After a few minutes, there was a shuffling noise, and I looked up. My friend was slowly entering the room, her arm supported by her mother.

She smiled at us as she guided her daughter to where we were sitting on the couch. “Your friends are watching a movie,” she told her. “Don’t you want to join them?”

The girl was wiping her nose with a cloth, and didn’t answer.

I wanted to reach over and touch her shoulder, but something inside of me constricted; my hand trembled a bit, but I controlled myself and asked, in what I hoped to be a cheerful voice, “Are you feeling better now?”

She bowed her head, not out of respect, and stared at the low table in front of us, the one on top of which still sat the watermelon slices.

Glancing at it, feeling slightly like a hypocrite, I asked, “Would you like some watermelon?”

Sitting on my other side, Ara-noona shifted slightly.

She still didn’t respond.

“Come now,” her mother scolded her affectionately, “Your friends came here to visit you! You’re supposed to be happy and smile.” She turned to me. “When did you return home?”

“Just earlier this evening,” I answered truthfully.

“Do you have any more plans for the break?”

My heart sunk as I thought about my schedule. I still had Super Junior activities to carry out for the week, I had to fly to the Philippines in two days for a commercial shooting, I had Radio Star tomorrow, I—“I’m afraid I’ll be a bit busy.”

“See?” the woman said to her daughter. “Our big star Kyuhyun-sshi is so popular now; it’s hard for him to make time to see you. You should be happy now,” she rebuked the girl tenderly.

And then suddenly, my friend spoke.

“What is…the color of…a…human heart?” she asked me in a tormented voice. With a pang, I noticed that her whole body had started trembling uncontrollably, as with considerable effort, she raised her eyes to meet mine.

“I—” I was at a loss for words. Helplessly, I glanced over Ara-noona, but she merely returned my lost look with her own. Her hands clenched her bag so hard, her knuckles were turning white.

“What—” my friend repeated, “is the color—of…a…human—heart?”

“Red,” I blurted out, not knowing what else to say. “It’s red…”

Slowly, she took that in. Closing her eyes to stop the flow of tears, she quietly whispered, “Why?”

She was continuing the conversation. That was progress, I thought desperately, as I struggled to respond. “Because—of the blood vessels, and the hemoglobin—?” I looked over to my sister again for confirmation. It had been years since I last had to contemplate science. She nodded, but still didn’t know what else to say.

“Then—what is the color…of…a—a—dead—human’s heart?” she now asked shakily.

“Wh-what? Why are you asking such a thing—”

“What is—the color—of…an albino’s eyes?” she implored me, her gaze penetrating mine.

“What is the color of a diamond’s center?” I countered her, trying to follow her abstract thought process and simultaneously bring her mind off the dark imagery.

In response, she just kept sobbing.

“What is your favorite, happiest memory?” Ara-noona suddenly cried out. My friend’s mother had placed her arm around her daughter’s shaking shoulders, and it was only after a long pause could she stop and answer.

“My… favorite…memory?”

“Yes,” my sister said, her voice slightly cracking; she was on the verge of tears, herself. “Your favorite memory.”

In response, the girl mumbled something incoherent, and broke into a fresh wave of tears.

My own eyes were stinging again, as her mother looked at me and asked, “What’s your favorite memory?”

Of us.

I took a breath to steady myself. “A few summers ago…” I began.

“What—” she gasped again, “is the—color…of—a…dead human’s—heart?”

Her mother shushed her. “We’re not talking about that anymore.”

“Blue—or—red?” She turned and stared at me again.

I returned her gaze with blurry vision, unable to answer. Next to me, my sister was breathing heavily; I could hear her, and with that, my heart lurched again.

“Red,” I decided firmly.

“If I tell you,” she whispered faintly, “I’ll die.”

“What?” I was sure I misheard her.

“I’m too weak,” she mumbled, “to live.” The last part was barely audible.

Something burned deep within my heart. “Don’t say that,” I said forcefully. “Never say that!”

“You’re strong,” her mother added firmly, “you are very strong.”

Ara-noona stood up and rushed out of the room; a few moments later, she came back with a handful of tissues.

My friend’s mother paused for a moment to thank her before giving them to my friend. As she blew her nose, we all collectively let out a small chuckle.

“There… doesn’t that feel better?”

“Do…you…have faith i-in me?” she asked in a broken voice.

“Of course we do,” I answered gently. “You’re a fighter.”

Because she was still alive.

“P-promise n-not to lose c-contact,” she begged.

But was she still coherent?

“Of course,” I assured her.

“M-my f-favorite m-memory…”

Her mother sighed and her back. “Honey, that’s not what we’re discussing anymore…”

Would she ever be the same again?