If all strangers in the world were parallel lines that never touched, and friends were lines that somehow managed to cross each other for an amount of time before continuing on in their separate directions, there must have been a point where Kyungsoo and Jongin’s lines were melded into one.

 

Dear Jongin,

The man sat in the grass, staring down at the blank paper that lay atop his open palms as though it would self-translate the emotions that he wanted to express. It was difficult to put emotions like these into words. Emotions that had pounded his mind and strangled his throat, and swirled in the air at all of the wrong times.

“Right now is always the wrong time,” his thoughts slipped through his lips in a soft whisper as he reached for the pen at his side, “But right now is all there ever is.” And so he began.

I am sitting next to you right now.

 

The two of them were the definition of fate, because they clicked perfectly.

This predetermined friendship budded between the two teenagers one warm July in the year 1997, when the bronze-skinned dancer moved in two streets over from the wide-eyed boy. Before the hot season had begun to fade, they were already inseparable, as every aspect of them matched perfectly - the only discrepancy was Jongin’s love for rhythm in contrast to Kyungsoo’s love for melody. And even that sole difference seemed to be a part of destiny’s work: together, they were a perfect duet.

 

I can still remember the summer we met.

The doorframe erupted in trembles after the front door slammed with a striking BANG.

A thirteen-year-old Kyungsoo’s eyes shot open and heart dropped to the pit of his torso as he was jolted out of his peaceful slumber. It took several seconds for his mind and body to correspond with intuition and, once his senses were somewhat awake, he artlessly rolled off of the couch into a seated position on the floor with an expression of pure confusion.

His gaze shifted in the direction of the raucous noise, which had surprised him, and landed on Jongin in front of the door, which did not surprise him. He was only relatively surprised to see that Jongin was filthy: the entire left portion of the boy's shirt was splattered with a crusty, brown liquid that didn't appear pleasing to the eye; and, after a few idle seconds, a smell wafted over that didn't appeal to the nose.

“What the hell is on your shirt?” Was the first question that came out of Kyungsoo’s mouth, and he thought about how, if a duck ever learned to speak human language, it would sound like this, because his index finger and thumb were tightly plugging his nose in an effort to block any more of the odoriferous air from tainting his senses.

After a stifled chuckle at his own thought, he continued with a reprimanding tone, “You are going to break that miserable door one of these days.”

“Mud, this car splashed me while I was walking to your house,” Jongin ran his slim fingers through his hair, looking so pleased with himself that Kyungsoo wondered if perhaps there was a toxic substance in that mud, “And nah, the door’s fine.”

“Why didn’t you just go back and change?”

“Because my house is, like, five light-years away.”

“Minutes.”

“What?”

“Five. Freaking. Minutes to get from my house to yours. You didn’t need to bring all this--” he gestured at the other boy’s current state with his left hand, “Into my peaceful home.”

The corner of Jongin’s lip curved up in a slight expression that closely resembled a smirk before shrugging and kicking off his battered sneakers, effectively managing to create a small cloud of light dust in the air below him. And the boy on the floor could only sigh as he watched, because there was absolutely no point in trying to educate Jongin on the well, dirtiness, of dirt. At least his shoes were off, right? That alone was enough to be grateful for.

The caramel-skinned male proceeded to head down the narrow hallway that branched off into bedrooms and, within seconds, the wall between said hallway and the living room hindered Kyungsoo’s ability to continue watching Jongin's movements. And because physically following him would mean getting up, which he did not want to do, he called out a warning, “Don’t you dare get that nasty crap anywhere near my room!”

Jongin hollered back a muffled ‘Too late!’ from the paler one’s closet and emerged minutes later wearing a grey button down t-shirt that had pointed lines running all over it in an impossible web (at least, Jongin believed that there were several different lines on the shirt; Kyungsoo, as he could never follow one of the string-like shapes to an end, believed that it was just one very long line that stretched and coiled within itself).

“That’s my favorite t-shirt,” he whined, subconsciously forming wrinkles across his small nose bridge at the thought of Jongin’s skin, tainted with pungent mud (or whatever that stuff had been), making any sort of contact with his prized top.

“Mine too,” Jongin pretended as though he didn’t understand the passive-aggressiveness behind the simple statement, and just smiled innocently before adding a discreet wink.

 

We were so close in high school.

Jongin and Kyungsoo’s names went together like peanut butter and jelly. They sat together at lunch, walked to school together, walked home together, laughed at the same jokes, and wore the same clothes (in fact, the two of them had come to a relationship where, with or without consent, they traded clothing so often that it was impossible to distinguish whether a shirt had primarily belonged to one or the other).

And the two of them were incredibly familiar with the other’s parents as well. Sometimes, if Jongin was out when Kyungsoo’s parents weren’t home from work yet, the latter would still walk two blocks over anyways and help Mr. and Mrs. Kim cook dinner.

Over the first two years of high school, Mrs. Kim and Kyungsoo made every single meal that they came upon in the thin book of traditional recipes that she kept in the utensil drawer, and if the cabinets were void of the correct ingredients, they would head off to the store and become distracted by how diverse all of the spices looked together on the shelves. (And sometimes they'd even buy one without even knowing what it was, because the color would look nice sitting on the counter)

"Your son is beautiful," the cashier said to Mrs. Kim one day in February.

Mrs. Kim said, "Thank you." and winked at Kyungsoo, who burst out laughing.

From that moment on, Kyungsoo referred to Jongin's mother as 'Umma,' as their own inside joke.

 

When Kyungsoo decided to stay for dinner, the two adults would comfortably include him in their conversations: in January, how those damn foreigners are so disruptive in the streets on the 1^st; in April, how gay rights are beginning to spread and those homouals better keep their disease away from our families; in May, how Ms. Jang next-door has the prettiest flowers out front, and aren’t those yellow ones just magnificent?

Freshman year fleeted quickly, sophomore year passed even sooner, and junior year, inward echoes of the evening conversations passed around on the Kims’ dinner table convinced him that he didn’t like the way that new senior Luhan let his soft hair hang in front of his features. He didn’t like the way the boy’s voice would tickle his senses like a feathery melody during group projects. He didn’t like it when their hands brushed in the hallways, and it made him sick when the blond boy would wink at him through the window during science class. And when their soft lips pressed together in the music room after school, hands exploring new territory beneath the clothing layers, Kyungsoo never arched his back out of lust, because it was 1999 and his parents despised homouality, so he was not gay.

Sometime in junior year which neither of them could exactly pinpoint, Jongin began to grow upwards and outwards, nearing six feet tall at the end of the year, and developing much broader shoulders. Likewise, the two seventeen-year-olds could no longer steal clothes from each other anymore, causing their styles to shift in separate directions.

Senior year, Luhan was off in college somewhere and Kyungsoo forgot about him. The feelings that he’d felt (or didn't feel, as he somehow managed to convince himself) still churned around in the air, nipping at his mind like little mosquitoes, but he tried his hardest to brush them off.

When exams came around, Jongin and Kyungsoo studied for hours and hours on end. They both liked flashcards better than printed study guides, and in their essays they talked about their love for the arts: Kyungsoo focused on his love concerning voices harmonizing in the melody, and Jongin emphasized his precocious talents when it came to coordinating movements with the rhythmic vibrations beneath.

They were both admitted into the National University of Arts, a school that was a favorable three (or four, varying on traffic) hour drive from their houses; and so their paths continued to weave together in a straight line.

 

During the summer, Jongin let Kyungsoo win every time they played cards.

The two eighteen-year-olds would sit on the ligneous surface that was the Kim’s front porch for hours, staring at fanned-out plastic rectangles between their fingers with more concentration than an Olympic athlete. They didn’t talk much in these sessions, and attempted to remain as focused as possible on the game at hand.

