South Korea, 2016

The heat in Seoul is rather similar to that in Los Angeles, or that’s what Mark has been telling himself for the past six months. Ultimately, he knew he was lying. The heat here was maddening on a scale of bad tv dramas to setting yourself on fire, which still has to be more comfortable than the humidity that was trickling into his pores and slow-roasting him from the inside out.

He’d been checking his calendar every day, unfortunately, the end of summer was still 175 days away. Mark did not like the heat, even more so, he did not like exposing skin. So now most of his mornings are spent checking weather apps and avoiding black, and shorts. Which, in theory, is easy, but non black trousers were as foreign to Mark’s closet as was his feet to the Seoul pavements.

So that’s why his new haven has been cafes. All the cafes. Anything with air conditioning, cold drinks and a seat, Mark was there. Mark could be down the street, to the left, down another street, down another street, from the right, and he’d still be there.

Mark’s not at a cafe right now though, as much as he wishes he was with all his might. Instead he’s on the side of the road groaning in pain as if his back had snapped, he’d say he was pretty sure it had except he can move, barely. He rolls onto his side and groans deeply, a painful long groan that rumbles through his chest and makes him painfully aware of all the other places filled with ache.

His vision fades in and out, white blotches clogging the sky that looms over him. It’s summer, and it’s humid, thick air and white clouds stick to the inside of his throat and he can’t breathe. The railing his body had slammed into had knocked the air right out of him, his lungs refused to cooperate and Mark wonders if this is what it feels like to drown in nothing.

The noises trickle in slowly; car honks, an airplane from above, shouts, and the quiet delicate sound of a heavy breath. For a second Mark had forgotten how he’d ended up on the rough pavement, his body locking up on him. Then he remembers that thin form, a baggy old jacket, a brown satchel and short dark hair stepping out into the middle of the road.

Mark’s body had jerked on instinct, his brain hadn’t managed to keep up with his legs and before he knew it the two of them were tumbling down the road and slamming into the sidewalk.

A small face pops up from above Mark then as he rocks back and forth. “Sir, are you okay?” Her voice comes out disoriented, a pitch too deep for someone so petite. The blackness is impending but Mark wills himself to hang on. “Sir, can you see me? How many fingers am I holding up?” She holds up two.

Mark snorts, “Peace.”

She visibly rolls her eyes at him. “We’re going to put you on a stretcher, okay? We’re taking you to the hospital, understand?”

Mark knows he should respond, assure her that he’s alright, but he’s really not. He muffles instead, “Did I get hit by a car?” He see’s other faces from above, they touch him, probe at him, they blur, faces morphing into one another, like life on fast forward but at an extremely slow pace.

“No, you didn’t,” The woman, a pretty woman, she’s wearing a green jacket. “But you saved someone.” She grins and Mark almost let’s his eyes roll back into his head. He was a er for a pretty face, even when he was shattered into a million tiny pieces.

“I’m pretty sure...my bones have turned to jelly,” Mark mumbles- he floats then for a brief moment, weightlessness hits him in an oddly non existent way and then he slams into uncomfort. The sound of wheels against gravel is harsh in his ears, and soon he’s bombarded with the sight of the inside of the ambulance, a small and suffocating space.

Mark somehow finds a moment to himself to ponder exactly how he’d managed to get into this situation. He’d never ridden in an ambulance before, never needed to go to hospital, never broke a bone, not in this life anyway, so somehow, somewhere far in the back of his brain he decides to collect this memory as a significantly unique one.

Then the pain comes hurtling back when someone decides to jab a finger into Mark’s side. He tries to be manly, not welp in pain or anything, so instead he lets out a strangled noise that definitely doesn’t sound girly but not very human either.

“He seems to have fractured a rib-oh come in, are you alright?” The woman’s voice is distant, and a little berating to him now.

