A metal click of a lighter.

 

A snatch of the flame igniting.

 

The burning of paper.

 

The sound of ashes falling on the mound.

 

That’s all Minseok does. He just burns memories. His movements are slow, precise, routine, mechanical. He reaches into his box of photographs, relives the memories, and then burns it away.

 

He doesn’t move from his spot. He stays sitting on his too white bench, surrounded by too white walls, and a too white floor. There are no windows, no bed, no furniture, no kitchen appliances—just a simple white room with a bench, a box of photos, and him. He doesn’t remember what he was doing before he came there—what he was like, or how he lived.

 

Another click.

 

Another snatch.

 

Another memory burns.

 

This time it’s a family photo. Minseok had been three. He was swinging between his parents’ hands. He was at a zoo. He had looked so happy.

 

But that doesn’t matter anymore.

 

He wonders when his world had lost all its color.

 

That doesn’t matter anymore either.

 

Click.

 

Snatch.

 

Burning.

 

A picture of him and his first girlfriend burns away and turns into ash.

 

He repeats the process. Burning, burning, and burning. His first date, his first job, his first paycheck, his grandparents coming to visit, a trip to Berlin, his parents’ anniversary, his first day in high school—it all burns away and turns to nothing. It’s almost fascinating how easily it all went away. He spent a lifetime making these memories—these photographs—and it’s gone in a matter of seconds. The flame flickers in his tired eyes, reflecting the light dully. How many more to go until he was done?

 

He grabs the next photo, and yellow explodes. It drips from his hand, travels up his arm like vines in elaborate, branching patterns, and splatters at his feet. A bright, vibrant yellow against white. It’s warm and soft, and runs like liquid up his body. It explodes from his eyes, drips from his mouth, and all Minseok can think of is sunflowers and the smell of fresh citrus and dirt.

 

“Hey, do you have a partner? Oh good me neither—do you wanna pair up? Everyone else was taken and we need to do the observations before we leave the field. I’m Lu Han, what’s yours?”

 

Lu Han’s smile made Minseok think of freshly bloomed daisies. It was as bright as a midsummer afternoon, and as welcoming as a warm hug.

 

“Minseok was it? Come look, there’s a huge caterpillar here. Should we record this too? No? Oh well, that’s fine, he’s my friend now. I’ll take a quick shot to commemorate this great meeting.”

 

Minseok pulls the photo from the box. A plump, pale green caterpillar laid in the center of a giant sunflower, its petals vibrant and filling the frame. The entire photo is b with bright color, and yellow steadily drips from the edges to coat Minseok’s hand.

 

He hates caterpillars. He hates bugs in general, but especially things that resembled anything worm-like. But Lu Han had made such a grotesque and minuscule thing seem so precious—so important, he remembers leaning in to take a closer look at it himself. Lu Han had made it seem so beautiful—Minseok had been jealous. He had wished he could see the world through the same lens and filter Lu Han viewed it through.

 

He burns the photo. It steadily turns to ash, and with it, the yellow surrounding him dissipates into nothing like a cloud, and his world is white again. He goes back to burning the photos, steadily, routinely, mechanically taking them from the box and setting them alight, watching the flame away the memories. It dances beautifully, this destruction of his.

 

The next color that raids his world is also unexpected. He grips the photo tightly between his fingers, watching as all hues of green drip from the picture. It falls like water, this time trickling up his arm in lines, perfect circles forming at his feet, and soaking through his white pants and making them cling to his body. The colors sail over his face, his eyelashes, tangling through his hair, and it feels like wind against his skin, and smells like fresh rain. A chill runs through his body, but he’s not cold.

 

“Fancy seeing you here—did you get caught in the rain too?”

 

Water clings to Lu Han’s hair, dripping like dazzling crystals. Even though he’s soaked to the bone, and the chilled rain makes him appear more pale and tired than usual, his eyes sparkle brightly, illuminated by the headlights of each passing car. Minseok can count his crow’s feet.

 

“Are you cold? Here—I only have one set of gloves, but if you do this—and you wear it on this hand—see? It’s warm like this, isn’t it?”

 

It had been warm—the glove on Minseok’s right hand, and Lu Han holding the other with his bare hand. The contact between their skin had been enough to warm his heart.

 

“Pretty funny how we’d both get stuck under here waiting for the rain to pass at the same time though. Must be fate right? Do you mind if I take a quick picture? No? Awesome!”