Whenever Jongin called out ‘UNO’ Kyungsoo would shout back, “you’re such a cheater!” and Jongin would not play his last card, even if he could. Kyungsoo would shift his position for the fifth or sixth time and squint his eyes at the symbols and numbers in front of him as though it would give him better concentration to be on his knees rather than criss-crossed.

Sometimes the wind would blow through and, over the months, many cards were lost through the slits of the creaky boards of the porch, or blown out of sight by the wispy air. They only had one eight left by August, and that eight became the most important card of the deck, as they would attach new rules to it every time the game restarted.

When they played rocks paper scissors to decide who would deal first, Jongin always made scissors first.

Kyungsoo let him win each time.

 

And do you remember Yujin?

Kyungsoo didn’t like coffee. He liked the smell of coffee, the idea of coffee, the golden glow that emitted from cafés once the brightest star in the sky had slipped beneath the dimming horizon to make room for the smaller, twinkling ones—but he didn’t like the taste of coffee in itself.

Yujin was also a singer. She was an artist too, although not the kind that paints or draws; instead, she considered herself an appreciator of the arts (which, she explained, was a sort of art all on it’s own). One day he found himself caught up in a timeless conversation with her—the kind of conversation that seems to not have a beginning because it’s been continuing on for so long. And, whenever they met, the conversation picked up where it had left off, and so neither did it have an end.

Yujin liked to drink coffee, and so Kyungsoo decided that he would learn to appreciate it as though it was art. Not the drink itself, of course, but the way the milk swirled in white patterns before mixing in, the way that the hot cup felt beside his skin, the little bubbles on top of the to-go cups that he pressed in for irony: if he was drinking a caffeinated latte, for example, he would press decaf and tea, and vice versa. He didn’t find it very funny, but Yujin smiled at him when he did it, so it seemed like the thing to do.

Jongin didn’t like the small, graceful singer that Kyungsoo was hanging around. She wore beanies, and Kyungsoo never liked beanies; she drank coffee and Kyungsoo never liked coffee; she smoked and Kyungsoo has asthma. Everything about them didn’t seem like it was meant to be and yet, they looked still managed to look well-matched together.

Additionally, Kyungsoo's relationship may have had something to do with Jongin's spot on the varsity dance team (no freshman had ever made it on before, and Yujin's older sister was team captain). So Jongin tried his best to harvest his emotions inside and tolerate the girl's prescence.

Kyungsoo asked Yujin out because it seemed like the thing to do. And that was that.

Jongin and Kyungsoo spent less time together than they used to, as dancing was exhausting and songwriting was time-consuming. Neither one of them paid very much attention to it, as nothing could be done.

 

I think it was at night, when you held my hand for the first time.

It was one of their luckier days, when dance team ceased for a week and the song Kyungsoo and Yujin had been working on was nearing completion, and there were many, many stars in the sky.

The two best friends were in Kyungsoo’s room because his roommate, Yixing, was out in the frat house doing god-knows-what. Not that they would have minded if he was in the room because Yixing was a sweet guy, but it was always nice to have a little silence.

Jongin was standing in the center of the room, and streaks of moonlight from the window shone across his chiseled, sharp features as though he was predestined to stand there in that moment. As though he was a planned masterpiece. Kyungsoo was the art appreciator, sitting on his bed, examining Jongin, and thinking about how he was not thinking about how attractive he was.

First they talked about colors, and Kyungsoo recited a perspective that Yujin had once brought up: that color didn’t really exist. That objects in themselves have no color until they reach the light, where it can reflect to give them dyed wavelengths. The world in itself is truly only black and white, he explained. Jongin didn’t voice his opinion, mainly because he didn’t have one and, if he did, it was about Yujin and not the colors. They then talked about the sky, about how dark it was (Kyungsoo thought it looked darker when there were stars out, and Jongin told him the night sky can’t change shades, that’s ridiculous).

They talked about how they couldn’t see the present universe from Earth because light doesn’t travel fast enough, and the stars they observed may not even exist at the present moment. The night sky was a window to the past, they agreed, and neither of them knew how exactly to feel about that.

“Do you believe that there is a God?” Jongin asked, because it seemed like a topic that should be brought up in conversations such as these.

“I don’t know,” Kyungsoo replied simply and honestly, “Do you?”

“Maybe.” He walked over to Kyungsoo and the upright masterpiece molded into a seated one, like the copper ones on benches in the park that make lonely people look less lonely even though they aren’t real. Except this one wasn’t in the park, it was right next to him on the bed. And whether or not Jongin, or this very moment, was real or a dream – well, in Kyungsoo's mind, that was entirely debatable.

Kyungsoo thought about how his heart wasn’t beating really fast, because the Kims (as well as his own parents) had already explained on many occasions that it wasn’t supposed to be. And, he was in love with his girlfriend Yujin anyways.

The two eighteen-year-olds allowed the beguiling silence to twist and twirl between them like one of Jongin’s dance routines; it didn’t touch either one, however, because each was stuck in a noise-filled world of their own. The main source of noise being their hearts, which were beating in time with their own relative clocks. Kyungsoo’s pulse was rapid and light like a pocketwatch, whereas Jongin’s was a grandfather clock resounding deep and boisterous in his chest. Both had the same effect.

“Jongin?” He tasted the name on his tongue and it was a transient piece of sweet cotton candy. He loved cotton candy.

“Mm?”

Kyungsoo didn’t say anything else, nor did he need to. Jongin was gazing at him with watchful eyes that had the whole sky in them, and Kyungsoo was fixedly staring back with a round, innocent expression and eyes that displayed his mind’s entire agenda: Jongin’s reflection.

Jongin reached out first and gently lifted Kyungsoo’s stiff hand up from the comforter, placing it on his own knee, and began to trace along the thin crevices on the delicate palm. His hands against Kyungsoo’s were soft and hard, cold and warm, all at once. Or maybe it was just the older boy’s temperature which was varying uncontrollably.

Jongin liked the effect that he had on Kyungsoo. He liked to experience the pale boy’s cheeks filling with tinted bashfulness because of movements he was making, because of his gaze and, even if for a very small split second, as the white hand was enfolded within the darker one, Kyungsoo could belong to him.

 

I don’t remember what happened. I think I started it, probably over something stupid.

 

The school year was nearing an end, and Yujin and Kyungsoo went to the coffee shop together every single morning. He smelled his coffee, looked at it, pressed down on the buttons for irony, and made her smile. She purchased a dark purple stripe that ran down the side of her head and exaggerated her artistic image (clip-on, of course, because she didn’t believe in hair dye. He asked her once why she didn’t believe in hair dye, yet she still smoked, and she answered that she didn’t believe in smoking either. He gathered from her tone that any further questions would not be welcome and so that was that), and she liked it when Kyungsoo created a Helter Skelter with it around his finger, so he did. She also liked it when he held her in his arms, when he leaned over and kissed her in the middle of a sentence, when he told her how beautiful she looked, and when he spoke the three words that made her run her small hands through his hair and smile as though she was on the top of the world.

And so he did all of those things and more.

And Jongin watched from the side.

“Hey, do you want to eat lunch together?”

“I’m with Yujin in the music room."

"Oh."

"You should come join us!”

Yujin tried to be friends with Jongin, yet her techniques were not very effective, as she tended to just feed him conversation starters concerning topics that he couldn’t possibly give less s about.

“Do you like the Arctic Monkeys?”

“Monkeys don’t live in the arctic.”

She looked at Kyungsoo in the same way a child would look to her mother to help out when the remote control car ran out of batteries.

“They’re a band,” Kyungsoo explained, “If you want, I can give you the album I have in my room.”

Music taste could thus be crossed off their list of shared interests.