“Yes, thank you,” A deep, calm voice responds. Mark looks to the side to find the brown satchel, torn and rumpled and sitting on a slim man’s lap.

Mark thought he’d just puff out air when he tried to speak but the name comes out of his mouth quickly, “Park Jinyoung?” There was a tangled sort of sound to his tone.

Jinyoung flickers his eyes to Mark and blinks. “Ah,” He smiles. “Professor.”

*

There’s a sort of new metallic scent to Choi Youngjae’s apartment building. It tastes of bitter and disinfectant, like the cleaner was doing too much of a good job. Mark’s watching the electronic numbers above the elevator door flicker from one, two, three, until it hits four and the doors open with a swoosh.

He stares out for a moment, the hallway dimly lit, the walls incredibly white and flat as if somehow he’d arrived at a hospital. Mark his lips as he begins to walk down the corridor, passing door number 54, door number 56, and pausing at door number 58.

He stares at the number plate while taking a hand out of his chino trousers and brushes it through his hair, parting it to the side. Mark feels his fringe tickle the skin just above his eyebrows and mentally notes he needs to get a haircut. With the same hand he reaches out to the door before him and knocks twice.

Youngjae is at the door in seconds, his floppy black hair looking distressed and the round glasses on his nose lopsided. His eyes squint to the hallway light over Mark’s shoulders for a moment before he offers his friend a small smile.

“You’re here?” He mumbles, his voice thick as he adjusts his glasses.

Mark looks to the inside of his apartment and makes out nothing, it was drowned in a pitch black, nothing but tiny lights flickering in the distance from the view through the windows. “Did I wake you up?”

“I was just having a nap.” Youngjae says as he opens the door further and indicates for Mark to come in with a nod of his shaggy hair. Humidity hits him as he enters, the air significantly more thick inside the apartment then out. It was summer and Mark wasn’t sure why Youngjae would want to have the heater on.

“Why did you ask me to come so late?” He asks as Youngjae makes his way deeper into the apartment, lights going on one by one. Youngjae looks even more dishevelled in the brightness, his white button t-shirt is half tucked into his trousers and rumpled, his bowtie hanging off the back of his collar.

“I had to talk to you before the meeting tomorrow,” Youngjae yawns and enters his kitchen, it’s a small space in the corner of the large open living area. “Tea? Juice?”

“I’m okay,” Mark refuses with an open palm and heads towards the sofas. “This place is oddly clean.” He’s eyeing the discarded blazer on the floor.

“The cleaner came yesterday,” Youngjae says into the open fridge, he grabs a carton of apple juice and then slams the door shut with his foot.

Mark makes himself comfortable as Youngjae grabs himself a cup and pours the drink into it. “So what is it?”

He clears his throat. “You know the staff meeting tomorrow?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

Youngjae smiles thinly. “The professors are going to throw you under the bus.”

Mark’s eyebrows knit together and he sits up straighter. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, it’s not that bad. The professors are going to discuss how to deal with Park Jinyoung, and they decided to make you his babysitter. Well, they’re going to pretend like they’re considering everyone but they’ll choose you in the end.” Youngjae explains as he makes his way to the sofa with the carton and the glass of juice in both of his hands.

“Park Jinyoung?” Mark sighs and lets his head hang back of the sofa. “Why him again?”

“He’s getting worse, Professor Jung is even considering expulsion.” It was made to sound as if it were a grave predicament for Mark. Mark, however, did not care, in fact Jinyoung’s existence had become a rather irritating one.

“What has that got to do with me? Was it not enough I fractured a rib trying to save his last month?” Mark huffs and places his cheek into his palm. He gives Youngjae a tired look and Youngjae returns it with his own.

“It’s just an excuse,” Youngjae shrugs and takes the cup to his mouth, downing the cloudy drink in one go. “They’re going to say something like you’re the youngest of us-”

“I’m thirty years old, and he’s twenty four-”

“Like I said, excuses,” Youngjae bends forward to the glass coffee table and pours himself another large cup. “In the end they want to complain about him but they won’t help solve whatever issues he’s going through. Since you’re temporary, they’re going to shove it onto you.”

