To say that love and hate are separated by a tiny thread is quite a falsehood. It’s more like rocks splitting the same ocean into an illusion of difference, and when we meet a new person, we take a place on one of the rocks, waiting for certain actions or beliefs that drag us into a side. But it is still the same ocean, regardless of the minor separation. The only thing that makes them seem different is, in fact, our perspective. If our perspective tells us that one person is annoying, or troublesome, does that mean it’s fact? Is it proven that this person is troublesome, or does it come from how we view them? It’s our perspective that drags us forward, in all that we do, regardless if we want it to or not.

The same thing can be said for infatuation and love. What is the difference between the two? To say that love and infatuation are the same thing is wrong, as well as to say they are totally different. They exist on the parallel side of the same ocean as love and hate. Infatuation can come from hatred just like it can come from love. Infatuation can also be the cause of crossing the rocks between love and hate.

So how does that affect me? The man I met three years ago had swept me straight into the ocean, forever circulating through the rocks, when now I’ve actually understood. I am in the strange waters of infatuation, looking down at the ocean between love and hate. Because, I now see, itmattered not the emotions I felt for Kim Jongin, I would always be thinking of him.

As I race down the now abandoned halls of Panam high, my thoughts circle throughout my head, as I search frantically for the room. As I twist and turn through the halls, charge up and down the stairs that are stained with school spirit, the only thing on my mind is him. My infatuation for Kim Jongin.

I stop suddenly, staring a hole into the door in front of me. My heart races as I cautiously move toward it, peeking my head through the window. Realizing it’s empty, I smile. He’s not here yet.

I creep inside the darkened room, the sound of my footsteps hard against the wood panels that cover the room. The mirror’s opaque presence surrounds me as I silently walk faster, my heart quickening with each step, as I make my way to it.

The cupboard has not been touched since I was last in it. It’s small, smells faintly of paint, and faces directly towards center stage. I scramble inside it, making sure it’s shut tightly enough to conceal my figure, but open enough so I can see him. I sit back taking in the scenery of the room, listening to Henrietta and Ricardo’s heavy breathing, probably from nervousness, when the lights suddenly turn on.

The room lights up with intensity as the standard light bulbs strive to light the room. The mirrors reflection brightens as the man steps into the room, a yawn forming around his mouth. I grasp my mouth in reflex, afraid to even breathe as he steps forward through the door, locking it in the process. The bored, half-asleep look is painted on his face, unusual from his happy smile and charismatic smirks. His head tilts back, obvious pain contorts his face. My stomach flutters in excitement.

Jongin strides towards the horizontal rods and begins his stretching, headphones in place. This is normal for him. He detested the idea of anyone finding out what was about to happen, or at least, that is what I have understood thus far.

Inside my cupboard I wait. I wait for the reason of my obsession.

Jongin steps to the center of the room, his eyes closed, his mouth pinched in a thin line, his brow already perspiring, and waits. As the soft flow of the music starts, he relaxes. And begins.

I found out my first year that Jongin has an infatuation with simplistic beauty, the way he moves, the way he sees people, the way he thinks people should hold themselves. Even the way he writes. He is completely in love with beauty, grace, and nostalgia. Every time he turned his head, it was filled with subtle grace and composure. It was one of the first things I noticed about him.

So for the longest time I wondered why he is on the b-boy dance team. The style is far from graceful, elegant, sophisticated. The lines are sharp, the turns too crisp, the music too fast. The arm movements are far too complicated. So why?

I needed an answer, so, against Henrietta and Ricardo’s wishes, I followed him one day.

Back in our freshman year, there was no way he would be able to score a hidden room like now, so he settled for the old gym in the very back of our campus.

Watching him for the first time was amazing.

The second time was addictive.

The third time was obsessive.

The way he moved, the grace, fluidity, sophistication, it was intoxicating. In comparison to him, and his dancing, everything was completely nitty. I couldn’t, nor would I, look away, even if the chances of getting caught were extremely high.

So for three years, it has been like this.

He takes the center of the floor and begins dancing.

It’s not amazing at first; his movements are slow, as if he’s unwinding himself from a long winter of being curled up, fast asleep. His arms stretch forward, his legs bend, revealing positions similar to yoga. He calmly moves forward, his socked feet gracing the floor with the lightest of touches. His face relaxes into a somber concentration, as if his whole world revolves around his moves. Each dance is different, none like the last, yet all similar in beauty. Like caressing a ghost, his hands fold against its soft outlines, his feet matching the movements perfectly.