Jongin eventually stopped eating lunch in the music room.

 

The feather that broke the camel’s back, however, was something much more severe than being a third wheel.

“Kyungsoo, I got you a front row ticket to the dance show on Friday,” Jongin pulled a rectangular piece of paper out the back pocket of his jeans and waved it around with a smile that stretched far beyond his usual smirk of amusement.

“Really? Woah, thanks!” Kyungsoo plucked it out of the air and his mouth formed a heart-shaped smile.

 

Later that evening, while the bronze-skinned boy was preparing to go over his moves for the rehearsal in the vast dance studio, his cell phone filled up the blank space with an echoing ringtone.

“Jongin, I can’t make it to the show.”

“What are you talking about?” A strange feeling that started off small began to expand at the pit of his stomach, and the inexplicability of it was only making it more severe.

“Yujin reserved a table for us at a poetry slam that night. She’s performing, so I can’t miss it,” a sigh resonated through the receiver, but it wasn’t enough.

“But I’m performing too,” Jongin's voice was the soundtrack of disappointment, “Can’t you at least do this for me?”

“You say that like I haven’t been here for you,” Kyungsoo’s tone was defensive and sharp, “School is ending in a week, and this is the last time I’ll see my girlfriend before she goes back home. She lives in Japan, you know.”

“But you’re always doing everything with her! You are joined at her waist every minute of every day, so why is coming to my dance recital so unthinkable?”

“Jongin, I have watched you practice that dance thousands of times –”

“You’ve seen me practice my solo, not the whole routine,” he pointedly corrected.

“Then show me the whole routine some other time!”

“Get her to show you her stupid poem some other time! She can read it by herself,” he countered, "I can’t perform all of the parts in the routine by myself!”

“Her poem isn’t stupid.”

“Neither is my dance.”

“I never said it was.”

A pause that existed for several seconds felt much longer before Kyungsoo continued.

“Stop being so immature. You’ll have hundreds of dance recitals in the future and I’ll attend them all for compensation.”

“But this is my first one here.”

“Jesus, Jongin! We live next door to each other, for ’s sake! I will be right by you all summer long, so think about someone else’s needs for once.”

The feeling was no longer in the pit of Jongin's stomach. By now, it had crept all the way up to his heart, and triggered a throbbing sensation. It was swirling in his lungs and he couldn’t speak so he just hung up.

 

I’m glad that we figured it out.

They didn’t speak for the last week of the school year but, during the summer, there was a change of heart.

Kyungsoo showed up at Jongin’s house with a deck of cards one day and they ended up playing Chinese Ten, then Badugi, then Egyptian Ratscrew (Kyungsoo’s newly-discovered favorite). It was awkward and foreign at first, but as the fourth game rolled around, Kyungsoo was back to yelling and accusing Jongin of cheating even though cheating wasn’t really possible in a game of luck.

Jongin let Kyungsoo win the game, and Kyungsoo let Jongin win the rocks-paper-scissors at the beginning.

At one point, Ms. Kim exited the front door to determine what all of the noise was about, “Ah, Kyungsoo! You’ve finally come home, I was prepared to send out the police team to retrieve my lost son.”

“Don’t worry Umma, I’ll be coming around a lot more,” he smiled.

“Hey, is she your mom?” The corners of Jongin’s lips slowly downturned with mock irritation as he looked up at his mother, “Is that your son? I’m your son!”

She laughed and went back inside. Kyungsoo smiled a bashful smile that made Jongin’s heart feel light (but he ignored it).

Every morning, Jongin and Kyungsoo headed out to the park down the road. The shorter boy would hum, the taller boy would smile at him, and they never went to get coffee together because Kyungsoo finally recalled that he didn’t even like coffee.

They spent the days at their part-time jobs in the convenience store eight blocks over, because eighteen-year-olds should be responsible enough to pay for some things on their own.

Every evening, they would go back to one of their houses: Jongin’s if the activity of the night was Egyptian Ratscrew, Kyungsoo’s if they wanted to rest on the couch and watch a movie, usually action because it didn’t make Kyungsoo cry (like the romantic dramas) and it didn’t make Jongin roll his eyes (like the comedies).

 

You told me not to think about what happened, but how could I forget a moment like that?

One dark night in August, they found themselves sitting on a bench in the park. And, it was that night where the starry moment recreated itself.

“Jongin, you look like a statue,” Kyungsoo remarked as the other boy began to draw shapes in his hand.

“A handsome statue?” he inquired in a voice that managed to be earnest and lighthearted simultaneously.

“Very.”

Both of them looked up at the stars, and Kyungsoo told Jongin about how he couldn’t look up at the night sky anymore without thinking about how the stars they see are from the past.

“Do you want to hear a funny story?” Jongin asked randomly, refocusing his gaze to the other's palm.

Kyungsoo nodded.

“When I was young, I had two theories about what happened when people passed away,” he started, “The first was that their souls turned into stars, like in the Lion King. I thought something along the lines: the brighter the star, the purer the soul.”

“What was the second?”

“Dreams.” He smiled and, without raising his head, shifted his twinkling eyes up to meet the curious, wide ones that were staring right back, "They say every extra in your dream is a stranger who you've seen before, right? Someone like the weary mother trying to keep track of her children at the supermarket, or the chubby man who held the door for you when you walked into the library."

Jongin waited for a sign of confirmation, and Kyungsoo nodded for him to continue, "I didn't believe that when I was little. Most of the time, I felt like the people in my dreams were dead and had nowhere else to go."

It was that moment when Kyungsoo reached up his unoccupied hand and placed it against Jongin’s opposing cheek, turning the boy’s head to fully face him. Electrical sparks shot from his palm into the smooth caramel cheek beneath it, and the boy with the fuller lips leaned down to meet the other’s; it felt light, experimental—and even softer than the trail the boy’s finger was leaving on the Kyungsoo’s hand.

But Jongin pulled back quickly and told Kyungsoo to forget that it ever happened.

Kyungsoo tried.

It worked on surface-level, but the feeling that came when his lips touched Jongin’s regenerated each time their eyes met.

 

You got the motorcycle sophomore year.

Sophomore year was a breeze, socially speaking.

Yujin left for two weeks to study abroad in America, and Kyungsoo spent a great portion of the time with Jongin. When Yujin was there, it was the coffee shop every morning but, with Jongin, every morning was something new.

“What the , dude?” Jongdae, Kyungsoo’s roommate, exclaimed when Jongin stepped into the room at 4:30am. Jongdae and Kyungsoo didn’t typically get along well because their living habits contradicted each other's greatly, but this was something that Kyungsoo couldn’t argue with.

Light from the hallway willingly brimmed the room and Jongdae continued to groan angrily, proceeding to cover his face with a pillow and mutter in a purposefully comprehensible voice, “I am going to kill you, Kyungsoo.”

Jongin ignored the reactions to his surprise visit and excitedly gestured for his best friend to follow him. Kyungsoo, befuddled and tired, didn’t think to change his clothes or brush his hair, and clad with basketball shorts and a plain white t-shirt (contrary to his typical jeans-and-button-up-shirt dress) he stumbled out the door.

“Are you high?” was the first question that slipped from his mouth, in a somewhat irritated and raspy morning voice that Jongin reluctantly found quite attractive.

And when he saw what Jongin dragged him out for, he repeated it less as an insult and more with growing caution, “Seriously, are you high, Jongin? Are you intoxicated in any way?”

It was a motorcycle, inconveniently parked in the middle of the pathway (not that many people were out at this time, but even so). Kyungsoo didn’t know the first thing about classifying motorcycles, or even how to describe them; but it looked, in a word, fast.

Jongin picked up the two helmets sitting nearby and explained quickly, “My uncle bought a new one last week, and sent this old one to me.”

