The next day, Kyungsoo’s head throb with intense pain, signaling another attack of migraine and before he knows it he opens the orange pill bottle again—only to find it empty.

This routine of his goes on every single day and every single day he tries to stop.  But he can’t.  Clutching and drinking from the orange bottle has been his solace and drinking the pills inside it has made him strong enough to face the day.  He does not forget to take a pill from the orange bottle; one in the morning, one in the evening, the doctor said.  When he feels like vomiting because of nostalgia or his chest feels like it is going to explode because it is so cramped or when he feels like jumping off the ledge of your window, just take a pill.  Not exactly the same words but in Kyungsoo’s ear they sound the same.  Every month he forges his doctor’s prescription so he can buy his medicine.

For the first time, Kyungsoo disregards drinking from the bottle.  The migraine subsides to slight, still pounding pain.

He waits for Jongin while putting his house in tiptop shape again: the glasses that were once in disarray now are stacked neatly over one another, the plates were all washed and cleansed, the sink was glistening; the sofa cover was neatly placed over the couch again.  Everything was arranged; the only thing left was for his other half to come.

That day, Jongin didn’t swing by Kyungsoo’s.

Kyungsoo tries to contact the taller but it was no use; the phone was dead and there was no other means of communicating with him except through the device which the smaller throws with frustration on the couch.

He tries countless times to stop worrying.  He tells himself that Jongin is a busy man, that he will swing by when he finishes whatever that project is, that within this day he will hear the doorbell and when he opens the door, he will see his partner bearing a peace gift because he was late.  But things do not always work that way.

There comes a surge of images that flashes through Kyungsoo’s mind, and there is no way he could stop it except to clutch his head tightly, his hair and tugging on it hard as he falls to his knees and weeps.

The next day, after their fall in the ravine, Kyungsoo woke up to a whiteness he was not accustomed to.  He blinked once, twice; squinting was the only way he could recognize where he was.  Lifting his hand proved to be difficult; there was a sharp pain that went with the action.  His lips were dry and cracked and there was just one name that he uttered.

“Jongin…”

Suddenly, there was a flurry of movements next to Kyungsoo, sounds he could only decipher as machine noise and voices and nothing else.  There were people holding his hand, there were those who were asking him how he was and the only thing he could utter was:

“How’s Jongin?”

Then everything went black—again.

The next day he woke up, he was in a regular room, the pain in his hand down to just numbness.  He could now focus on the room and notices that there was someone sitting beside him.  Before he could even utter the name that has been the cause of his worry, the person raised his head and looked at him.

“H—Hi, Kyungsoo.”

“Jo—Jongin —you’re okay! I thought—“

“I’m—I’m not okay.  There’s something you need to know.”

“What—what is it—are you hurt?  Do you have something—“

“Kyungsoo, don’t talk to loud.  You’re talking to thin air—at least, as what it looks to others.”

“W—what?”

“I’m not—aish how to explain this—“the tanned guy ruffled his blonde hair in frustration.

“I—I’m talking to you.  What do you mean you’re not here?”

Then realization hit him, the memories of the accident coming in.

When Kyungsoo initially opened his eyes, he saw Jongin’s head pooling in blood.  It was resting in the dashboard and he eerily looked like he was just sleeping, save for the trickles of blood that were flowing from his wound.  Kyungsoo barely made it out of the car before his adrenaline kicked in.  He tried to pull Jongin out but only succeeded in pulling the other’s arm out before he became aware of something warm trickling from his head.  Kyungsoo took one swipe at his forehead.  His palm produced a red liquid.  His weakness for seeing his own blood, coupled with shock and exhaustion, made him pass out.

 He never knew what happened with Jongin that day.

A soft, almost inaudible voice was heard.

“You—you remember, don’t you?”

Kyungsoo nodded and warm, salty tears from his eyes were the only answer Jongin needed.  The tanned hands of the latter reached out and tried to wipe it away but stopped mere inches from the milky face.

“I want to tell you something, Kyungsoo.”

The doe eyes opened, red rimmed and puffy from crying, but he knew he cannot stop.  Looking straight at Jongin he tried to focus on whatever the latter had to say.

“I love you.”

The mere memory added salt to the injury the older thought was now gone.  Sobs raked his body and everything is just too much to handle. 

He crawls all the way to the kitchen, rummaging the cabinets and getting the pills, hoping one of them would help his cause—or at least, help him temporarily.  Pill after pill after pill was swallowed, not giving a care what drug was placed in his mouth. 

He is pacified, at least for a while.  Sitting with his back on the counter, he shakes with the stark realization of everything—and his mind processes this mere idea that should have been processed a year ago.

Jongin is dead.

The rescuers came in hours after Kyungsoo passed out.  They successfully removed Jongin from being trapped inside the car but it was already too late.  His pulse rate slowly dwindled to nothing while on the ambulance—and he was announced dead on arrival when they got to the hospital. 

The first time the older heard the news, he broke down.  Who would have thought that Kyungsoo’s heart and soul and mind embodied was now gone with just a flick of the wrist?  Months after the accident, there was no sign that he was to recover from it: depression was very evident; suicidal attempts so frequent the doctor suggested he be put in a mental institution to be monitored.  Kyungsoo put on the best show he did.  After 6 months of treatment he was thrown back to the real world, seemingly on his right mind.  Even after the prescribed period, he continued drinking the prescribed antidepressants which led him to being drug dependent.

A few months after landing the job in the magazine, his door bell rang.  When he opened the door, before him held a sight to behold—Jongin, alive, good as new.  Thus they started rekindling their romance, and before long Kyungsoo has accepted that Jongin was breathing and well.

Kyungsoo realizes that everything was and is just a fragment of his imagination—Jongin going to his house, Jongin accompanying him in eating, Jongin walking hand in hand beside Han River.  He starts thinking that even the same life he was living was just some trick of his mind; a beautiful trap placed on his way, the gullibility and vulnerability of him responding to it.

His heart pace suddenly quickens and he gasps for breath yet again as blood flows from his nose.  He coughs and his milky hand is covered with blood too—and he knew something inevitable was happening, something that was beyond him—even beyond his life.  Clutching his heart, he closed his eyes hoping that everything just stop and turn time around; stop and freeze the moment where Jongin was still alive and with him.

There was a bright light that was emanating from the ceiling.  His mind was slowly shutting down from everything—and it was in his last few moments—gasping for breath, grasping for his life , that he blinked twice and saw Jongin standing in front of him, reaching for his hand.

He stretched out his hand and held Jongin’s outstretched one.   Do Kyungsoo then exhaled his last.