Hauntingly beautiful.

Yes, that’s it. If I could describe it to you, hauntingly beautiful would best summarize it.

There is no music. Most likely from fear of being caught. Nobody knows about this daily occurrence, except for me. I’ve tried multiple times to listen for a tiny whisper through the headphones, but to no avail. Although I am plagued with curiosity, nothing could be better than to just watch him dance.

And so I do. He dances for hours, never ceasing until his clothes are stained from fine perspiration, until he is so fatigued his feet won’t move on command. I stay in my cupboard, watching him.

Somewhere amidst my ever growing gaze, Henrietta and Ricardo get louder and louder, almost as if yelling from a faraway distance. I ignore them, continuing to memorize the turns, jumps, and caresses of Jongin’s dancing. The thought of disengaging was dreadful. What other reason would I possibly have to be in here if I didn’t watch him with fevered anticipation?

However, as their voices got louder, and panicky, I realized what was going on.

Pain. It started creeping up my body from my foot. It slithers through my appendages, making them almost impossible to move. My brain also began to stop, my thought processes slowed, my reactions slowed, and Henrietta and Ricardo could be seen. This only occurred when…

Crap.

I panicked. I started writhing, gasping, kneading at my legs that refused to move. All of my wariness left me as I scrambled out of the cupboard, but not in time.

All I saw was the panicked expression of Kim Jongin, and then my white oasis.

~

I see him.

He is with me.

Henrietta is here too.

In my white oasis.

The flowers here bloom.

Where is Ricardo?

Why is he here?

Henrietta will you sing for me?

Yes, Kyungsoo.

Thank you.

In the story we can swing on a moon

So stiff.

And ride the horse on the rainbow

Unmoving.

Make friends with a sun

I must

And catch the feather of a fiery bird

Not move

Close your eyes “Bye-bye”

I’m here

I’m safe.

~

I woke up from the white oasis to the sound of absolute panicking. Footsteps were clanking, curses were being uttered, and Jongin, I am surprised he’s still here, was at the center of it all.

“Oh my God. Is he going to wake up at some point? He’s been like that for three hours. I swear, when he comes back I’ll kill him. The freak. Is he dead? Should I call someone? No, I’ll be questioned, and then my secret will get out. Is he even comfortable like that? There is no way. It looks like he’s sitting in a chair that fell on him. Oh my God, please wake up Kyungsoo, I don’t want to go to jail. Do you know what happens to people like me when they go to jail? It rhymes with ‘grape’ Kyungsoo, ‘grape’,” his rambling continued, but only several notches lower.Followed by a string of incoherent cursing. Color me impressed, half of it was in French.

The pain was still evident and I was very uncomfortable, however, I was back. I tried to move, but to no avail. I was stuck. My eyes shifted from the form, still bearing his socks, that pranced up and down the room.

I must have made a noise in my attempt, because the form had stopped, completely in his tracks, and turned around slowly. His eyes held a mixture of fear, anger, and worry. I shifted my eyes down, hoping he didn’t catch it. He did. In a split second, I went from being stared at by Jongin, to being three centimeters from the lasers that bore down into my soul.

“Can you hear me, Kyungsoo?” he asked, enunciating each word through gritted teeth.

I pretended he wasn’t there.

He didn’t fall for it.

“I know you can, Kyungsoo! Get up! Why the were you in the cupboard?” he bombarded me with his spiteful words.

I grunted, trying to tell him I couldn’t get up yet. I can’t, I probably still have no more than fifteen minutes until I could move myself. It’s a process, albeit a very slow and excruciatingly painful one, but a process nonetheless.

To my surprise, his gaze softened a little. He sighed, removing his face from my view and sitting down beside me. He tore his fingers through his hair, out of frustration, and I noticed the shaking of his figure. He probably had been scared. Who wouldn’t have been? I longed to comfort him, to run my own fingers through his unruly locks from dancing vigorously. I also wanted to soothe him, tell him I’m alright, that it happens often, he should have just left me be.

Wait. Why didn’t he leave me?

My pinky started twitching. I could feel the weight being lifted off of me slowly as Jongin turned around.