Because he was fatigued and perplexed, Kyungsoo didn’t question it.

Kyungsoo pretended that the thin white t-shirt which stood as a barrier between his hands and Jongin's torso was a steel wall, and Jongin pretended that his inclined heartbeat was solely due to the speed of the vehicle barreling down the nearly vacant streets.

“You can open your eyes now."

Kyungsoo smiled because Jongin had known that his eyes were closed before even turning around.

“Jongin, it’s beautiful...”

It was.

The motorcycle was parked directly off the side of the road, and merely ten steps away was a breathtaking river bank. The grass ceased after five steps and beyond lay only rocks, pebbles, and gallons upon gallons of water. Kyungsoo’s mind was void of reason and so he didn’t think to remove his helmet, just continued a bit further down the asphalt road. Jongin watched him walk away in the same way a proud father might watch his son.

“Jongin! Get over here!” The smaller boy’s voice called out from a point further down the road. He jumped up and down like an excited three-year-old as he shouted, and Jongin smiled harder, shaking his head as he followed down the path (and making sure to take his helmet off first).

A bridge stretched over the river, leading to the other side of the town and, inevitably, more houses. And on that bridge, there was no railing to prevent cars from falling off. Instead, there was a short, yet voluminous stone wall that Kyungsoo preferred to the typical metal railing because it nicely complimented the pebbles on the shore. Additionally, there was a breach in that stone wall big enough for four, maybe five, people to sit on and dangle their feet over the edge, which is precisely what Kyungsoo was doing when Jongin finally reached him.

The water accelerated by at a brisk pace below, and Kyungsoo fell in love with the sounds that it generated: the soft whishing against the rock and the splashing as it toppled over itself again and again, were mesmerizingly therapeutic to the ear. He watched his feet swing back and forth above the water and felt the corners of his mouth begin to turn upwards because they appeared so small.

“Kyungsoo, look up,” Jongin's voice was dazed and happy.

They sat there together, feet over the side of the bridge, and watched the sun slowly peek up from below the fiery horizon.

 

The summer between sophomore and junior year came and went. Time on the walls stopped when they looked at each other, and innocent pecks on the lips came and fleeted on whims, attempting to push down the feelings that both of them were trying to ignore. The light contact between mouths was a temporary solution to a perpetual problem, however, and the two of them only suceeded in causing the emotions to grow.

Both of them landed jobs at the supermarket down the street, which paid better than their previous work at the convenience store, to pass time like the bored nineteen-year-olds they were. When they were sent to unpack boxes in the storage room, they would sometimes sneak a granola bar or two.

Jongin brought his old deck of cards one day, and it became routine to play when the managers weren’t looking. They liked to play Crazy Eights during that time because it typically didn’t take very long to finish a game. And because there was only one eight left in the deck, they renamed it Crazy Sevens (which didn’t quite have the same ring to it).

 

I made a mistake junior year.

Junior year went by like the river—straight, fast, and a little bumpy.

Jongin’s roommate was a transfer student named Sehun who made it onto the dance team in record time. He was from across the country, and had skipped a grade so was a year younger than all of the others. His age didn't detract from his maturity on any level, however; he was very wise, very smart, and very perfect in all of his classes (perhaps even more so than the others).

Jongin took quite a liking to him.

Because Kyungsoo still spent the majority of his lunches in the practice room with Yujin, Jongin took the liberty of eating outside of the dance studio with Sehun.

Kyungsoo didn’t like the new boy. He was too perfect, too robotic to match a boy like Jongin. Yet, at the same time, they seemed like the type of people who were meant to be friends: the rooming arrangement, the love for dance, and even an identical sense of clothing taste - all things that Kyungsoo himself didn't even share with his best friend. And for some reason, it made him feel weird.

 

Yujin loved the two weeks in America so much that she decided to go a second time. This time, not for a mere fourteen days, but for two entire months. Kyungsoo kissed her a lot before she left, and reminded her several times that all American boys were players, so she better not leave him. (Though, those words were generated from experience, from his knowledge of Yujin, what she liked to hear and didn’t like to hear—not his heart). And his heart didn’t drastically plummet as she stepped off to her plane, as it was supposed to.

It almost seemed that Jongin and Kyungsoo were off-campus more than they were on-campus during those two months, as they would step off to ride somewhere unknown on Jongin’s motorcycle the second that classes and practices ceased. And Jongin even began to bail on his lunches with Sehun in order to eat with the older boy.

At first, it was the bridge where they would sit in the breached wall and smile at each other. Then, it was a beautiful park downtown where they would lie in the grass and cloud-gaze. East and west, north and south, anywhere and everywhere was perfect for the two of them as long as they were together.

 

Jongin purchased a studio apartment on a random spike of energy. It was in close proximity to the school; by motorcycle, the two buildings were only ten minutes apart - five if he was late for something. He wasn't quite sure why he'd decided to buy the apartment; the dorm life was fine, his roommate Sehun was respectful and friendly, and his spot on campus was conveniently near the dance studio.

Perhaps Jongin just wanted a change, a fresh headstart on his adult life. It wasn't entirely unreasonable, after all.

And Kyungsoo fully supported his decision (mainly because it took away one of the aspects Jongin shared with Sehun).

They spent a large deal of time in the apartment; even though Jongin's only items were a desk, a closet, and a bed (along with occasional posters that he'd put up for a bit of color), it still appeared very inviting to the two of them and both loved it.

"I think you should get a new mattress," Kyungsoo remarked candidly as he eased down onto the comforter, shifting uncomfortably to avoid the metal springs that pressed onto his under-thigh.

Kyungsoo looked down at his red converse and wondered why he didn't take his shoes off at the door. Maybe he was distracted by the weight of the backpack he’d carried in. One of the laces was untied, and the white faded into a dark brown, creating an ombre look that must have been the effect of unknowingly dragging it behind him on the ground. He felt sorry towards it, in a way, and -

Jongin was drawing circles in his palm.

The inane remarks in his mind about his shoelace flew away and dispersed, and he focused only on Jongin. His eyes redirected to fixate on their hands, where the gradation of their skin tones made the circling action looked like coffee being mixed into milk.

A soft hand landed on the underside of his chin, and tilted it up to face the coffee-toned boy.

Jongin's lips were the rhythm and the pace, the possessive guide that directed Kyungsoo on how to follow along with his light, repetitive melody.

The song they created was slow and profound, each angle tried and each touch felt. Jongin's hands were warmly massaging the back of his partner's neck, and each of Kyungsoo's hands were placed on one side of Jongin's jaw, feeling even the slightest nuances as the bone moved, sharpening as the kiss deepened and softening when they needed air.

In the new apartment, on the old creaky bed, Kyungsoo and Jongin savored each other as though it was their last day on Earth.

It was then that Kyungsoo should have known.

Little pecks on the lips triggered by the right moments under the stars, followed by Jongin's husky voice asking Kyungsoo to forget about it tomorrow, could be ignored. They lay out of breath that evening as well, on top of the sheets with both of their shirts somehow having ended up on the floor, with the same deep voice commanding “Let’s forget this ever happened."

Jongin's statement shouldn't have been obeyed.

But it was, and neither of the two addressed what had happened.

 

Yujin returned the next week with a bright grin and lust for Kyungsoo’s touch. Jongin was disconcerted, as though his favorite story had just cut off without an ending, and Kyungsoo was heavily at odds - both because he knew how he felt and because he didn’t.

She came back one night at seven o'clock, and the two of them sat on her bed beaming at each other (Yujin generated the beam, and Kyungsoo was a mirror because that's all he could do for her). They talked about her time in the foreign country, about how there is so much diversity there and how she has blonde friends with gorgeous names like Sabrina and Chloe.