Mark rolls his eyes and goes to frustratingly his shirt from the collar. “So what is his issue anyway?”

“Don’t you teach him?”

“Twice a week...he comes to my lectures with bloodshot eyes and his notes filled with things nothing to do with my class, but it’s not like he’s the only one. Isn’t it he just doing drugs or something?” Mark grumbles, letting his eyes wander across the room until they land upon the bookshelf stuffed away into the corner by the television that most likely hasn’t been since it was bought.

“They got him tested already,” Youngjae scoffs. “Came back clean.”

Mark, evidently unpleased, gets up and heads up to the bookshelf. “So? What else is there that they’re considering kicking him out for?”

Youngjae’s silent as Mark let’s his fingers trace the spines of old books and new books. There are multicoloured tags sticking out from several of them, words scribbled on sticky notes. Youngjae takes a heavy breath and Mark hears him chug before he clinks the cup to the table and speaks, “He’s handing back essays in Latin. Answering questions in Arabic. His room mate has also reported him drawing buildings, structures or blueprints and sticking it up on their walls.”

“So he’s losing his mind?” Mark looks over his shoulder, his words dance on his tongue as if it were a joke, but Mark’s face hardly held an ounce of amusement. He only wishes he could find something funny about the matter. Youngjae reads his expression for a moment before downing another glass of juice.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Youngjae slouches back into the sofa, the cushions squeaking from beneath him. Mark gives him a skeptical look before turning back to the books, reading their titles; The Islamic Golden Era...Seamen’s Mission: The First Traveller...The Little Boy and The Fat Man…

“Isn’t he just playing a joke?” Mark contemplates as he tugs on the corner of a file, Youngjae’s heavy sigh makes him push it back in and turn around. “He must be playing some sort of joke, what do they call him anyway? A genius?”

“He’s not a genius.” Youngjae let’s the tip of his finger slide around the rim of the cup, his eyes unblinking as he talks. “I spoke to his parents last week, it turns out he’s always known Arabic.”

Mark shoves his hands into his pockets, “You mean they taught him when he was little?”

“No, as in he grew up in South Korea, with South Korean parents, never having stepped foot in an African country or the Middle East and somehow managed to speak fluent Arabic by the time he was six.” Youngjae, his face still and rigid, lifts his eyes to Mark. Mark swallows hard.

“....xenoglossy?” The word leaves Mark’s lips before he even thinks them.

Youngjae lets out a tired laugh, “Don’t let Professor Jung hear you say that, she almost slit my throat when I did.”

“That’s because it’s a myth Youngjae.” Mark heads back to the sofa and settles down quickly, his eyes not leaving Youngjae. “It’s unproven, impossible.”

“Oh,” Youngjae pours himself another glass of apple juice. “Nothing’s impossible Mark. Just because something hasn’t been proven to be true doesn’t automatically make it false.”

“Fair point, but-”

“Mark, he’s losing his mind,” Youngjae says and chugs on his drink.

“How long has this been going on?” Mark asks, giving his jaw a contemplating , he could feel the early signs of stubble.

“That’s the thing, it’s only been happening recently, the past couple of months. That’s why his parents are getting involved- he’s been fine, I mean he learnt to not speak Arabic around others after a while. But now, look- I’ve known Jinyoung since he was an undergraduate of mine, he’s a good student, never had problems, so it’s odd.” Youngjae contemplates, hovering the cup at his lips. “I’ve never seen someone's mind fray like that.”

Mark didn’t bother hiding the irritated huff that itched it’s way out. “So...what is it they want me to do?”