My hand was free. Then my foot. Then my leg. All the way, as my muscles were returned to me, they began to relax from the awful position I was in. Relief collided through me like a wave.

Until I was thrown against the wall by a furious Jongin.

“Do Kyungsoo, I am about to have a conniption fit if you do not tell me why you were in that God-forsaken cupboard. How long have you been in there?” he asked me, slightly shaking me with every word. I could see he was trying to bite down the bile of curses.

“You’re a wonderful dancer, Jongin.” I whispered through the strangling sensation.

His grip tightened. I felt faint as my throat was being forcibly closed. And then it stopped. He let go, dropping me on the floor, confusion and conflict evident on his face as he back away slowly, hands once again interlocked with his hair.

I leaned back against the wall, fighting for my breath as Henrietta’s voice got louder and more obnoxious.

“Why? I don’t get it. For the past three years, it seems like all I’ve done was try to make you pay. And you don’t even know what for.” Jongin whispered. I could barely hear him through my wispy breathing.

“How long have you been watching me dance?” he asked, looking at me. I stared at him, all of my thoughts blank.

Don’t tell him anything!

Henrietta’s voice launched itself across my head, making me convulse at the decibels. It was high, shrill, panicky. I held my head in utter anguish, wishing the violent ringing in my ears would disappear so I could finally talk to Kim Jongin, the center of obsession. Crouching down into the fetal position, I groaned.

“Hey, man. Are you okay?” Jongin asked, worry creasing his forehead.

I couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Why don’t you just disappear? He doesn’t want to talk to you, can’t you see that? After all you’ve put him through, after everything he already has to deal with, you’re still here? Why did you stay with him, huh? You don’t care for my Kyungsoo, you never did. Why don’t you leave him like you do when you send your cronies after him?” my hands slapped down on my mouth. I couldn’t believe what was happening. The high pitched accent and cigar residue was obvious in my voice and tone.

Henrietta. She was talking through me.

This was impossible. She had never been able to do that. Panic shook me as I crouched down, my hand still covering my mouth, tears forming in my eyes. I had never felt so dreadful. Everything I had worked for, everything I had built through years and years of treatment, anguish, torment, violent episodes, abandonment in hopes I would be better had fallen apart in a matter of seconds.

I had regressed.

I look up to see Jongin, face contorted from the offense that just happened. Fear was in his eyes, as well as tears. It stung to see him look like that.

“Fine.”

He walked off to leave me in the room.

He still had no shoes on. Only socks.

~

Of course when something bad happens, it must rain on your way home. The thunder was vicious, the people irritable, and I had missed the last train. But none of that was important to me. I had to get home.

My house was empty, as per usual. I got home, unlocked the house, in case my parents came back slightly tipsy from partying, did the dishes, cleaned the hardwood floors, and went upstairs.

Locking the door behind me, I went to my medicine cabinet in frenzy. Searching through old prescriptions, empty bottles, the occasional pain-killer, I finally found the bottle I was looking for.

Clozapine.

The vile little drug sat there with a condescending smirk as I twisted the bottle cap. This circular pill was the last resort for people of my kind, as well as to help them get over suicidal thoughts. However, it is a rule amongst those who have schizophrenia. No matter what you throw at us, innovative, futuristic or otherwise, one-third of us will get better, one-third will have no change, and one-third will get progressively worse.

I stare at the bottle again.

Fate is a cruel reality. One that bends and breaks the will of human under her sadistic wishes. She laughs at our sorrows, and takes credit for our happiness. She turns on us, and leaves us to suffer. With some people, she even makes a mockery of their existence. The handicapped, the terminal patients, she doesn’t give them a fighting chance. She watches on her throne as they dwindle from sanity, longing to change the inevitable until the end. She watches their strife as they go about their day, coveting the life of ignorance.

Knowing you will die, or dwindle away into a pit of nothing, is the cruelest life we can endure. Knowing there will never be enough time before we’re gone. Living, regretting everything we do because we know time is precious. Losing the fight before entering the ring, all because Fate wanted to be entertained.

To think that Fate would entrust my survival to one pill, it makes me laugh.

Because I will be the one who’s laughed at. Fate will dawn her grin as I drown into the never ending sea of insanity, crushed by the sharp rocks of memories, and she will laugh as I am pulled down under, a delirious smile hinting on my face, as all traces of my past self leave me like my soul, to float in the afterlife.