He assured her that nothing had happened while she was gone, and felt bad because he didn't feel bad about lying. The bridge, the park, and the apartment just didn't seem right to mention because they belonged to Jongin and Kyungsoo alone.

She taught him a sentence in English: “I want to kiss you.”

He didn’t try to pronounce it after hearing the translated meaning and just pressed his lips against hers instead, in a light and half-hearted way. When he was about to pull away from her, she interlocked her slim fingers with his soft hair and whispered, “Keep going.”

He instigated a kiss against her puffed lips once more, with more vehemence this time, and then pecked her jaw, her neck, her collar bone. But his lips on hers were all just sounds, not a song like the contact with Jongin had been. Her body trembled with ectasy as his lips shot electricity through her veins and her spine formed a crescent, head thrown back and stomach pressed against his, and she smiled at him with an expression that he didn’t know how to return.

It wasn’t like it was the first time they’d done this, though: after a bit of alcohol and an empty room, Kyungsoo knew how to go through the motions. But today, it felt like betrayal; not only to her, but also to Jongin. And to himself.

This was set up to be different than the hollow that they'd previously had. She’d been away for two months, thinking about him, refusing romantic advances for him, and loving him with all of her heart. And now, as she stared through his eyes with an expression of pure love, he finally realized that he hadn't been doing the same.

She slipped off her shirt, then his, and he just stared past her at the clock ticking on the wall.

Jongin walked into Kyungsoo’s room the night that Yujin came back with a motorcycle helmet in each hand and a bright smile plastered across his face.

“Is something wrong?” Yujin furrowed her eyebrows in utter concern, tilted her head to the right, and gently grazed his shoulder with her fingertips. The twenty-year-old boy curved his lips in what he hoped resembled a smile (but, at this point, he couldn't tell) down at her and shook his head, unable to admit into her loving eyes that their whole relationship had been one-sided from the start.

She nodded acceptingly, relieved.

He swiftly unstrapped her bra and pinned her down onto the bed so that he could get this over with quickly.

The doorknob clicked as it turned, and Yujin swiftly snatched up a pillow to cover her upper body with. Her eyes refocused on the beautiful man towering above her with wide eyes.

Jongin left Kyungsoo’s room the night that Yujin came back with a motorcycle helmet in each hand, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and eyes threatening to leak the stinging truth onto his cheekbones.

 

I shouldn’t have acted like nothing happened.

The summer nested between junior and senior year began awkwardly, because Kyungsoo and Jongin had yet to address what happened.

“I’m sorry about walking in on you and Yujin, I should’ve knocked,” Jongin mentioned it out of the blue one day while they were sitting on his front porch.

“I’m sorry too.”

“About what?”

Kyungsoo shrugged slightly, but not in a way that brushed off the apology. He didn’t take it back because he was sorry; he just had yet to face the truthful reason why.

They played cards one last time, and the final eight - coincidentally the eight of hearts - was swept away in the wind. When Kyungsoo got home, he cried, because it would be gone forever.

They didn’t play cards again that summer, because it felt silly to be two twenty-year-olds yelling at each other over Egyptian Ratscrew on the front porch.

The time in the evenings, which had once been reserved by their games, was now replaced with strolls in the park and motorcycle rides.

Kyungsoo found a second part time job as a waiter during the day and, by the end of the summer, he had enough money to invest in an apartment for senior year of university. It was only ten minutes away from Jongin's, and just twenty minutes away from the school (which was fine, because he always woke up early anyways).

Jongin helped him move and unpack many, many boxes in his pile. Of course, because the two of them were not willing to make more than two three-hour trips from the Do’s house in Kyungsoo’s father’s old SUV, they ended up with half of the space decorated and the other half open for interpretation. Kyungsoo’s personal interpretation was ‘The Demi-Room’—a work of modern art—whereas Jongin just referred to it as ‘laziness.’

“But if you just cover your left eye, and turn a little bit to the right, it looks fine.” Jongin remarked with a mischievous smile as he leaned against the wall with one foot propped up.

“Shut up,” Kyungsoo feigned taken offense.

Jongin formed his signature half-smirk and directed it at Kyungsoo, stepping closer to the shorter boy and, once again, letting the silence in the room twist and swirl around them as though it was following one of Jongin’s ballet routines.

Kyungsoo bent down into a seated position on his mattress, which was only concealed by a thin layer of white sheets, because they hadn’t unpacked the comforter yet. Jongin took the place next to him, and Kyungsoo’s cheeks reddened as he vaguely recalled that this was how he and Yujin began before the incident.

“Kyungsoo,” Jongin spoke his name with the deep voice that caused the mentioned boy to melt upon hearing.

“Yeah?”

Jongin’s breath was fresh and smelled faintly of the pizza they’d stopped and eaten on the road. Jongin’s eyes were dark and brown and staring into Kyungsoo’s with an intensity that the latter pretended not to love. Jongin’s mocha palm was inching closer to the milky one beside it, and Jongin’s body smelled of aromatic cologne and Jongin, Jongin. Jongin. Jongin was all there was at the moment and the silence was swirling and the sun was setting...

And Kyungsoo turned away.

“What do you like about Yujin?” Jongin asked quietly, and what he wanted to say was why did you turn away from me but those words were stuck in his throat, obstructed by his Adam’s apple.

“I like that she has a purple stripe in her hair,” Kyungsoo started and he wondered whether he was trying to convince Jongin or himself (yet, perhaps he already knew the answer), “I like that she makes me appreciate coffee, even if I don’t drink it. I like that she sings well and that she likes it when I sing to her. I like that she waits for me, that she wants me to be with her, that she says what she thinks –”

“Sorry, but I think I should I get going, right? It'd be best if I can get back before three in the morning.” The question about Yujin had been rhetorical, and Jongin hated hearing how quick and confident Kyungsoo was with his answer.

“Stay,” Kyungsoo wondered if Jongin liked hearing about Yujin.

“But you only have one bed.”

“I have a sleeping bag, please stay.” He hoped he didn’t.

“No, if I have some coffee before I go –”

“Jongin, are you ing deaf? I don’t want you to go.”

Kyungsoo didn’t own a sleeping bag.

They slept together in the bed, and each of their hearts beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings.

 

Senior year was when I finally realized.

“I don’t really like parties, though,” Kyungsoo’s lips curled down at the thought of red solo cups, sweaty hands, and valuable china getting knocked over.

There are several different types of drunks - four scientifically speaking. Kyungsoo was the type that became only relatively sloppy under the influence. He wasn’t a person who reversed entirely personality-wise, but was instead one who became an essentially more exaggerated persona to his normal self. A joke that he would normally chuckle at, he would let out a hearty laugh; a moment when he felt was right to peck Yujin’s cheek, he would kiss her lips. If he had been the type of person to spill out everything that they were thinking, then the joke that he would normally chuckle at, he might say was stupid; a moment when Yujin wanted to be kissed on the cheek, he might just push her away. But he still knew relatively well what he was doing, so he could control his actions to a necessary extent, and anyone who wasn't acquainted with him would most likely see him as sober.

“I know you don't, but just this once? I can’t go with one of my friends because I don't hold my liquor very well. We might end up doing something stupid,” she spoke earnestly because she wasn’t one to use a cute voice to get what she wanted, begging him with her eyes to say yes.

“Alright, I’ll go this time,” Kyungsoo felt like that was the right thing to say. But, at this point, he barely even knew what the right thing was anymore. For the entire relationship, he had been thoughtlessly going along with the actions and not considering the true meaning of the three words he would say to her every morning when they went to get coffee and the nights that they used to spend joined together as one. ‘Making love’ she called it, but what was love anyways besides a word?