Youngjae gives him a thankful look, then leans forward to place his cup onto the table. “I discussed it with his therapist. With his permission we had some sessions and came to find that he doesn’t really realise what he does when he does it. That’s why it’s not a joke, he isn’t playing around. Look it’s not much we want you to do...just...watch over him, help him with his concentration, get close and ask him questions like...what is he thinking when he switches languages, what the drawings are...and make sure you keep them noted.”

“Why does it feel like you threw me under the bus?” Mark deadpans but Youngjae quickly gets up from his seat and strolls around his apartment. “You guys remember I’m just a philosophy professor right?”

“You majored in psychology too, didn’t you?” Youngjae says, peering out his window.

“Yes, but you’re the psychology professor, among five others in the university.” Mark rubs at his temples and sits back, eyeing the cup half filled on the coffee table.

“I know but to be honest...Jinyoung asked for you. We were first considering one of the assistants but he insisted for you. Professor Jung overheard us talking once and honestly as long as the issue is solved and it doesn’t involve her, she’d make sure anything will work.” Youngjae’s eyes drift out towards the night view of Seoul, bright lights and lines whizzing down roads glow like stars amongst the darkness.

Mark continues to dig the hole he was internally making in Youngjae’s sofa. “I’m only here for another six months, what if you can't help him before then?”

Youngjae blinks out towards the view and goes to tug at his earlobe, “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

*

Last year Mark had written a thesis on how the mind perceives reality and whether people can live in more than one world. It had got him quite a bit of attention in L.A, but mostly in South Korea and China it had sparked a rather large debate. It’s what brought him to Seoul, several months after he published it he received an offer to lecture at Yonsei University for a year. He accepted instantly.

Evidently, the reality he lived in hit harder than he thought. It didn’t take him long to realise upon his arrival that he was a rather big publicity stunt. There were articles, reports and interviews at first but they died out quickly. Then it was Mark’s duty, amongst the few lecturing classes they gave him, to attract and welcome international students. This was one amongst other jobs they gave him, like speaking for the university at events and open days.

But being asked to babysit a student, a twenty four year old postgraduate with severe mental stress, was beyond his belief. He wanted to feel insulted, angry, but nothing but sighs could escape his constantly frowning lips.

His mood doesn’t lighten up in the least bit when he see’s Jinyoung walk into his lecture late. Forget late, the boy had come into class with only fifteen minutes to go. The lecture hall is large but Mark can see him clearly. He always stood out. Since the very first class they had together, Mark had always noticed Jinyoung. There was something about his detachment and stiffness, like he wasn’t meant to be here. He was like a puppet without strings that lost it’s way off the stage.

Mark eyes him for a moment longer, watching him shuffle in the back and grab the closest seat before cowering into his hoody. With a slight shake of his head he turns back to the power point and flicks to the next slide. “Let’s wrap this up with an easy discussion. What can anyone tell me…” A pause. A sigh. “You know what? Let’s finish this up early for today. We’ll continue Friday.” Quiet victories can be heard erupt from the room and Mark pretends to busy himself with tidying up. From the corner of his eye, he see’s Jinyoung’s grey hoody shuffle as if to get up and leave. “Park Jinyoung, come and see me.”

Half the hall is already empty but Mark’s request still garners a few curious eyes. Jinyoung jerks where he is at the back, hidden in the shadows. He even looks like he’s contemplating running but eventually his body shifts towards Mark’s direction. By the time he’s at the podium, the hall has been emptied.

“I take it you heard about our new situation?” Mark starts as he slides in his laptop into his shoulder bag. Jinyoung doesn’t respond. “Well, have you or have you not?”

“You sound annoyed,” Jinyoung says and lifts his head up, brushing his hood off. His eyes were dark and redness bordered them as if he hadn’t slept for days.

Mark takes a deep breath, “I’m not annoyed. But I would like your cooperation.”

“What would you like me to do?”

“How about not turning up late and paying attention to my lectures?” Mark offers with a quirk of his eyebrows. He watches Jinyoung take this in with a grimace.

