The worst kind of morning, obviously; is the kind in which bears no difference from the night.

Is that hard to imagine?
Then apparently you haven’t been here.
Where he is.

It’s a small room, really. He’s suffocated inside here. The air is heavy and his chest would fall hard every time be breathes out. When he takes a look around, once or twice from his phone, or his tabloid, it feels like living inside a coffin. With the faint light of his electronics falling on his face, he found himself wondering more than once how he looked like. His hair’s overgrown. His cheeks itch when he tries to sleep, because it’s been a week and he hasn’t shaved.

It’s been about three weeks.
He covered up his windows in black and shut out the sun. Rarely did he looked at the time. There was no distinction. Sometimes it was 11 45 pm and sometimes it was 4 36 am. It didn’t matter unless he was hungry. Or if his bottle had run out of water.

From 6 am until 11 pm, he did not leave his room. Avoiding whoever he might encounter on his way out to the fridge, or the pantry, to the tap. Or the bathroom.
His body compiled.

Mostly he was sleeping.

He’d wake up, and he’d listen to a song. He’d read a thousand and one compilations of thoughts on the web, and fell into hours of internal debates. Playing angry bird on his tabloid, he spent his time to not think about anything.

He met his mother once.
She said that he’s locking himself up, and that his own thoughts are eating him through. It’s who you think that you are, you will be, she said. Junhong had nothing to say back. Standing too tall, towering over her mother with deep sunken eyes, Junhong waited, wondering if she had more to be said.

But it was 11 45pm and she left to her own room after they lost each other’s gazes.

Junhong let the tap fill his water bottle of 5L, and opened the cupboard.
There was a tin of his favorite cheese balls and took it down.
Did Youngjae put it there? Probably.

He fed himself a piece of leftover pasta and walked back to his room.

He paused at Youngjaes’; and opened the door, just enough to see his younger brother asleep. A small smile came on his lips. Thank you.

He’s sorry for Youngjae, truthfully. But he found himself more important, somehow. He closed the door and left to his own, and turned the key.
Youngjae would knock for ten minutes constant if he wanted to talk.

Junhong sighed.

He sat down on the bed, and signed into skype.
He hasn’t in about three days.

Daehyun said that he crashed his toe on a stair and Junhong hadn’t asked how it had turned out. So he did. But it was 11 49 and Daehyun was asleep, probably.
Yongguk had asked if Junhong can come to his thanks-giving party.
Himchan had asked too.
Junhong felt sorry. Those two aren’t at fault for worrying. Junhongs’ been weird.

He didn’t feel up for it; and he didn’t feel like saying no either.
So he didn’t reply.

But Daehyun did.

            : It got swollen yesterday but its fine now. I got an ointment.
              Are you coming for Himchans’ party?
              How are you?

That’s good then.
I don’t feel like it. I feel bad to say no to them :\
I’m fine.

            : Shall we go out tomorrow?

Where to?

            : Arcade?

…. Idk.

            : Junhong, please.

Junhong sighs, and plops his phone to his side, and stuffs his face in his pil