tone is so soft, the notes of his utterance so soothing, his murmur so meaningful that it speaks volumes to Kyungsoo’s ears.

Momentarily astounded by the sudden contact – now a rarity for such lengthy time periods in their dwindling relationship – it takes a moment before the older boy scoffs, the kind of incredulous mockery that says you don’t mean that. But Jongin is insistent, only smiling more, lips parting slightly, as he says, ‘Will you let me read it?’

Kyungsoo’s face lifts again, and Jongin actually feels it this time. A little flutter. Not much, just a tiny beat missed from his heart’s regularity. Maybe things will be okay.

‘Yeah,’ Kyungsoo replies, a little whisper amidst the cocktail of conversations going on in the coffee shop.

‘I want details,’ Jongin demands, though it’s delicate.

His husband pauses, trying to form sentences in his head before they spill out of his mouth, and Jongin gives a reassuring over his knuckles, ‘Come on...’ he tapers off at the end, refraining from saying “baby,” again.

After a sigh to emphasise his reluctance, Kyungsoo starts. And he continues on and on, becoming more accustomed to the act of speaking about his writing as he progresses. Jongin is captivated, because Kyungsoo’s voice is mellow and hypnotising, consonants only broken by the smallest of pauses, which seem to add significance to every syllable, and his vowels taper to infinity, drawn out in all the right places and rounded in all the others. Jongin is fascinated, genuinely interested in what his husband has to say.

'...And that’s it,’ Kyungsoo stops, gazing out of the window as steam clings to the edges of the frames and raindrops roll down the outside. He feels like a five-year-old, watching two fall side by side and betting on which one will win the imaginary race.

‘How do you plan to end it?’ Jongin’s chin is resting on the heel of his hand, while his other continues to trace the lines on Kyungsoo’s palm.

‘Something about time,’ Kyungsoo shrugs, watching time tick by on the clock, just over Jongin’s head.

A pause. Several beats. And Jongin’s eyebrows crease with worry, ‘You seem upset.’

Perhaps the resident pain in Kyungsoo’s chest is growing worse, a bad feeling of whatever is to come, a fear of what will come tumbling out of his mouth, ‘I just don’t know if our story will have a happy ending,’ he says, as dismissively as possible, ‘I’m scared.’

Jongin opens his mouth, but his brain has frozen and nothing is said. Time stands on its tiptoes, waiting for him to speak. Nausea riddles his stomach, thinking about Sehun and the affair and all the things he has done wrong in his relationship. Kyungsoo is breaking, and it’s Jongin’s fault.

Thankfully, Kyungsoo keeps talking, saving Jongin from the imminent probability of messing up when he spoke. ‘Time ruins everything. It slips by with barely an indication, and the world – your own little world – diminishes around you while you’re stuck in the centre. It hurts, so much. And I’m scared, Jongin. I’m scared because you’re never home anymore, and you leave me all alone with my thoughts. I’m a writer, Jongin; do you know how messed up my thoughts can get? I’m scared because you come home smelling like cigarettes but you never told me you started smoking again... I’m scared because I don’t sleep anymore. And when I wake up, you’re on the opposite side of the bed. It’s not like it used to be, Jongin... Not like it used to be,’ and then he chokes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jongin croaks, detesting his pathetic apology.

Kyungsoo retracts his hand from beneath Jongin’s quickly, as though the contact is burning him, like it has been burning him this whole time. He looks down, and Jongin knows that he is about to cry. ‘It’s not the same, Jongin,’ he says again, voice wobbling and coming out as a desperate plea.

            And Jongin is lost.

**

From: Oh Sehun

I’ve been thinking about you all day, baby. Did your husband please you like I do?

Jongin can hear the snarl behind the text message, and the reminder that Sehun exists and is a part of Jongin’s life makes him dizzy again. He locks his phone without replying, and tosses it carelessly on the bed he shares with Kyungsoo. Stressed, he grates his hand through his hair, feeling the pain all over.

‘Kyungsoo,’ he calls, deciding to seek comfort and rid himself of such thoughts. The boy’s face peeks around the door, and Jongin just beckons him in. He approaches nervously, and Jongin pulls him the rest of the way. Falling over his feet, Kyungsoo’s weak body collapses into Jongin. They embrace tightly, and Kyungsoo’s eyes grow tight with the strain of resisting tears. He rests his chin on Kai’s broad shoulder, wrapping his arms around the other’s waist as though he never intends to let go. A beat. And another. They remain intertwined, and Jongin wonders whether he relishes this moment, or detests it. He is still thinking about Oh Sehun, and his fingers are prodding at Kyungsoo’s body, feeling every bone beneath his skin. He wants to wince at the fragility of his husband’s body. ‘Hyung, have you eaten?’ He asks.

‘You have been with me all day,’ Kyungsoo responds. ‘You know I have.’

‘No, I meant, have you been eating properly for the last few weeks.’

There is no reply, and Jongin understands that this meant a firm, “no.” At that, Jongin just holds him tighter, clutching at him just the same way they are both clutching at the last strands of their marriage. Don’t leave. Kyungsoo thinks, though he is too unstable to actually form the words on his lips. Don’t leave me. Just stay like this.

Thoughts whip a whirlwind of negativity into Kyungsoo’s mind, and before he can stop it, the first tear falls. He snivels, giving into his depression and breaking into a sob, and another, voice cracking as his shoulders shake. Jongin keeps his hold, fingers through soft hair and murmuring sweet nothings, wondering whether he really means what he is saying. ‘It’s okay,’ he says. It isn’t, he thinks.

‘Do you want me to make you some tea? I know it makes you feel better,’ he pretends that he is acting out of concern, where he is really trying to escape the awkwardness. Jongin doesn’t like it when Kyungsoo cries. He disentangles himself from Kyungsoo when he gives a nod, and disappears off the kitchen, pushing back tears himself.

Silence hands heavy in the air as Kyungsoo stands alone. His legs wobble involuntarily as he stumbles forward a step and topples on to the bed face first. Both nose and mouth buried in the sheets, he wonders whether he could suffocate like this. He wonders if he cares.

A vibration nearby startles him, and he snaps his head up despite the heaviness of his every muscle. Jongin’s phone, he thinks, pondering his next action. It’ll be nothing, he thinks, just me overthinking again. He stares wonderingly at the back of the mobile, and then reaches out, but maybe I just need to prove it to myself.

From: Oh Sehun

What’s up, baby? Is Kyungsoo still with you now? What a shame, I was hoping you could come over and have some fun with me instead

“Baby”? Kyungsoo thinks, wrinkling his nose in disgust. And it dawns on him. Every detail slots into place; the late nights at work, the awkwardness between them – the cigarette smoke wasn’t Jongin’s.

            Anger pulsates through his veins, toxicity dripping into his blood and boiling, bubbling. He pounds a fist into the bed, grunting with pure, concentrated frustration. How could I not realise? He hates everything. Everything. The scent of Jongin on the sheets is making him gag and the thoughts of him with Oh ing Sehun are driving him crazy. Tears roll relentlessly down his cheeks and his bottom lip trembles as he chews on it a little too harshly, surprised that he is not yet bleeding. Maybe Kyungsoo wants to bleed, because maybe the physical pain will ease the emotional one. He cries endlessly, squeezing the phone until the edges dig sharply into his palm. He doesn’t care if it breaks.

‘All right, I’m done,’ Jongin has attempted a cheery voice as he comes back into the room, full cup of tea in hand.

Kyungsoo waves the phone in the air, ‘Jongin, have you been cheating on me?’

Smash.