“I’m trying,” Jinyoung mumbles and looks away to the side out onto the large windows which reveal the garden quarters filled with large brushes, benches, and grey skies. It’d been raining all day today.

“Trying not to be late or trying to concentrate?” Mark asks sarcastically, it earns him a satisfying glare from Jinyoung.

“I’m sorry about being late today, I couldn’t sleep,” Jinyoung mumbles under his breath.

“Welcome to college.”

Jinyoung sighs frustratingly and walks back a bit to lean against a desk. His shoulders deflate a little, and Mark imagines he’s trying to get comfortable but his arms are straight by his sides and his foot is tapping at a fast pace. There’s an aura that seems to protrude from him, a sort of darkness you couldn’t take your eyes off...like the moon at midnight. “You dream often professor?”

Mark almosts laughs. “Everyone dreams Jinyoung but not everyone remembers their dreams, you’d know that if you paid attention in my class.” He shoots and goes to settle his bag on his podium to take a seat too.

Jinyoung rolls his eyes, “Okay...do you remember all your dreams professor?”

“I remember...most of them. What about you? I’d imagine you must have some sort of wild imagination that keeps you so distracted.”

“I do,” Jinyoung says straightforwardly. “I remember everything, every detail. I wish I didn’t.”

“Why? Do you have nightmares?”

“Yes and no, I dream or I remember, I can’t tell anymore.” Jinyoung replies with a hint of sadness.

Mark swims in his thoughts for a moment, his hands rubbing against his jaw. He needed to shave soon. “Is that why you asked for me? Because you’d think I’d understand your dreams? Your sleeping habits? Well, I’m sorry to disappoint but-”

“No, that’s not why I asked for you.” Jinyoung interrupts, a blank sort of expression on his face. “I asked for you because I thought you’d understand me the most.”

“I think I’m still going to disappoint you, I may have studied psychology but that was nearly five years ago now,” Mark explains, getting up off his seat, he goes to reach for his satchel. Jinyoung beats him to it. Mark stares down at the hand that stops him from moving and then back at Jinyoung’s eyes. They were dark, too dark, as if his pupils had fallen into the universe and got lost amongst the vastness. It made Mark feel heavy, a lump twisting, and knotting in his chest.

“I know,” Jinyoung murmurs, his voice soft but electric, like his breath held static. “We both know what would happen if word about me gets out. I am probably the first case of xenoglossy people will see. But I don’t want to be some phenomena professor…” He his lips and looks away awkwardly. “I need help.”

Mark wanted to ask what made him think he had any answers to his problems. But the matter of fact is Jinyoung didn’t sound like he wanted theoretical answers or scientific explanations, he sounded like he needed someone. And why that person had to be Mark, he wasn’t sure, but a person had asked him for help and Mark could do nothing but offer it.

*

Finland, 1828

The sea was in the air. Salt on his tongue and in his nose, and stuck to his throat. He drank it in, the cold winds and the harsh waves like sweet vodka from the bottle. Barrick half smiles, his eyes closed, his short blonde hair ruffling softly just above his eyebrow as the sound of the sea sings into his ears. Whispers of sirens and souls far out speak to him and he can feel them swim in his veins as he them into his lungs.

He can see it now, hear the men working, the sound of hammers against nails, wood banging against each other. A port growing out onto the sea, ships as large as churches, sea men in their blue and white, flags being strung up high. Places. People. Lands just out of the reach of his hands but so close he could almost taste it in the air.

There’s a promise, one he’ll keep, one that binds him to this place if there was anything at all.

*

South Korea, 2016

The steam from the hot cup of coffee floats wistfully around the rim of the large white cup, Mark watches it dance in the air, slowly, lightly until it disappears and Mark is now looking at Jinyoung. His hair is loose and down, his fringe short as it sticks out from the hood of his jumper, his sleeves are long and cover his knuckles, the edges fray as his teeth tug at the strings.

