There's one feeling he knows too well: suffocation. Drowning. Choking.

Every minute of every day, he feels like he's suffocating. Drowning. Choking.

When he takes a breath, it's wheezy and half full; there isn't much that can make it passed the hands clenched around his neck. They're hands that only he can see and only he can control—they're his hands.

Yet, he can't even control them. Now they've turned against him and he's accepted that.

She's upset again. He thinks What is it now, his own voice bored in his head, but the undertone is scared and angry. What is it now? What's he doing wrong? What does she want him to do? That's all he wants to know. She's always thought he should know himself what she wants; they're together, aren't they?

Not for much longer, he thinks as she slams things around the room. A part of him is apathetic to her temper, but another, bigger part of him is scared; so scared. They've been around this track so many times, run so many miles chasing each other (though it was usually her chasing him,) he's scared that she'll stop running. One gets tired after running for so long. He's sorry he's made her do it.

He's also not sorry.

For now though, he's just scared.

She's hysterical. "And do you know what?!" Her tone is shrill and biting. "They want us to announce our engagement there! Isn't that great—"

Or it would be, if . . .

"Or it would be if there was one!"

He looks at the dark and pretty envelope in his hand; trembling just so, eyes roaming the gold embossed lettering. This must be it; this must be . . .

"But you're not going, are you?"

At the side of the bed, she's stopped with one of his sweaters clutched in hand. He can't answer. What would he tell her? She was right: there was no engagement to announce and there would never be one.

He wanted to apologize to her for that—no, for more than that. For so many things, but no matter what it was, it would always lead up to this: a lack of engagement to announce to her family . . . and his.

Both families wanted it so badly. She wanted it so badly, and him? He said he wanted it, but the proof he didn't was here now. He was paying the price for lying back then, tell himself back then that this charade was fine to carry on with.

She yells some more, throws stuff around some more, says some more things she doesn't mean, things she'll regret later.

At times like this, he escapes to another room in another place; one where she wasn't. It was rough and dank and in shambles, but it was a place he could almost call home.

Ravi's world.

Things like that only existed in the heads of children, but like this, helpless and not willing to defend himself, he was a child.

Ravi's world was more than just a gutter to him, it was his safe haven, a reflection of his troubled mind: dramatic, eye-straining lighting, broken furniture, large paintings that hardly formed coherent images, any and every bit of mind that he'd lost putting up this front to her.

Then there was Ravi.

Ravi was a mess—much like himself—but he didn't hide it behind feeble apologies and trembling hands, no. Ravi thrashed and kicked and screamed and made sure everyone knew of his rage and pain. Taekwoon admired that about him.

Ravi ached in desperation to tell the whole world that he was hurting and didn't want to do any of this anymore, he was that part of Taekwoon. He was the part of him who craved to hurt everyone burning misery into him; the part of them that wanted to chase her and pin her down and force her to realize the truth. Yes, he admired Ravi—but the world could never know about him.

He was always there though; looming and quiet, rage seeping off him like a slow spread of miasma, filling every crack and crevice of Taekwoon's being . . . Always waiting for the moment he would be let loose, a moment that would never come.

"That's it then?" Her sharp and cracking voice breaks through everything. "You're not even going to pretend you don't want to make this right?"

Ravi's here now, lumped on the bed next to him; legs pulled up in the same fashion, staring at her through the mirror—but instead of his own frail gaze, his dark eyes are piercing and stinging.

Right, Ravi begins under his breath, and his voice echoes throughout the parallel neon room. Right for who?

He doesn't answer either of them. She scoffs.

"Why are you being like this . . ." She sounds harsh and broken all at the same time, thickening his guilt. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Why are you doing this to ME?! Ravi picks his head up to scream. He doesn't flinch.

"Do you hate me?" she presses, desperate. "Am I not good enough? Is there—Is there someone else?"

Ravi is the one who scoffs now. If there was, do you think I would still be here now?!

She gets up again, rounding the bed and standing in front of his curled form. "Taekwoon . . ." A softer, more sympathetic tone nearly fools him into believing she might actually want to work this out. It's a lost cause though. "J-Just . . . Just tell me . . . Please . . ."

He glances at Ravi, whose glare burns so hot that he's sure she'll turn to dust. Nothing happens; she can't see him or feel his razor-sharp gaze.

She begins to cry, crumples to the ground, and he's on his feet in an instant. Ravi's glare turns on him.