Kyungsoo vaguely mentioned to Jongin that he was being dragged to a party, and the taller boy snickered at the image of the relatively short boy with owlish eyes standing in a crowd of drunken frat boys and scantily-clad party girls. Yet, then he remembered walking in on Yujin and Kyungsoo, seeing the milky-skinned male towering over the topless girl in a manly, possessive way that was so different from any side of Kyungsoo that he himself had ever experienced, and the snicker faded.

And, maybe because in some twisted way he wanted to torture himself by seeing them together again, he decided that he would go to the party himself. Perhaps seeing them next to each other again would shift something within him and help make these strange feelings finally disperse.

 

The party, simply put, was everything a party was cracked up to be. It was in a fraternity house, and strongly resembled the portrayal of college in movies. There were strobing lights that flashed red, blue, and purple; cups strewn across the floor; bodies pressed together, backsides against crotches; vases filled with cigarettes; and music that viabrated the floorboards with every strike of the bass.

Yujin was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that hugged every part of her torso, and an asymmetrical grey skirt that folded up past mid-thigh on her right leg, and dropped to her shin on the left. Her earrings dangled, her bracelets clashed, and her hair was swept into an effortless updo.

Graceful, yet y. Outgoing, yet laid back. Kyungsoo smiled because it was very Yujin-like to wear an outfit like this, instead of going with the standard short black tight dress. He tried not to think about how the boys staring at her as she led her boyfriend through the crowd may find her more attractive than he did.

“I’ll go get us some drinks,” Kyungsoo declared once his girlfriend had detected her group of friends in the ocean of faces.

He found the kitchen easily and poured himself a full cup of beer, then filled a second cup halfway for the girl waiting in the other room. He downed two fiery, raw shots before picking up the cups again and preparing to head back into the party scene.

Yet, just as he took a primary step in the direction of the doorway, a tall, coffee-skinned boy entered the room and he stopped in his tracks.

Their eyes locked and Kyungsoo's throat felt very dry all of a sudden, maybe from the tequila. The drinks were beginning to settle into his system and he fell into a light daze.

“Jongin,” his smile was lopsided and the said boy took two steps towards the drink table. He picked up the bottle of tequila first, reading the label closely and carefully with one hand, as the other hand was tucked away in the pocket of his sleek black jeans.

Kyungsoo couldn’t help but place the drinks in his hand back down and walk over to his best friend, “I had the tequila. It’s good but it burns a little.”

An indefinable number of shots later, the two of them were sitting on a couch in one of the rooms upstairs. They didn’t close the door because no hidden intentions had entered the room with them.

There was no silence in this moment as there had been in all of the others because the walls were shaking with bass, which Jongin tapped his foot along to, and the air was stocked with a melody that Kyungsoo followed with a nearly inaudible hum.

“Kyungsoo—”

“Jongin—”

They started at the same time, then laughed at the synchronization.

“You first,” Jongin nodded towards the boy beside him.

“Your name tastes like cotton candy.”

Jongin furrowed his eyebrows at the strange declaration, but Kyungsoo only shrugged in response as if to say ‘what? it’s true…’

“I wish you didn’t like Yujin as much as you do.”

Kyungsoo recited the English words that Yuijin had taught him slowly and carefully, butchering the pronunciation horribly, yet still letting his lips turn up in a prideful grin afterwards: "I want to kiss you."

“What does that mean?”

“It’s English for this,” Kyungsoo got up and walked over to Jongin, shamelessly placing himself right down next to his best friend so he was nearly on the male's lap, raising his hand to the perfectly squared jawline, and colliding his mouth with the other.

“I like this language,” Jongin remarked in his tone that could be deciphered as both truthful and joking at the same time.

“Maybe I could teach you a little more,” Kyungsoo’s voice smelled like intoxication and his touch felt like heaven and Jongin was wondering for how long exactly he’d been wishing for this to happen.

Kyungsoo turned Jongin into a hedonist, yet he didn't mind at all.

Yujin and her friends, consumed by a pop song on the dance floor, forgot about the male that had left an hour ago to get them drinks. But as handsome boys (or sleaze bags who appeared to be handsome through the flashing lights) showed up and slowly drew her friends away from her (which neither she nor they realized because the world was spinning and their stomachs were sloshing with alcohol), she found herself standing alone. All of the boys who had approached her accepted their rejection once they saw that she was in a group, but now that she was a lone gazelle in a field of lions, a feeling of paranoia developed and she remembered why she’d been swatting them away in the first place: Kyungsoo. Where was he?

“Have you seen a boy around this tall around here somewhere? He’s wearing jeans and converse and a white t-shirt,” she slurred her speech and tried to remember how one could maintain their center of gravity.

“He was near the front room a while ago, but I don’t know about now.”

She hoped he hadn’t left.

“I'm pretty sure he was taking shots with a boy in the kitchen about an hour ago.”

She hoped he wasn’t sick.

“He went upstairs with someone.”

She prayed he wasn’t with a girl.

Yujin walked into a room where Jongin and Kyungsoo were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, each with messy hair and wrinkled clothing, but smiles on their faces.

Jongin left as soon as she came in, excited because there might be a potential future between him and his best friend, yet confused because he wasn't quite sure where the Yujin stood in all of this.

And once it was just the girl and the boy who were the only ones in the room, Kyungsoo patted the seat beside him on the couch. She accepted the gesture and plopped down next to him with a goofy smile plastered over her lips.

Yujin's boyfriend then proceeded to take her palm in his, kissing it lightly as compensation for the truth he was about to spill out.

Kyungsoo left the party feeling simultaneously like a piece of on the bottom of someone’s shoe, and like a bird soaring through the sky, for he had triggered someone else’s heartache and ceased his own.

Yujin left the party with her head in her hands and makeup streaming down her face.

 

I wish I’d left her sooner.

The outcome of the night was nothing that Kyungsoo hoped it would be.

After a heartbroken and hung-over Yujin had told all of her friends of last night’s events, inconsistent rumors that seemed like a game of broken telephone - nothing like the original story - spread faster than wildfire.

“I heard that gay boy from the singing department had with his girlfriend’s dad.”

“I heard that gay boy from the singing department made out with ten different guys when his girlfriend was right in front of him.”

“I heard that gay boy from the singing department…”

Eyes stared and voices whispered. Jongin and Kyungsoo avoided each other altogether, because both of them were sharply aware that they’d made the right decision at the wrong time.

At first the rumors were only among a certain group of seniors in the vocal department, but others in the grade began to notice that when Kyungsoo sat down at a table with his friends, they would all either ignore him, turn their backs, or even get up and leave.

This was university - not high school - and yet because the idea of homouality was still considered a mental illness in several neighboring countries, the boys avoided Kyungsoo as though he had a quarantine-worthy disease.

Yujin didn’t look him in the eyes during practices anymore, and he was beginning to question whether his whole life – his existence, even, was just one large mistake.

He didn’t go to the coffee shop in the morning anymore; instead he sat at his kitchen table staring at a calendar that would mark the amount of days left in the hell called school. He still showed up for lessons (most of the time), but kept his head down when he walked through the hallway or to and from his car.

And he cried.

He cried because he finally knew that he loved Jongin, he cried because it was too late, and he cried because it took nearly an hour to wipe down the word ‘’ from the door of his car.

 

Kyungsoo was sitting on his apartment floor one night, staring at the handwritten song lyrics spread out on the paper beneath him and trying to decide whether it was better to give up trying to write a song without Yujin's help and sleep, or keep brainstorming until his body dozed off on its own.

He was just about to give in to his lethargy when a clamorous knocking on the front door snapped him out of his fatigue-laced daze.