The sun is bright but Park Jinyoung looks cold.

Mark looks down at his own sleeves, his cream button up shirt is rolled up to the elbows, the bottom tucked into fitting grey trousers and suspenders Mark has yet to figure out how to clip off. He’s sweating, and so is his ice cup of coffee, the ice clinks inside the plastic cup and the edges form droplets of water. There’s a pool beneath Mark’s cup, and a plate beneath Jinyoung’s.

The cafe they’re at has large floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond them is the grey pavement and the steps of hundred different pedestrians. Mark doesn’t find it very interesting, the intersection, the people, the traffic lights, but Jinyoung does. His eyes dance, flickering from one corner to another, from one person to another, Mark can see it; red shoes, red light, black trousers, black car, cream dress, cream shirt.

Jinyoung blinks three times, Mark counts, before he turns to face him, and his eyes are brown. They’re a deep, alarming brown, glitter scattering the border of his pupils. Mark wonders where the darkness went, but he doesn’t prolong on the thought because he’s just realised Jinyoung’s speaking and he isn’t listening.

“Sorry,” Mark brushes his fingers through his hair, it’s styled backwards today. “Could you repeat what you said?”

“Got distracted?”

“Yes.”

Jinyoung half smiles and flicks his long eyelashes upwards, “Don’t worry, I understand.” He says it with taunt, his tongue playfully at his teeth. “I was just wondering what we’re supposed to be doing during these...meetings.”

“What did your therapist say? Young- Professor Choi just told me I had to take note of what you say,” Mark shrugs as he goes to grab his iced coffee, it drips from the bottom, coolness forming on his thigh.

“Take note of what I say…? I have an app on my phone that could do that just better,” Jinyoung a fine eyebrow, and it catches Mark’s attention, the fine hairs- Mark slaps the cup back onto the table and takes his wet palm to his face.

He rubs his eyes hard before dragging his hand to his lips. “Well, what shall we talk about first? The languages? The drawings? The dreams-”

“The dreams. Let’s talk about the dreams.” Jinyoung straightens up all of a sudden. He shuffles his untouched coffee to the side and leans forward onto the table.

Mark takes in his eager posture and leans backwards, he crosses his legs and arms at the same time and then gives Jinyoung a reluctant look. “Well, go on. Although I really don’t know what you’re expecting from me.” Mark grumbles and Jinyoung laughs a little. It’s a light nostalgic sound.

“I would have thought you’d be rather interested in me…”Jinyoung says with a quirk of his lip, playfully placing his chin into his palm. “For a philosophy professor of course.”

“What I’m curious about is why you’re so interested in me,” Mark uncrosses his legs and leans forward, feeling a strand of hair fall down from his back comb and tickle at his temple. Jinyoung stares at it for a moment before his eyes flicker back out the large window.

“It’s not that…” Jinyoung says softly. “I read your thesis...on reality. Do you really believe that? That it’s possible that our reality isn’t the only one?” He asks of it seriously, his voice wistful but heavy at the same time and Mark wonders what thoughts are whirling in Jinyoung’s head as he asks this.

A grumble, heavy and full of defeat, leaves Mark’s lips as he stares at Jinyoung’s thoughtful expression. He peers down at the satchel sat idly on the floor and bends for it, inside it he blindly searches for his notebook. It’s leather bound, nothing but a string wrapped around it twice keeping it close together. Mark settles it upon the table, away from the puddle his drink had made and opens it, his pen greeting him from inside the binder.

On an empty page Mark writes Jinyoung’s name and draws a circle around it. “This- oi, pay attention,” Mark taps the table with his pen and Jinyoung’s attention jolts back to Mark, they meet eyes for a brief moment and Mark almost swore he could see the colour in his eyes fade a little. “Look down at the paper, this- this is your mind. Okay?”