He can't help but reach out to touch her, to try and comfort her, but before he can even touch her, she slaps his hands away. Ravi growls ferociously, ripping a spring from the bed to no doubt impale her with.

"Don't touch me!" she screams and he almost stumbles back. "You can't do this! You can't just-just pretend to care when you don't!"

He stares down at her sobbing and rubs at his hand.

He did care though—Ravi kept repeating it more loudly every time—he really did. . . . But it was only out of guilt, the guilt filling up his lungs like lead, mucking through his veins. What Ravi couldn't fill with his presence, guilt did the rest of the job. Staring down at her just made it worse. Listening to her sob made it worse. Everything . . . Everything made it worse.

Make her stop . . . Ravi whined.

He couldn't though. The only way to make her stop, to make this all go away, was to be somebody he wasn't. He wanted her to be happy, to be okay, but it was impossible with him.

Several long minutes pass; he doesn't know how long it takes for her sobs to dissolve into hiccups and sniffles, but he hovers just in case she needs him. He doesn't know why he does that when really, he wants nothing more than to get away forever, but he just can't help himself.

On the other hand, Ravi sneers at her with nothing but disgust and hatred. He wishes he didn't understand why.

She smooths her hands over her face, wiping away remaining tears, and then cards her fingers through her hair. She wobbles to her feet and he doesn't try to move to help in case she slaps him away again. Ballet slippers snatched off the dresser, she rounds the bed again to her large suitcase and then slams them in with her other belongings.

"Is this really it . . . Are you not even going to try . . ." She sounds exactly how he feels: exhausted, ready to fall through the ground.

We—He—I—Ravi struggles with who they both are, DID try. We've been doing nothing BUT TRYING. We're TIRED of TRYING. He's so loud . . .

Taekwoon bites his lip. "What do you want me to do . . ." He hardly even recognizes his own voice; if she's not screaming at him, Ravi's screaming for him and there's no in between. Between Ravi and her, he hardly ever puts his own word in.

She looks at him through the mirror. She opens , eyes softening like she realizes that this isn't only hard for her—until she remembers that he's the reason they're both like this. The suitcase slams shut.

The rest of the night is quiet except for Ravi's heavy breathing and his occasional growl of frustration or pain. She doesn't talk to him and he can't bear to look at her. If he talked to her again, he would only make it worse, only tell her more lies. Neither of them need that.

Until she leaves, he decides it's best to stay in the guest room. Aside from a bed, an empty desk, and two large empty canvases, the room is barren. They never decided to make it into anything useful and it ended up as a sort of getaway where they didn't have to see each other.

He blinked.

The room was bathed in blinding, vibrant lighting, and if it wasn't so familiar to him, he'd have a splitting headache as soon as he saw it. The bed was ripped up, destroyed, garbage and broken glass littered the floor, and painted on the canvases were disfigured, melting faces. Sometimes, if he looked hard enough, the faces looked like him and Ravi—both in pain, both ruined.

Ravi hopped on the desk, scratching at the ink blotching his arms. He muttered something to himself and a few papers floated off the desk in his wake, adding to the ones already scattered on the floor. Taekwoon dumped himself on the bed, arms flopping on either side of him and tired eyes trained on the ceiling. If he fell asleep now, he never wanted to wake up.

Why is this happening? Ravi says for him, slapping his palms on the desk. Why can't it stop?

He closes his eyes and wishes he had those answers.

Opening his eyes again brings him to a completely other place. He's not in the guest room—not even in the apartment. He's on a beach, with a shore stretching for eons on either side of him. An ocean of black ink spreads farther than his mind could even begin to comprehend, and the thick darkness doesn't help at all. Above him, the sky is deprived of stars with the particular detail of a missing moon—how can he even see? This is a place he knows, though.

Whenever it becomes particularly difficult, he wakes up here on the soaked sand, eyes meeting the abyss of night. Waves crash against the shore and the smell of ocean is so strong that it clears his head. He thinks Ravi made this place somehow, made it for him as an escape even from his world.

He pulls his sleeves over his hands and begins walking down the shore. There's never anything here besides ocean and sand, but the sounds are enough to soothe him. It isn't cold, but he crosses his arms over his chest with his hands in fists; the pressure comforts him. He continues walking until his mind is filled with nothing but the ocean.

He's almost there until he hears the sour note of a piano and stops. He glances around for the source but sees nothing but darkness. Maybe it was just my imagination . . .

