“The women of our family tend to have a gift—although, some think of it as a curse. We can see and talk to the dead. Not all of them, just the ones that stay.” She started, watching me carefully as she explained. “You won’t be able to see them all at once because your gift is just beginning to develop. At first, it may be unsettling and confusing to tell which ones are alive and which ones have passed away. But you’ll get used to it.”

“The dead don’t always know we can see them, although there are a few sharp ones that pick up cues easily. Usually they’re the ones who have had previous contact with people like us. They can’t harm you physically; but you have to be strong emotionally and mentally. The ones who find out about us, usually come to us asking for help; and this is the part that some consider as a curse.”

“As you grow older, you’re going to lose the ability to see and talk to them. You may still be able to feel them; but that’s the worst part of it. Knowing about them and not being able to help them anymore.” She fixed me with a look that, I knew, meant she was talking about my situation.

I thought of my mother’s words as I lay in bed the next morning. If I were to describe how I felt at the moment, I would use the word ‘numb.’ My mind still felt fuzzy so I decided to skip school. Thankfully, my mother allowed it. (She was actually the one who suggested it.) It only took her a short phone call to my teacher saying that I was ‘under the weather’ for me to get excused for the day.

My mom did not tell me specifically whether or not to help Chanshik. But the way she talked to me about our ‘ability’ suggested that she preferred aiding the dead, probably since it would help them ‘pass on.’ 

Despite that, I wasn’t really sure what I wanted to do.

“Chanshik.” I called his name out loud—finally gathering the courage to—as if it would summon him. There was, however, no response.

“Chanshik.” I repeated, scanning the room with my eyes. It’s funny knowing I was in my own room yet I was looking around as if there was something unfamiliar to be found.

“I know you’re listening. I want to talk to you.” Still no response.

“Or not.” I closed my eyes, feeling my cheeks heating up from embarrassment. Okay, so maybe I was wrong.

“I’m here.”

My eyes flew open at the sound of Chanshik’s voice. And sure enough, there he was: sitting on top of the desk at the far end of my room. I felt my heartbeat quicken at the thought of a dead spirit in my own house; but I tried my best to remain calm.

Looking at him then, I easily make out the peculiarities in his appearance. First of all, he was very pale. I’d noticed this before and thought it was a genetic thing. Second, whenever I try to see where the edges of his clothes or his skin end, I would never be able to find it and my head starts to hurt. Last was his gaze and I wonder how I’d ever missed the emptiness in them. It was just like what they say: The eyes are the windows to one’s soul. Chanshik’s eyes were not windows. They were doors to a void, and knowing that I couldn’t help but shiver and look away.

He must’ve noticed because he soon stood up, slightly turning away from me. “I’m scaring you. I should go.”

“No. Wait.” I blurted out without thinking.

So he waited.

And I waited.

Because I couldn’t think of anything to say. Because there was too much to say. So instead there was just an awkward silence. And I couldn’t bear it.

“Paran.”

I felt relieved hearing Chanshik call my name that it surprised me. At least that meant he wasn’t about to leave.

“Hm?”

“Last night…Why did you cry?” He asked and I felt pins and needles radiating from my chest to the tips of my fingers.

“Because the thought of death makes me sad.” I answer even though that wasn’t what I was thinking. Because you were so young. Because now I understand why you sound so bitter all the time. Because it felt like you had just died in front of me. Because even though I hadn’t known you that long, it still broke my heart. Because that’s what death does to the people who get left behind—it makes them miserable.

But I couldn’t bring myself to say any of those things. So instead I call his name for the third time.

“Chanshik.” It was probably the most I’ve said it in a day. I still couldn’t bear to look at him so I directed my gaze up on the ceiling, and pretended like it was one of those moments I was thinking out loud.

“Hm?”

“Why did you stay?”

“Because Chanyeol-hyung is doing something stupid.” He chuckled, and I could almost hear his sadness as he talked. It tempted me to look at him; but I fought the urge and focused on his voice. “He’s going to get himself in trouble, Paran. Big trouble.”

“And I can’t help him.” The way he sounded so helpless stung me. And I realize how funny it is that the living fear the dead so much, when the dead can't even help themselves.

“But I can.”

This time I looked him in the eyes. Chanshik was smiling. But I still felt the sting.

A/N: I promise no more drama after this! :))) Anyhoo, I've run out of reserve chapters, so I might take a little longer to update for the next couple of days. I'm still going to try, though! :D

EDIT: Got the chapter title mixed up. :|