I love you. I love so much about you. I couldn't possibly love everything about you, because I don't know that much. But that's not something I care about. I don't want to know you inside out; top to bottom; left to right. I don't want to date you, like so many of our fans do. I just want to be someone you won't regret your time spending with. I just want to be someone you're comfortable around. I want you to trust me, and kick and play with me. I want to play video games with you, and miserably fail. I want to watch French movies with you, and watch the smoke unravel across the room and tickle the tips of our blinking lightbulbs. I want you to look at me often like I'm absolutely demented. I want to run down the streets and eat sticky rice cakes with you, our unconstrained laughs dissolving into smears of red and green. I want you to beat me in a race, and I'd beat you in the second round. I want to have a massive pillow fight with you, snowy feathers brushing our shoulders, falling, spinning, swaying. I want to decide whether your pants go with your shirt, and how incredibly horrible that neon-pink-and-acid-green combination looked. I want to spend my time thinking about you, and caring for you, and keeping you happy and protecting you to the best of my abilities. I want you to go out with a really pretty girl, and hug me for all the help I gave you. It doesn't matter if it hurt. It'd be okay to love you one-sidedly because I've been doing that for an uncountable amount of time. It'd be okay to see you put your arm around her, bury your head in her shoulder and try to kiss her as she swatted you away, because even when you hurt me, it doesn't matter because you're beautiful. I'm immune to pain now, because I'm oblivious to everything except you. Us, we, me and you. It sounds nice, doesn't it? Has a certain danger, a jab of pain here, a jolt of sadness there, but it immediately seeps into my skin, spreading, sprawling, soothing. 

Slowly, gently, carefully. I'm going to try. I have to, at least. I have to unhook you from me, untie our strings, free our balloons. I started with trying to forget things you did. Things I liked. Things you did that brought about this humming tranquility in me, this peaceful silence I never knew existed. I slowly forgot your favourite dish. Remember how I became blank when you asked me to cook it for you on your 20th birthday? Remember how Kyungsoo hurriedly stepped in and tapped my shoulder, offering to cook instead? He caught that look. That white haze. He knew it'd hurt you, so he did it instead. Then I forgot your favourite colour. Was it green? No, it was a darker shade. Maybe violet? Then I tried forgetting your favourite number, but that was ridiculous. Seriously? 21? You couldn't find any other number other than the one female idol you always boisterously fanboy about? I couldn't bear to forget more, because that slow ebbing in the pit of my stomach was pain. Pain, because my body was trying to forget its basic memories. You and your memories, in my brain, were equivalent to walking and talking, and eating. Motor memories. The memories that help one survive.

I haven't forgotten so much as to not remember that we've done all this before. I've scolded you, helped you with your love life, played video games and seen the pulsing lights of Seoul in your eyes, passionate and exhilarating. Yet I felt that it didn't feel like enough. Or it didn't feel right. Back then, our little whispers of love were simply declarations of our close friendship. Our giggles, our grins, our drunken song sessions; a pat on the head, a tug on the arm, a head on a shoulder, only made people coo and sigh, "Oh, if I had a friendship like theirs." But what do I do now? Now that all those words that I gladly cherished only suffocate me, dividing us, separating us, disassembling the little pieces that made Park Chanyeol and Byun Baekhyun whole. Oh, no. I didn't suddenly realise this a few moments ago and suddenly the shock and sadness did not descend upon me just a few seconds ago. I knew this, I knew all along. I knew even if I tried, regardless of whether I relentlessly mistreated you or nonchantly avoided you, nothing was going to stop me from falling for you. Every time those embers of heat danced between you and me, I felt myself plunge again. Into this cold sea of unconditional affection that I'd always have for you. I never tried to deny it, or hide it. Sentences, phrases, words, fragments, full stops; anything and everything, somehow always came down to Park Chanyeol. I was absolutely head-over-heels and I loved it.

But this, you and me, are so impossible. The hazy, dreamlike union of Chanyeol and Baekhyun shall never weave into reality. You and me are so impossible because I have a girl waiting for me when I come home everyday, and that's why I want you so much.

I've retreated to somewhere away. I'm alone. I left everything behind, and I left nothing behind. There was always that one thing I wanted to do. I wanted to do something that'd hurt me to the extent that it became my only life source. So here I am, watching blades of wind graze my torso and leave little marks of unforgotten words, small whispers tumbling down my back, beckoning, beckoning. My fingers are numb as I write this. I went out to a traditional Japanese restauarant the other day. There was an old man who switched on the electric blanket, just for me. He let me in to a little room which was his house. He has one red bulb that illuminates the room, and a brown cupboard next to two rectangular beds.

I've been staying there for a few days. We don't speak to each other. I don't know his name. Neither of us care. The silence gracefully grows, like a pine tree in winter.

I'll come back, but I don't know when. She'll be upset with me. Demand a dinner at an Italian restaurant, a bouqet or two, maybe. She has colour, but she's all mahogany. She hasn't got those little dots of lavender, streaks of crimson, waves of white, like you do.

What would you do? What would you do, Park Chanyeol? If this letter actually reached you, and you actually read it, what would you do? Even though I've been your friend for years, I don't know what you'd do. You're unpredictable, Chanyeol. Harmless and clumsy, but unpredictable. How did I, of all people, choose to invest my time in you? Why, is the right question. Why, is more important. You and I, are strange together. They say opposites attract or two minds, one body, but we're neither chalk and cheese, nor identical. You prefer strawberry ice-cream, while I like butterscotch. We both appreciate Akdong Musician. 

I think that's the thing. We cancel each other out, at the right times, at the right moments. We're like an awkward balance; an acrobatic walking across a rope. You start as I stop, or sometimes we uncomfortably adjust. Some things are okay, and some are not. But in the end it's fine, because you switch on right when I log off. 

Have you ever seen a colour wheel? There are so many colours, so many, seamlessly melting into the next and striking a chord of silent beauty. But there's always an incredibly thin line of the mixed colours in between the two. Just one, straight segment. It's got the right ratio, the perfect combination of colours, at the right time, in the right place. It always liquifies into the running hues, so it's almost impossible to find. Just like my words right now. I know I haven't got them right. I'm a few degrees away from the perfect mix, and each sentence of mine doesn't flow into the next. They're a stagnant flow of unfelt, unexpressed things. I have to dip a toe into the water carefully. This is my first and last time.

If I ever get reincarnated, I'd find you sooner so I could love you longer.