Until he hears another note, and then another. They're pieced together jaggedly and poorly—like they could be something nice, but the right person isn't playing them. He looks over his shoulder to discover a light shining from two rectangles, and something is on top of one of them.

There's never anything here . . . And he wants to go closer but he also doesn't for fear of what he might find.

Before he can really argue with himself about it, it's all right in front of him. Ravi's the one sitting on the rectangle—which aren't that at all, but two pianos. One of them is a dusty red color with unusual keys and the other one is . . . nothing short of a disaster: splattered with paint, several keys gone, and a pedal missing. Its chair is leaning on no legs and he wonders what happened to it—but with Ravi sitting on top of it, scrutinizing him, a guess doesn't need to stretch far.

"Did you bring these here?" he asks. Ravi only stares at him.

After looking at the unbroken piano a moment more, he decides to sit down at it. His eyes dance across the keys, finding that the pattern isn't just a mindless mess at all but pretty foliage; he glances at Ravi to find that he's wearing a suit with the same design. He looks back at the piano.

How long has it been since he's played? Since she moved in . . . He thought playing would be something she loved, but she only told him she had problems sleeping as it was, and his playing helped in no way. She only got upset. He apologized and then never touched his piano again. He pressed a key.

An off-pitch tune rang out, but it wasn't enough to make him cringe, so he pressed another. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Ravi's shoulders slump in relaxation. The sound of piano breaking through the ambiance of ocean waves was jarring, but he didn't stop.

Remembering the broken bits of melody he heard before coming, he began stringing them together. His fingers glided over the keys, muscle memory guiding him, and the melody became a powerful ballad filled with all the words he could never say, with all the words Ravi shouted instead.

Ravi's eyes were closed, listening, hearing his own voice come from the piano.

For just a brief moment, it was all okay. Just him, Ravi, and all the words they couldn't say.

Taekwoon opened his eyes.

He managed to curl himself up in the center of the bed, clothes pulled over every part they could be to shield him from the air conditioning. He shivered. A ghost of the melody from the beach echoed in the far back of his mind and he tried to cling to that brief sense of peace before fully waking up, but it wouldn't stay. The suffocation returned.

He rubbed at his eyes, pushing all his limbs out and his lips to get fresh hair into his stale mouth. Blinking, he glanced around the room and found Ravi sitting on the floor, knees pulled up, gazing at the blank canvases.

The clock on the bedside told him it was almost 4AM. She was supposed to be leaving around 6AM . . . but he wouldn't be surprised if she was already gone by now, every semblance of life in the apartment with her. He didn't know if he cared or not.

But we do. Ravi said, eyes never leaving the empty spaces.

Taekwoon rolled over, head getting light. The floor was chilled and uncomfortable under his feet which made him want to curl back into bed and hope he could wake up on the beach again. He knew he couldn't though, not when there was still . . . a chance to fix things.

But why would you want to? Ravi doesn't sound tired at all, or not too tired to begin getting angry anyway.

Taekwoon ignores him and quietly leaves the room.

The bedroom light is off and there's no noise inside. There's no noise anywhere else either and he really begins to believe she's gone—until he spots a dim light in the dining room.

He shuffles in. She's sitting in one of the two chairs, curled on herself like he usually is, and hardly even acknowledges that he's there.

She's not gone yet. Ravi followed him (of course he did.) Taekwoon can't tell if he's angry or relieved, but they probably have the same sinking in their stomach. He takes the empty chair opposite of her.

Their table is small, only ever just large enough for the both of them, and he could reach across for her if he wanted to—if he wanted to. If he wanted to . . . To fix this, to make it all "better," to show her he could be "better," that it could "work out."

He doesn't do any of that though.

Instead, he just watches her. Her face is buried in her thin arms, legs pulled up are covered in her long navy dress (a favorite, she always told him, just because he bought it for her.) The suitcase is sitting next to the table, full and ready to leave, but neither of them are moving. Minutes pass.

"Why are you in here?" she finally asks, but doesn't lift her head.

I don't know. I don't know. Ravi sounds almost frantic. He's standing at the side of the table with the suitcase.

"Did you . . . come to stop me?" There's no hope in her voice because the both of them know that's a lie, that he would never if there was a way out for both of them. "Are you going to? Going to stop me?"

I want to stop you. This can work. It's strange that Ravi sounds like he's having a change of heart, but Taekwoon doesn't know if his own aligns with it.

"Do you want me to?" He doesn't mean for his voice to sound dead as it is, but he's tired. All three of them are tired.