Jinyoung stares down at the notebook for a long moment, he has an odd look of detachment as if it wasn’t his name he was looking at, but someone else’s. “Are you concentrating, Park Jinyoung?”

He blinks and suddenly flicks his head up, “Yes, professor.”

“Okay, pay attention. This is your mind, your mind perceives what?”

“Everything?”

“Yes, it perceives your sight, your hearing, your taste, your feelings, your emotions, your pain,” Mark explains as he draws out arrows from the bubble. “And how do we perceive our world? If we call the world we’re in right now the reality, how do we know we’re here?”

Jinyoung’s eyebrows twitch as a flash of confusion passes through his face. “Your senses?” He says uncertainly.

“Yes, we perceive this world with our senses and we base the importance of things in this world based on our emotions. It’s the same thing in dreams, Jinyoung. Do you know you’re dreaming when you’re in a dream?”

“No…”

“Then how do we know we’re not dreaming right now?” Mark doesn’t wait for a response, he’s had this conversation so many times now he knows how people will react before they happen. “We don’t. There’s no way to prove it. And it shouldn’t matter because in the end our reality is based on the emotional importance we hold to it.”

“I’m getting confused…” Jinyoung mumbles, staring down at the notebook filled with scribbles.

“Think about it like this: there’s the ‘real world’, let’s say our world, and then there’s the ‘dream world’. We cannot prove either one’s existence and we perceive both of them through our minds, so how do we say one is more important than the other? Our emotional dependency on them. If the dream world holds things that are more important to you, then why can’t that become your reality?”

“So...you choose your reality?” Jinyoung finalises, he blinks rapidly.

“Yes, ultimately.” Mark nods and drops the pen onto the table. “Although a lot of people argue that you cannot choose the world you live in, but the point is that reality is simply what the mind perceives. If a dream feels real while you’re in it, who has the right to deny you of that reality?”

Jinyoung finally goes for his coffee, taking it to his lips absentmindedly for a moment, he takes a long sip. Mark traces the lines of Jinyoung’s fingers with his eyes as they curl round the handle of the cup, blue veins visible from under his pale skin, the arms of his jumper loose at the wrist.

Mark looks away and finally decides to grab a tissue from his pocket to wipe at the water that has circled his cup of iced coffee. “So, does that answer your question?”

The coffee cup lowers ever so slightly, “Yes and no.”

Mark nods, “Well why don’t you tell me more specifically about your dreams-”

“My dreams,” Jinyoung says abruptly. “If- no, I mean is it possible that I can see someone else’s...reality?”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyday I dream of others, other people, people I don’t know....” Jinyoung swallows hard and places his cup back onto it’s plate. There’s a faint pool of coffee at the bottom of the cup now.

“You could just be projecting, people’s faces, any stranger you’ve met or walked past, they can easily appear in your dreams too.” Mark explains but Jinyoung doesn’t look satisfied.

“No, you don’t understand, I don’t just see them when I sleep,” Jinyoung tugs at his sleeves quickly but Mark doesn't miss his fingers shaking. “It’s during the day too, it’s like...suddenly I’m not me anymore, I’m someone else, somewhere else.”

“Is that what you feel...when you find yourself speaking other languages?”

“I don’t know, I never remember anything as me, it’s only when I’ve come out of my...daze do people tell me what I did.” The table is shaking, and Mark realises it’s Jinyoung’s foot bouncing with anxiety. His eyes are lost now, the specks of glitter that were once there are now drowned out by the blackness that has swallowed him up.

“It’s easy… for people to daze out, have you ever heard of maladaptive day-”

“Professor!” Jinyoung exclaims harshly, his whole body shaking now. Jinyoung looked frantic all of a sudden, his eyes twitching and his knee bumping against the bottom of the table. “They’re memories, they’re not daydreams, they’re memories. They’re memories that don’t belong to me. You must understand this can’t be daydreaming if I can suddenly speak languages I was never taught and draw blueprints of buildings I’ve never seen. I’ve never even gone to a single architectural class for god sake.”