“One second,” he called as he checked his image in the mirror and tried to recall whether or not he ordered pizza, because he could really use some food besides instant ramen right now…

“Kyungsoo, we need to talk.” It was Jongin.

“Yeah?" he tilted his head to the side, confused to see the boy that he'd been avoiding for years (or, an amount of time that felt like years anyways) standing in front of him. His tone converted to a more serious one once he realized the look on the other boy's face, "Yeah, of course, okay. Come on in,” Kyungsoo widened the doorway and gestured for the male to enter.

Jongin was mild-mannered, typically. When they played cards, it had always been Kyungsoo who yelled and complained, whereas the tan boy would just smirk discreetly and slowly place down his cards with an ambiguous look in his eyes. When they went to the bridge, it was Kyungsoo who jumped up and down at the discovery of the breach in the bridge’s wall and Jongin who followed behind smoothly, with his eyes gazing at the sunrise.

If Jongin cursed, it was weird, like your grandmother cursing. And if he was ever loud, it was out of excitement or irritation; true anger triggered a much darker, softer side of himself. In moments of pure rage, Jongin the type of person to drop his tone to a whisper.

But today, Kyungsoo experienced the epitome of Jongin’s anger. The peak of the mountain, the roar of the lion. Whatever other analogy could be made - this was it.

“There are a lot of rumors going around,” the coffee-toned boy began with an ordinary, serene tone as he stepped into the house and shut the front door. He stood right in front of the frame, not moving and not taking off his shoes.

“I know, but I’m fine,” Kyungsoo replied simply.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know what people are saying about me, okay? But I only have four more months to trudge through in this hellhole and I’ll make it out alive.”

“You don’t understand, Kyungsoo,” Jongin’s voice was raising with his facial temperature, “The rumors are about me too.”

“What are you talking about? I'm the one that screwed up, and Yujin is mad at me. Don't try to twist this around and make it about yourself.”

“Do you know who Jia is?"

"Yujin's best friend? Yeah, why?” Kyungsoo had no idea what Jia had to do with this, but he tried to be patient as he waited for the answer.

"She's also the dance team captain.” Jongin’s voice was shaking, albeit not as hard as his hands, as he spoke. His voice was a low whisper that Kyungsoo felt the need to back away from, “But she kicked me off and retracted all of my recommendations.”

“Jongin, I’m sure you’ll be able to find work somew –”

“Do you even understand what that means for me? If I don’t get back on the team this year, I won't have enough credits to graduate.”

“But—”

“You might not care, but I’ve lost all of my friends because they all think I’m some homoual freak! What the  did you tell Yujin after I left the room?”

“Excuse me, but are you blaming this all on me? For telling her how I actually felt?” Kyungsoo was screaming without realizing it, “If you are dumb enough to believe that I’m the one who started all of this, then you must be dumber than and we don’t need to be friends anymore!”

“You don’t seem to understand how much this matters; I care, Kyungsoo! I care that you don’t care, and I care about my spot on the dance team,” Jongin was waving his hands frantically and Kyungsoo felt himself burning up too, “I care about what people say behind my back, and you know what? I would rather ing die than deal with these rumors for the rest of the year.”

“Jongin,” Kyungsoo’s vision blurred with boiling tears, and his words were threateningly soft, “I don’t care if you are dead or alive, you have no idea what I’m going through.”

Jongin just looked at Kyungsoo and the words resonated in the air.

Kyungsoo stared back.

Jongin didn’t say anything, just pivoted on his heel and left.

 

I don’t know how to say this.

Day upon day passed by since their argument, and not another word was exchanged between the two friends (if that word could even be applied to their relationship anymore).

Kyungsoo called Jongin once when he drank so much wine that he lost count of the glasses, but the latter didn’t pick up so he didn't bother leaving a voicemail. He never made that mistake again. Jongin called Kyungsoo too, three times in a row on Sunday at two in the morning, and the shorter boy made the decision to ignore his calls as well. He didn’t listen to the voicemails, but didn't quite have the heart to delete them either.

The rumors aggravated larger and nastier, like a rash that wouldn’t stop itching, and being alone proved to be extremely underrated. Jongin had been there for the older boy all throughout high school - for the vast majority of their college years, even, and vice versa - but now that the hardest part of their lives had pitted them as opponents, there was nobody left to turn to. Most of Kyungsoo’s evenings ended with a glass of cheap wine and wet pillow because it was so hard to live a life of solitude, and even harder to live one as a target of contempt.

He had spent seven years in denial of his ual orientation for fear of being isolated; and, now, that monophobia had transferred from the darkest part of his mind into the reality before his eyes.

And so, the relief that washed over Kyungsoo once he looked at the calendar on Monday morning and saw that there was only one more week left of school left was immeasurable.

A 22-year-old Kyungsoo smiled at his reflection in the mirror in spite of life's recent events and adjusted the collar of his t-shirt, because after these seven days of his life ended, he could finally begin looking forward into an optimistic future. And who knew, the summer may even leave enough time for the best friends to patch things up.

On the bedside table, his phone began to produce its loud, shrill ringtone. Jongin's face was the first that popped into his mind and he considered ignoring the call altogether. It was a spark of curiousity and some reluctance that caused him to lift the small device off the surface. Yet, when he picked up, the voice echoing through the receiver was one that he hadn't heard in quite a long while: Sehun.

“What are you doing right now?” As always, the tone that Jongin's previous roommate used was robotic with a hint of an emotion Kyungsoo never quite knew how to decipher. He didn't quite know what to make of the call, either, but didn't think too much about it because his mood was too good to care.

As he unhinged his jaw to formulate an answer, his eyes pointed upwards at a small piece of peeling paint on the ceiling that he'd been meaning to take care of. He proceeded to count off his to-do list on his fingers, "I’m getting ready to go grocery shopping because I ran out of bottled water this morning. Oh, and I need to hang up some clothes that have been sitting in the washer for a while. You know what? Maybe I'll get that paint too while I'm at it...” his thoughtful tone trailed off as he quickly remembered that he was in the midst of a conversation, “Why do you care? Are you doing something special today?”

There was an uncomfortable shuffle on the other end of the phone and the boy stuttered to find his words, “You mean, you didn't know?"

"Know what?"

"Kyungsoo, I don't want to be the one to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” Kyungsoo caught sight of a flyaway hair on the side of his scalp in the mirror and he smoothed it down with his left hand.

“Jongin’s dead.”

Kyungsoo snorted, but his left hand fell limply at his side, “Dead? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Jongin’s dead.”

The second time, it sounded much less like a joke.

At some point, Kyungsoo's right hand must have gone limp as well, because the phone hit the floor with a clashing noise. He couldn’t hear it anyways, though, because his ears were ringing.

All at once, his eyes were fuzzy too, and the room was spinning, and he couldn’t stop repeating the sentence in his mind.

Jongin is dead. Jongin is gone. Jongin will never become a famous dancer. Jongin will never let me win at cards again. Jongin is gone.

“Jongin’s dead,” he whispered out loud and the words went together just about as well as sardines and peanut butter.

“Jongin’s dead,” he told the mirror.

“Jongin’s dead,” he told the bed.

And his eyes started to rain, and his hands started to tremble and the bottled water didn’t matter and the paint on the ceiling was meaningless.

“Jongin’s dead,” he told himself, and he didn’t want to believe it.

 

Kyungsoo drove for hours and hours until he was at the Kim’s front porch, standing right on the spot where they lost all of the eights, and where Jongin always played scissors first.

Mrs. Kim didn’t hug Kyungsoo when he walked in, and he assumed it was because she was sad. She hardly said anything, other than offering him a cookie that he took politely (even though it was burnt).

“I can’t believe it,” he said truthfully, eyes quickly becoming bloodshot and teary as he suddenly began to recall every memory they shared together in the house.