She sits up, uncurling. There's no anger in her face, no hint that she'll start crying or screaming again. He thinks maybe she's the most tired. "Do you blame me?"

No, no, I could never blame you. Ravi slams his hands on the table. Neither of them flinch—her because she simply doesn't know him, and Taekwoon because he's used to it.

Taekwoon opens his mouth.

She laughs quickly, a sound more dead than his. "If you're going to apologize, don't. There's no point."

Taekwoon closes his mouth.

Ravi glares at him. You shoulda done it anyway . He can't remember the last time Ravi directed his anger at him.

"Are you leaving soon?" Taekwoon decides to say instead. He knows it. She knows it. They both know it, there's no point in avoiding it.

She casts her eyes down to her newly folded hands on the table. "I called a taxi. It'll be here soon."

Call it again. Cancel it. Ravi turns to her, begging. He turns on Taekwoon with wild eyes. CALL IT AGAIN. CANCEL IT. He slams fists on the table this time. Taekwoon still doesn't flinch.

"Taekwoon . . . ?"

Taekwoon blinks; that tone wasn't one he was used to these days. She usually sounded panicked, shrill, or upset. But this one was light and innocent, still demure but almost like she was tired after a long race and ready to cross the finish line.

"Did you . . . Did you ever love me?"

Ravi snaps his head in Taekwoon's direction. Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. TELL HER. Why is he being like this?

"I think so." Taekwoon answers, and Ravi doesn't react violently.

She laughs again, more brokenly this time, and a tear slides down her face. She doesn't bother wiping it, but he has the urge to reach across to do it himself. "Maybe it all wasn't for nothing then." she replies, as if it's a bright side to all this.

It wasn't. Ravi cracks, clutching his hair. His eyes are getting puffy. It wasn't!

Taekwoon slides his hand across the table to grab hers. It's weird, touching her like this when for the last several months, they could barely stand looking at each other for more than a few seconds before the yelling started. But he's tired too, he wants to reach the finish line too. He might lag behind her a little, but as long as they both crossed it, neither were the loser.

She rubs her thumb over his fingers, not looking at him but smiling. It stays like that for a moment before the rubbing becomes discomforting instead of soothing, and Taekwoon has to pull his hand away. Like she saw that coming, she reaches for the top of her suitcase as a distraction and pulls out something jingling. It's their keys.

No no no no, Ravi says quickly, going from frantic to angry, No no no NO NO NO—

Taekwoon starts ignoring him.

Outside, the rev of an engine alerts all of them that her taxi's arrived.

Panic flashes through her eyes when she looks at him, and then it smooths out to some semblance of acceptance. He feels it too, but it's a little heavier in his chest.

"I guess . . . It's time . . ."

STOP. Ravi screams, slamming on the table.

She does. She does stop and looks to the space where Ravi's standing. Ravi doesn't react to her though, still yelling for Taekwoon to do something. He doesn't.

"Should I . . . ?" he begins, motioning to her suitcase, but she shakes her head with a solemn smile.

Taekwoon reaches for the keys instead; before he can take them, Ravi smacks them off the table, slamming his hands down again. She doesn't react—like it didn't happen—but now Ravi's caught Taekwoon's suddenly nervous attention.

They catch each other's eyes one last time before she stands with a melancholic smile. Ravi's glare is more piercing than ever, with his hands braced on either side of the table like he'll flip it over—his heavy, drunk gaze turns to her getting up and beginning to walk away, suitcase in hand.

Ravi shoves the table, lurches for her, and Taekwoon panics. He hooks his arms around Ravi's chest, yanking him back as he thrashes against the hold, elbowing him in the stomach and almost headbutting him. Taekwoon can't exactly believe this is happening, but he doesn't know how she isn't reacting either.

LET ME GO! Ravi screams at him, struggling to get free. TAEKWOON YOU BASTARD, LET ME GO. LET ME AFTER HER. YOU WON'T DO IT YOU COWARD.

Taekwoon can't breathe, he feels like all his limbs are going to fall off and like he's going to pass out—like instead of holding a screaming Ravi back, Ravi has his hands around his neck, punishing him for letting this happen in the first place.

Ravi manages to break from his hold and escapes the room. Taekwoon's after him immediately, tears beginning to brim in his eyes. He catches up in the hallway that suddenly stretches forever and tries snatching him back again, but he trips and only catches onto the ankles. He winces from how his back hits the ground.

It doesn't stop Ravi, stomping down the hall until he can reach her, begging Taekwoon to let him go.