 

Their interlaced hands outstretched in front of them, wet and illuminated just in time from an incoming car. It was dark outside, and rain fell heavily in front of the shop they had taken shelter at. Funny, how both of the jackets they had been wearing were green—Minseok’s a darker, forest hue while Lu Han’s was the color of meadows. It had been a really ugly jacket. Minseok wishes he could have at least told Lu Han that.

 

He burns the photo quickly, and the green hues trickles from his body, dripping onto the white, white floor, and disappearing into nothing. He’s dry again, and the green is gone.

 

Minseok is expecting it this time when the colors arise. He burns a few of them until another comes, and he’s ready for it. It’s not an explosion like yellow had been, nor a rush like green, but this time it’s slow and languid. It traces up his arm and around his body in floral and foliage, twisting around his legs like vines, and rooting his feet in place. This time it’s blue—a deep, calm blue. He closes his eyes, and the hue twines heavily over his eyelids. He doesn’t hear, taste, or smell anything this time. It’s quiet—so quiet.

 

“Aren’t they pretty? Everyone always comes here for the dolphins, the seals, or the sharks—but this is my personal favorite. They move so fluidly, and in the dark like this, they look stunning. Sometimes, it takes the dark of the night for people to realize the beauty that’s in front of them.”

 

Lu Han had been whispering that time, as if he were afraid to break the trance. It had been quiet—their exhibit far away from the squeals and excited laughter of children viewing the more popular attractions. Minseok still wonders why they had gone to see the jellyfish instead of the dolphin show at the aquarium, but he thinks he might know why.

 

They really had glowed so beautifully. The dark room had been solely illuminated by the fascinating creatures, and they stood in silence, watching them. At some point, Lu Han had held his hand, stood a bit closer, and watched the luminescence bounce off Minseok’s features—but Minseok didn’t tell him he knew. He simply watched the jellyfish swim about languidly, lazily, carelessly—because in the dark, no one had to know. Not even him. No one had to know that when Lu Han leaned in for a kiss, Minseok reciprocated.

 

Lu Han saw beauty in all things—even Minseok.

 

So he burned the photo quickly, watching the serene picture of a glowing jellyfish emitting blue and green light turn to ash—watching the blue colors twined around his body and his feet curl away like they were withering, before dying away. He didn’t want to think about it.

 

The colors kept coming as Minseok kept burning photos. Red is hot, and encompasses him like smoke—choking his throat and making his eyes water as his body thrums with heat. The memories that flood his mind make him blush—the scent of cinnamon and spice, of sweat, of , and the sweet sounds of Lu Han’s voice and his mixed together.

 

He burns the photo of their feet entangled in red sheets quickly, gasping for breath as the red smoke dissolves. He scrambles for the box, hurrying to burn the rest. His eyes explode in a kaleidoscope of colors as he grabs a handful. Pastel pink trickles from his eyelashes, and mixes with the periwinkle from his nose. Somewhere hidden in his hair, orange seeps out and runs over his forehead. His fingernails are bleeding emerald and baby blue—mahogany, indigo, and turquoise drip from his hands, some of them in streams, that turn gold and honeydew midway, before splashing to the ground in navy blue, teal, and lavender.

 

He burns them all with shaking hands, his tears an opaque sapphire, and the colors slowly recede back to white as the memories turn to ash. There are still more photos, and he’s trembling as he reaches in again.

 

This time, it’s purple. It’s heavy and slow, and moves sluggishly like slime. It feels disgusting, and Minseok cringes at the way it climbs up his hand. He lifts the photo from the box—the dark purple dripping with thick viscosity from his hand. It feels cold, and smells like tar and iron, and it makes Minseok’s heart shrink away in fear.

 

This time, it’s not a photo of some abstract imagery taken by Lu Han—but of him. He looks solemn in the photo; scared, tired, and alone.

 

“Hello Lu Han.”

 

No. No not this.

 

“If you’re listening to this, then I’m most likely dead.”

 

Minseok clutches the photo to his chest, purple tar seeping into his mouth, digging into his ears, pressing against his eyes. The world is mute, and all he can hear is his own disembodied voice. It sounds so exhausted, so sad.

 

“I’m sorry it had to be this way, but it was bound to happen sometime. I’ve been like this since before I even met you—there was really nothing you could have done, besides delay the inevitable. The happiness I’ve experienced has only ever been temporary—a fleeting emotion to something more permanent. I don’t know how to explain it other than having to walk through tar and sludge, day after day after day, not knowing when it will end—when the next dangling rope will pull me out just enough to lift my feet before it snaps away again. After so many times, it gets really tiring having my hopes lifted before being crushed again. And again. And again.”