She looked down at the cookie that had just unknowingly slipped out of his hands and it was lonely and screaming on the floor, “Me neither, dear. Me neither.”

 

The yellow flowers in front of Ms. Jang’s house were vibrant as ever, but Jongin was dead.

The funeral was open-casket and Jongin didn't wake up.

 

They say that he was driving his motorcycle at 2am with alcohol in his system.

He had been driving on a bridge. A bridge that had a missing section on it's stone wall that the town had been meaning to fix, but never got around to. He had been driving on the bridge one second and the next second, he had been drowning in the river below.

Kyungsoo asked if it was painless, and they said that if he was conscious, it would have been very slow. If he was unconscious, it would have been just as slow, but he wouldn't have felt it. There was no way to determine which it may have been.

After the funeral, Mrs. Kim waved Kyungsoo over to the side and pulled him into a cold embrace.

Before the ceremony, she'd spoken to many of the vague faces that Kyungsoo may have passed in the school corridors. He hated that they had the nerve to show up and pretend like Jongin was their friend, even when this whole mess was started by those damned rumors in the first place. And Mrs. Kim had listened to their whispers - the whispers that tickled the back of his spine during class and tapped him on the shoulder when he was walking through the lunch room - and learned of the said rumors that Kyungsoo and Jongin had fought about two weeks before he was gone. And she'd figured out that, even if her son was alive, he wouldn't have received his diploma because he was laid off from the dance team.

And she'd heard from every student that the root of the rumors, the reprehensible person who founded it all, was none other than the boy whom she once referred to as her second son.

“If you hadn’t said those things about him…” her whisper was ghost-like and trembling as she pulled away from the male,  “…would he still be here?” It wasn’t an implicative tone, just a melancholic one, and yet her words still struck a dark chord deep within Kyungsoo’s body.

Even when he was asleep and underneath two layers of blanket, her cold touch remained on his skin and her eerie tone lingered in his mind.

Kyungsoo wondered how many strangers had a lost Jongin standing as an extra in their dreams that night. 

 

Kyungsoo listened to the three voicemails when he got back to his apartment.

“Kyungsoo…I’m standing outside of your apartment and I miss you.”

“I’m at our river drinking beer and looking at the past in the sky. Please call me back.”

“Kyungsoo, I know I’ve never told you this before, but ever since we met back in 1996, I think I’ve loved you. And right now, it's 2004 and I still love you. It’s caused a lot of problems, this love, but I hope you love me too.” His hesitant words were slurred together and doused in beer, but meaningful all the same.

“I love you too,” Kyungsoo whispered the words, not because he was angry but because he was sad.

 

Dear Jongin,

The emotions that he felt for Jongin were always strongest at the wrong times: when he was supposed to be in love with a girl, when he was at a party with that girl downstairs, and when the boy he felt strongly for was no longer alive.

"Right now was always the wrong time," he whispered knowingly, because that had been the problem all along: that right now is never the proper moment for rejection or confession; right now is never the fitting time for knowing exactly what to say or knowing how to act, "But right now is all there ever is." And so he began to write.

I am sitting next to you right now.

I’ve come here nearly every day for five years and sung to you, read to you, and talked to you. I'm trying my hardest to make it up to you for what I did - what I said - but it's so difficult to apologize if you don't know whether or not you're forgiven. It's hard to tell a joke and not know if the person on the other end is laughing about it somewhere beyond the horizon, or completely oblivious to whether you even said anything in the first place. That's the lonliest part of talking to a grave: there's no reply.

The man wiped tears from his cheeks and tried to wash the painful lump in his throat down with saliva. It didn’t work.

I believed in an afterlife and a God when I was ten years old, though my theories were never as good as yours. When I was thirteen, I read a lot of science books and decided that I was too smart to believe in religion. Now here I am, talking to a gravestone and questioning exactly how intelligent I actually am. I went to church for the first time last Sunday, yet I'm more confused than ever.

Sometimes I look up at the stars and wonder if they are the constellations that were out there in the present time when you and I shared our first kiss. (I'm not really sure how light-years work.) Other times, I wonder if your soul is up there among them, and if one day maybe I will be up there with you too. Your star would be brighter than mine.

He continued the letter, recalling memories and trying his hardest not to burden it with the torturous maybe's and if's that kept him awake each night.

The worst memory, the heaviest weight on his shoulders, was an echo of his own voice.

I don’t know how to say this.

The man racked his brain for a way to bridge into his last apology, into his heaviest regret, but he couldn't think of anything. So he just delved right into it, hoping the pen's ink would absorb some of the hardship out of his body and redirect it, letting it sink into the paper with each word his wrote.

You left this world with the last words I ever spoke to you being "I don't care if you're dead or alive."

But I ing care, Jongin. It's been five years and you're the only person I want next to me right now.

He went to the river one last time that night under the shimmering glow of the moon, and parked his car on the side of the road (farther up than the area that Jongin liked to park). The breach in the stone wall had long since been sealed, but nothing about it gave him the closure he was seeking. Every time he returned, his imagination would fabricate a vivid image of the twenty-one-year-old Jongin sitting and watching the water at two in the morning, dialing his best friend's number with tired fingers laced in heartbrokenness.

I need to let go of you now. I don't know what that means for me, or what exactly it means for you - if it means anything at all - but I'm leaving today and I don't know if I'll be back. I hope that, wherever you are, you won't be as lonely as I am.

Love,

Kyungsoo

The man's grip on the letter that he’d written and rewritten thousands of times loosened as he ripped it into pieces and watched each section flow over the edge of the wall and sink into the ruthless, white-capped waters below.

Kyungsoo clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, nearly chuckling as he remembered how gentle and romantic the river had initially seemed beneath his dangling feet; but, now, it looked like a murderer, and the tips of the waves were leering sharply at him, consuming the ink from each torn portion of his words in the same way that it had once drawn life out of his best friend. When he closed his eyes, he could nearly imagine how Jongin must have felt when he realized he was drowning, how scared he must have been before it was all over.

And after taking in one final breath of the air beside the water, one last decibel of the liquid sloshing against the jagged rocks on the shore, the pale-skinned man stepped back into his car and flipped the key in the ignition, heightening the volume of the radio until his ears began to ache. A CD that he'd forgotten, one that Yujin had purchased for him in America, began to play. He couldn't quite recall the name of the singer, but he did recall that Jongin hadn't liked this type of music. Kyungsoo hoped he wouldn't mind.

As he drove away, he was headed towards nothing and towards everything, towards the future with the past shining over his head in the twinkling stars above. He let the road carry him far, far away just as the wind had carried the last eight in their battered deck of cards.

 

If all strangers in the world were parallel lines that never touched, and friends were lines that somehow managed to cross each other for an amount of time before continuing on in their separate directions, there must have been a time where Kyungsoo and Jongin's lines were melded into one. But, as the path called life continued to trudge on, they started to sway away from each other, first about small things, then about bigger things, and their connected line began to twist into a repetitive loop-like pattern that resembled the number eight, over and over again. And, right before Jongin's line broke off, they unknowingly connected one last time.

 

A/N:

Well shet, I have never written or a oneshot before (or a oneshot, go figure) and I personally never thought I'd see the day but here's a calabungus of words that I spent two days typing up.

The inspiration for the oneshot is a story within itself, but I would like to thank Leila for fundamentally sharing her story with the world.

PS: In case you're wondering, the song that I imagine Kyungsoo listening to as he drove away from the river is entitled I'll Be Good, by an artist who I feel matches the tone of the ending very well (the lyrics relate very well too, in my opinion). Of course, this wasn't specified in the story, so you may interpret it with any song of your choice c:

This story is dedicated to a friend of mine, Nic.