The news of your mother’s death hits you so suddenly that it feels as if your entire world has come to a halt. Everything seems motionless and surreal, as if time has stopped ticking. Your breaths seize in your chest, heart pounding in your ears, and the professional look on the nurse’s face twitches into one of forlornness – reminding you with each passing moment that you aren't trapped in some hellish nightmare.

This is your reality. And the heartache it brings with it is almost unbearable.

The nurse speaks up again, her voice – nervous and trembling beneath your hard stare – shatters the eery silence which blanketed the hallway leading to your mother’s hospital room. She gestures towards the door, room 9095, and stammers something about doing everything she could to revive her. She was unsuccessful, obviously, no matter how qualified people like her claim to be. “But this is all a part of life,” the nurse attempts to appease. “And your mother lived a wonderful one, I’m sure.”

You don't have the strength to tell her otherwise, least of all the strength to speak at all. Instead, you give her a slow nod, expression remaining distant as you glance towards the quaint room which has housed your mother for most of your life. “May I…” Weakly, the words come out hoarse, practically burning your thickening throat, but you still manage to continue, “may I see her, please?”

One last time.

The nurse gives you a forced semblance of a smile, and places one hand on your shoulder. It shudders pathetically under the slight weight, betraying your efforts to contain the developing anguish which storms within you, but she pretends not to notice. You almost feel grateful.

Wearily, you give the nurse another nod. You don’t think you can handle speaking again without broken sobs pouring from your lips. You swallow as she gives your shoulder an encouraging squeeze, and then you’re directly facing your mother’s door. After so many visits over the past ten years, every single day for as long as you can remember, it feels strange to think that this will be the last time you ever see it. The hospital had become a second home to you, and now with your mother’s untimely death (though was it really), a suffocating sense of sadness washes over you.

This is it. This is truly the end. She’s gone. The only person who has ever loved you, the only person you yourself have ever loved, is gone from this world and is never coming back. When you walk through this door for the final time, her welcoming face will not be there to greet you. Gentle and full of unrivaled warmth, her eyes will no longer seek yours as she croaks a saccharine “welcome back, Jaejoongie.”

Your ears ring, and your eyes give a telltale sting as the nurse slides the door open in one swift motion. It’s all too soon for you.

The evening sun beams an amber ray of light into the room, cascading across the pristine bed which lays in its center. You can see the shape of your mother’s petite body, covered in entirety by a thin white sheet, and the tears fall from your eyes before you can stop them. They come quick and heavy, pouring down your reddening cheeks until your vision is nothing more than a blur.

You can almost see how she used to be. Leaning back against her headboard with her hands folded atop an open book on her lap. Her hair tied back into a messy braid, and her pale face growing excited as she turns to look at you. Your name flows past her lips in an endearing melody, drifting across the room as she spreads her arms out wide and compels you to fall into her embrace. You would do so without hesitation, melting into her hold as she runs her fingers through your hair. You’d breathe in her distinct smell of medicine and withering flowers, sealing it into your memory as you think with relief, I’m finally home.

God, how you wish you could experience everything just one more time. Now, all you see is her prone body, seemingly so much smaller than you remember, beneath a stark sheet that just doesn't belong. The nurse walks with you up to the bed, her hands reaching out to hold yours in comfort, but you can hardly register the contact. You don’t want to feel anything at the moment.

“Are you ready?” Your hearing is muffled, almost like you’ve been dunked head-first into a pool of your own tears, but you still nod unconsciously at the nurse’s words. She gives you a brief look of concern before releasing your hands and placing hers above the edge of the sheet which hides your mother from view. She inhales. And then pulls it back.

You regret ever coming here. You would’ve preferred hearing about your mother’s demise over the phone rather than during one of your scheduled visits. You had only stepped out for a moment, a call from your classmate prompting you to leave your slumbering mother’s side. And when you had returned, not even ten minutes later, a nurse was standing outside of your mother’s room, biting at her lip and rocking apprehensively in her shoes.

You knew it wasn’t a good sign. And you curse yourself for not turning back around then and going straight home. Nothing is as painful as seeing the face of your mother – void of all life and so deceptively serene that it makes you sick to your stomach. It sends a jolt of agony through your body, and just like that, you see nothing, hear nothing, and feel nothing but her as your eyes take in her appearance.

She looks the same, but also doesn’t somehow. The air which had once surrounded her, screaming I am still here, is all but erased now. Vanquished into the unknown, taking your mother’s smile with it. You don’t even have to lay your fingers upon her flesh to know that it is no longer as warm as it was just earlier today. You can only recall that warmth in your mind now, and will never be able to feel it again.

You will never see your mother again.

Like a child, you want to break down and scream. You want to hit something, throw anything, and damn the world for its cruelty. Shim Sungmi had lived a hard and miserable life. She had been abused emotionally by her parents since young before being cast aside to a family member when they realized her mental stability deteriorated as a consequence. Conditioned and manipulated into being a more “normal” child, she had followed the whims of her guardian without question or complaint. Even when they had practically sold her off to a wealthy man she had not loved, she did not disobey them in fear of losing everything she had. But then her husband left her, tired of having to care for a woman who was not as desirable as he had hoped for. And being left abandoned, heartbroken, and two-months pregnant had only led to her health depreciating into something much worse.

She was rendered bedridden by the time you reached elementary school. And since then, you had made it your mission to bring a brightness to her eyes that you’re sure you have never seen within them before. You work odd jobs here and there across the city, struggling to pay off the growing hospital bills and debt which have accumulated in your mother’s absence. You've lived with your second-cousin, on your father’s side, throughout it all. But Kim Junsu hardly acknowledges your presence, something that must’ve run in his family’s blood.

You've seen your father more than once. Met him at family dinners and reunions that his parents loved to have. You were only invited because of Junsu. He may not have been enthused about your living with him, but he was the only person kind enough to take you in. He has never introduced you