 

“There must be something wrong with me.”

 

He had started crying. He had tried to wipe the tears away.

 

“I want to be happy—I loved the smiles you gave to me, the colors you helped me see, how you helped me view my life through a more stunning and dazzling filter—it was so bright, so blinding. It was brief but I loved it so much—I almost thought it could be that way forever—but life isn’t that kind. Not mine, anyway.”

 

The colors were bleeding. The floor was becoming entirely encompassed by the purple. Minseok was sinking.

 

“I can’t change it. It’s just how it is. This is me—the real me. I’m miserable Lu Han, and I’m just. So. Tired. Please don’t think that this is your fault, or that you could have fixed me, because you couldn’t have. I’d rather just end it now than be miserable for the rest of my life and drag you into it too. You deserve someone so much better, so I beg you—”

 

“Let me go.”

 

Minseok finishes. He drops the photo of his tear-stained face. The colors recede. He can see again—everything is white.

 

He stands, and the box of photos next to him falls to the ground. A myriad of colors spill out from it, staining the white floor, the polaroids scattering everywhere. Minseok falls to his knees and sifts through them all—not a single one has a picture of Lu Han.

 

He searches more desperately, picking up one photo after another, searching for the face of his—what was he? Minseok doesn’t remember. He can’t remember his face—what color was his hair? His eyes? What did he look like when he stared at Minseok? How did he say Minseok’s name?

 

His heart thrums against his chest, his breath hitching as his movements became more frantic. What shape were his lips? How did they feel when they pressed against Minseok’s? What did his hands feel like? What was his name again? Minseok can’t remember—he can’t remember anything.

 

Minseok sits in the muddle of hues and photographs, hugging himself as a sob shakes his trembling frame. The colors are slipping away—except for red, which spills from his wrists steadily, vibrant and shocking against the white of his clothes. He stares at the mess before him before gathering the polaroids in his arms, dragging the memories over to one of the four white walls. He begins to arrange them—he pastes the first photo at the farthest corner he can reach, and works down the row. Memories fill his head with each one, but this time, he doesn’t burn them.

 

Colors drip down the wall from the photographs like melting crayons, and by the time Minseok places the last picture in place, the wall is entirely filled and bursting with kaleidoscopic hues. It’s a beautiful, chaotic mess.

 

Red pools at his knees, the slits on his wrists growing.

 

Do you regret it?

 

“No… no I don’t. But if I had the chance—if I had a second chance—”

 

You’d try again?

 

“I’d try again, talk to him, open up to him, ask for help—”

 

Help?

 

“I can’t do it alone… Please, help me.”

 

What is it that you want?

 

“I want him. I want him back. I want my colors back—I want my world back.”

 

The pain in his wrists stop. Time pauses, his world is silent. The room is no longer too white, but a jumble of color streaks and splatters and stains. He runs his fingers through the red, his eyes burning at the vibrancy. He’s scared—Minseok is scared to try it all again, to trudge through his drowning mind while he struggles for meaning—a purpose.

 

But he stops. He closes his eyes and smiles sadly.

 

Being alone like this was a lot more terrifying than trying one more time.

 

Just once more.

 

For him.

 

The room swirls and breaks apart. Colors shatter, the polaroids melt, and the universe lies before Minseok. Stars and galaxies rush past his eyes, and he feels so small compared to it all, until he feels a heat in his hand. It’s familiar, nostalgic, and it brings tears to his eyes that shine brighter than the thousands of stars that stream by.

 

Darkness engulfs him, and out of the corner of his eye, Minseok thinks he sees a lone jellyfish, floating along and glowing as bright and beautifully as it was meant to be.

 

But perhaps he was just seeing things.

 

He wakes up to bright ceiling lights in a too white room. There’s an insistent beeping of a heart monitor, and his wrists are heavily bandaged. He turns his head, weak and sluggish, to see Lu Han staring at him. Their hands are intertwined—warm, sweaty, and burning—and it feels just right to Minseok. He squeezes weakly. Lu Han’s eyes are shining like the millions of galaxies Minseok had seen, and his entire existence seems more dazzling and vibrant than any other color in the world.

 

Lu Han found beauty in everything, but despite the myriad of fascinating things this world had to offer, his eyes somehow always found their way back to Minseok. Perhaps happiness is still a far stretch away—perhaps it will take many years of help and small baby steps—maybe it will all end in disaster again. But this time Minseok will give Lu Han a chance—himself a chance—the both of them a chance. Who knew; maybe walking through tar will be easier with a helping hand.

 

He will never know unless he tries.