Fate. It is a funny thing, the only other four-letter ‘F’ word that can spark a war of debate amongst humans. Jinyoung had seen it happen on the internet, people getting enraged and overly passionate about their opinion, believers and non-believers alike.

Some people like to romanticise fate. They believe that everything happens for a reason, more often than not, for the better. They also believe in soulmates and love at first sight and all things rainbow and unicorn. And then there are people who call this utter nonsense, whom Jinyoung thinks are mostly grumpy atheists who are control freaks and hate the idea of having someone laying down their lives in an unchangeable destiny.

“For some people, ‘the point of no return’ begins at the very moment their souls become aware of each other’s’ existence,” Jinyoung articulated, reading off the poetry book by C. JoyBell C. that Jackson was holding for him.

“And your point is?” asked his best friend. His expressive eyes narrowed to signify his annoyance at Jinyoung’s literary word vomit.

There was a pensive silence as the car they were in sped past a red light. Jinyoung could hardly see the startled pedestrians waving their fists angrily in the air as they zoomed past. Everything was in a dramatic blur; even the blaring honks from vehicles behind them seemed to disintegrate into bubbles of warped, distant sounds in their supersonic ride. The only reason he could still hear his friends was because they were literally shouting into his ear.

“He is saying that he would not have gotten into like this if he hadn’t met you!” Youngjae screamed back at Jackson, not that he was furious or anything, because his voice had always been dynamic. 

Jinyoung barely blinked. Did he really spend so much time with these rowdy kids that he was numb to their shenanigans? Or was it the adrenaline?

“Shut up, boys, or I’ll throw you out of the car!” the woman behind the wheel finally snapped, her body trembling as she let out a shaky breath. Her fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that her knuckles turned a ghostly white. “I shouldn’t have let you boys come with us. I s-shouldn’t have let you boys take my precious Jinyoung and he wouldn’t have gotten h-hurt–”

“Mum!” Jinyoung sighed, watching the emotions in his mother gather. She was about to explode into tears – not a good idea in the urgency of their situation. Women and their hormones, perhaps the reason why he preferred boys. “Calm down, mum. I’m fine. Now don’t start bawling because I’m the one with the broken arm, not you. Just focus on taking us to the hospital. I swear, I will be fine.”

He glanced down at his arm, now not just bloody but also swollen and throbbing, but he wasn’t feeling the slightest ounce of pain, only numbness. Blood was gushing out steadily from his wound, seeping across the white t-shirt that Jackson had used to wrap around the deep cut. His friend was now looking ridiculous in the green flannel he used to tie around his waist. It was a size too small and he could easily be mistaken for The Hulk if he wasn’t holding a dainty poetry book.

“We’re almost there, darling,” his mother charged ahead, her determination overshadowing the penny pincher in her. Jinyoung knew, he just knew, that she would faint from the fines of the traffic summons that would arrive in their mailbox by next week. Money is her life. But Jinyoung understands it as his mother’s love for him, because money makes his life.

He had been a problematic kid since he was born, not because he was a rambunctious scamp but because of his weak health. While other kids spend their weekends at playgrounds, he had spent his in hospitals for check-ups. This was why he was so unbothered by the violent jets of red coming from his arm.

It was fascinating in the most grotesque way (his mother would kill him if he admitted that to her); his blood flowed like an endless stream. It didn’t stop, it never does. But the doctors would patch him up in some way or another. They always would. And he would have to spend a week in the hospital, then everything would be back to normal.

No biggie, so he might as well read some poetry on his way.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Jackson whispered, afraid of upsetting Jinyoung’s mother again. “You don’t really mean what Youngjae said right? I swear I didn’t mean to cause” – he cast a careful glimpse at Jinyoung’s arm – “this.” 