WAIT.

She stops again at the end of the hall and turns back—but only like she was taking a final look.

"I'm sorry."

She rounds the corner.

"I did love you."

The door opens. The door closes.

Alone, Taekwoon stands in the hallway. Somewhere else in the apartment—he thinks he knows where—Ravi wails. It's more like screaming, but that doesn't matter. He feels it too. They feel the same. Somehow, they always felt the same.

He almost collapses right where he is but manages the strength to make it back to the kitchen. The keys still sit on the table that never moved. His footsteps are heavy as he heads for the rooms, but he decides to avoid the bedroom.

The guest room is empty, no Ravi in sight; Taekwoon doesn't know where he is (though the sobbing hasn't ceased,) but he drags himself back onto the bed and curls up. He closes his eyes and gasps out for air, still drowning.

The rest of the night sees him drifting in and out. Everything shifts between neon and dismal dullness; the bed will be disemboweled with all its springs out or it'll be the same. Which place is real? Not that it matters; the beach isn't coming back in all of this.

More than anything, he suddenly wants to apologize to Ravi. He doesn't know why, but it feels important.

The beach comes to him when he realizes that. It's colder, darker, and the ocean odor is unpleasantly overwhelming.

Ravi sits at the unbroken piano no longer crying, but trying to play the song instead. It's only bits and pieces, but they're scary and screeching. He stops when he sees Taekwoon is there. They stare at each other for a long moment, Taekwoon's emotional gaze meeting Ravi's utterly dead one. The ocean scent seems toxic now, its brine and salt lining his lungs.

Ravi gets up from the piano stool and motions for Taekwoon to sit. Taekwoon sits. Ravi motions for Taekwoon to play. Taekwoon begins to play.

The piano is far more out of tune now than it was before, but he carries on for the both of them because it's all he can do right now. Ravi is pacing around, looking between attacking the piano and attacking Taekwoon. He pulls at his hair and yanks on Taekwoon every now and then, but Taekwoon can tell he's trying to find solace in the melody that only keeps growing in power. The two small lamps letting him see brighten.

Hands grip his shoulders when Ravi comes behind him, weighty and familiar. Taekwoon feels them slide up to the base of his neck and vaguely registers that it is a feeling he recognizes. Though his playing becomes slightly frantic, he doesn't stop.

Ravi's fingers, long and stained, wrap around his neck but don't squeeze just yet. There's no hint of protest from Taekwoon, whose toes unearth the wet sand when he isn't using the pedals.

Just when he feels the melody has reached a peak, that's when Ravi squeezes—but it doesn't feel scary or new . . . This is a feeling he knows, one he knows too well: suffocation. Drowning. Choking.

Now Ravi is sat down next to him, their faces close together; he doesn't stop playing, Ravi doesn't stop squeezing. Ravi's angry at him; he knows. Ravi wants to kill him. He knows. Ravi wants him to suffer. He knows. The lamp lights are so bright now, he's surprised they haven't shattered yet.

And just like that—Ravi stops. The melody stops.

Ravi isn't by his side anymore and his hands slide away, exhausted. Panic flinches through Taekwoon and he reaches up to catch them—but no. Ravi's hands have slid off; they're gone.

Looking over his shoulder, Ravi's eyes are redder than ever and far too puffy to even be open. His silver hair everywhere and his posture slumped, he stumbles away. Stumbles towards the finish line. Taekwoon watches him with wide eyes that begin to water.

Ravi's leaving. Leaving him. Why is Ravi leaving him? Into the darkness he continues to sink, and he finally turns back. Taekwoon can't stop watching him. Besides terror, something else burgeons in his chest . . . Something lighter.

The other feeling is fading away. Fading away. So is Ravi—

But before he does, he looks over his shoulder one last time at Taekwoon, and Taekwoon—swears he sees some sort of smile. A smile, just relieved to be crossing the finish line.

Ravi's gone.

When Taekwoon opens his eyes again, daylight filters through the curtains. His eyes are puffy, as if he's spent the entire night crying instead of sleeping, and he thinks maybe . . . Ravi . . .

He rolls over to sit up with his legs over the bed; the floor is still cool, but it doesn't sting anymore. He looks around the room, the same kind of empty it always was, and listens out for any sounds, but there's nothing. She's still gone.

He closes his eyes again and listens more closely. He isn't sure where it's coming from, but it's definitely there—somewhere else in the apartment, he can hear the melody playing. It's in tune.