Mark grimaces deeply, a feeling of displacement shrouding over his whole body. “Are you saying you can possess other people? Something like your soul...departs and enters another?”

“No...no…no, it’s not like that...” Jinyoung mutters under his breath and takes his sleeve covered hands to rub at this face. “They’re people, they exist...or they existed.”

“What? Like...ghosts?”

“No...like memories. Why is it so hard for you to understand? You know the difference between memories and imagination-”

Mark sighs and places both elbows upon the table, leaning in as close to Jinyoung as possible. “Jinyoung, it’s easy for memories to be altered.”

“But they’re not my memories!” He desperately whispers, his eyes searching in Mark’s, begging for some sort of understanding Mark was refusing. “They’re not mine, professor. They belong to others. Other people in other countries with family, friends, people from another...time.”

Jinyoung looks on the verge of tears and Mark sits there silently.

“So you can connect with other people? Like a psychic link?” Mark keeps pushing.

Jinyoung looks at him with one last desperate look and then crumbles back into his chair. “No, they’re already dead.”

Mark feels something churn in his stomach, his lips twitch downwards.

“Why won’t you say it?” Jinyoung sighs. “Why does it seem like you’re avoiding it?”

“Is this what you wanted? To force someone else to reaffirm what you’ve already decided is happening to you?” Mark quickly snaps back, his knuckles turning white under the pressure of him gripping the bottom of the table.

“No, we both know exactly one reason for any cases of xenoglossy and for some reason it’s the one thing you’re refusing to mention. I asked for your help because I know your thesis on reality wasn’t the only one you wrote-” Jinyoung suddenly goes to press his palm to his forehead, his eyelids twitching. He let’s out a grunt and rubs his face again.

Mark watches his expression. “Does it hurt?”

“Just a slight head ache, it comes and goes.” Jinyoung croaks and leans his forehead into his palm.

“You’re repressing them,” Mark says and then turns towards the windows, and now he knows what Jinyoung was so focused on. Rather what he wasn’t focusing on. Every thought seems to wander away with the passerbys and your mind goes blank because suddenly there’s only the floral dress, and the blue skies, there’s only the yellow light and the silver bike.

Jinyoung’s staring at him, aggressively, waiting for him to keep speaking. Mark his lips once and regrets the words before they even slip past his lips. “They’re your past lives, right?” Mark says it with a sort of finality, and a hint of comfort, and Jinyoung instantly deflates.

He nods weekly, “Yes, yes, it’s like I’ve lived before.”

Mark nods, sighing heavily. “And you’ve died.”

Jinyoung looks up at Mark, there’s a hint of brown back in his eyes and Mark feels the knot in chest unwind by a fraction. “Do you believe in it? Past lives?”

“Other’s won’t believe you,” Mark huffs. “My thesis on it got a lot of criticism and backlash, it’s just not something people like to even consider especially because it links to a lot of religious beliefs. It’s...supernatural, almost.”

“But it’s happening to me, Professor.” Jinyoung insists, his fingers now tightly clasped together. “Look, I understand there’s probably not much anyone can do but I just felt like I needed someone I could-”

“Trust...I get it.” Mark nods, his neck stiff with reluctance. “But the thing is I can’t promise you much, if anything I can at least try to make sure no one does anything to you.”

Jinyoung let’s Mark’s words sink in for a moment, he drinks them in along with the sunlight and goes to shift out of his hoody. “Thank you, thank you.” He whispers and tucks his head underneath his hands.

Mark’s then notices the dirt clogged underneath Jinyoung’s fingernails, grey etched deep into his fingerprints. His hands looked rough and were covered in blisters. Mark wills himself to look away and instead puts one reassuring palm to Jinyoung’s bent head.

The sunlight is warm upon him and Mark’s hates the feel of it on his skin.