That morning, Jinyoung had decided to cycle to school with Jackson and Youngjae. Well, not exactly “cycle”, but hitching a ride, because he does not know how to cycle. As much as he wasn’t romantically interested in Jackson (that boy was as attractive to Jinyoung as their repugnant and foul-smelling old football coach), he was curious to know how it felt to ride on a bicycle on a beautiful spring day. Call him a foolish romantic, but he would never be able to give up his stash of rom-com movies and fluffy teen romance books.

If he was a grumpy, control-freak atheist, he would reason that it was his fault for agreeing to take that alternative route to school. It would also be his fault for stupidly asking to try the bicycle without learning how to put on the brakes. It would then, ultimately, be his fault that he went rolling down the hill and crashed into a giant rock.

“It’s just insinuating the existence of soulmates and the possibility that meeting your soulmate can change your life,” Jinyoung explained.

“And what the does that mean?” Jackson deadpanned, then squirmed a little in his seat at the vicious glare Jinyoung’s mother was giving him through the rear-view mirror at his vulgar language.  

Youngjae rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe the absurdity of Jackson’s level of understanding. “It’s fate, Jackson. A soulmate is someone you share an affinity with, and Jinyoung is saying that it’s fated. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Jinyoung replied, not particularly because he believed in fate, but because he refused to identify as a grumpy, control-freak atheist.

Had his mother not been tearing up while listening to the doctor, Jinyoung would not have agreed to be rolled out of the emergency room on the wheelchair like a parcel. He was sure he could walk perfectly fine with a broken arm, and having someone transport him everywhere made him feel more useless than he already was.

While his mother went to register for his stay at the hospital, Jackson and Youngjae tailed behind him and the nurse pushing his wheelchair. The hallway had as much personality as a blank sheet of paper. They went past rows and rows of identical sliding doors to wards, each room number indicated by the same boring, black lettering, just bold and all caps. Despite his frequent visits, Jinyoung would always get lost here. Everything was in such uniformity – even the ceiling was symmetrical with polystyrene squares laid on a grid-like frame, lined with those glaring fluorescent lights. The only pop of colour was from those commercial prints at the end of each corridor. Our staff is here for you. Wishing you a speedy recovery. How uplifting! What truth!

“I seriously hate being here,” he groaned, very much to himself but his inner frustration was enough to make his complaint louder than he intended.

“No offense to you, Jinyoung, but isn’t it just a fracture? Don’t they usually wrap you up and send you home?” said Jackson. Youngjae nodded in agreement.

“Well, I don’t really have a choice,” admitted Jinyoung. They were now in Ward 37, a two-person ward that his mother had insisted him to stay in for comfort. If they were richer, she would no doubt cradle him into a V.V.I.P suite with unnecessary service from a dozen nurses.

“What do you mean you don’t have a choice?” asked Youngjae.

“Yeah, is your mother being unreasonable?” Jackson guessed, before lowering his voice into a whisper as though she could hear him from five floors below, “again?”

Before Jinyoung could reply, he was deposited onto the hospital bed by the very callous nurse. She gave him curt instructions with a poker face, her empty eyes harbouring no emotion except a readiness to quit her job any time. Jinyoung thought he understood her plight. The curtains were drawn as she left, and a tall, sharp-looking doctor entered in a pristine white coat. Considering how dimly-lit the ward was, he was literally shining, and Jinyoung found it mildly abrasive on his eyes.

“Mr Park’s mother is not being unreasonable at all. In fact, with type one diabetes, it is mandatory for the patient to stay in the hospital for at least two days for observation,” the doctor said. Either he was an exceptionally young doctor, or he had the blessing of having a very young face for his age.

“What do you mean type one diabetes? Who? Our Jinyoungie?” Jackson exclaimed. This time, he wasn’t being overly dramatic; he was genuinely shocked. Jinyoung never told his friends about his condition. He never really thought it was a big deal, only having to excuse himself to get insulin shots now and then. He looked at his friends guiltily, now that his secret was out. Youngjae was now silent as a doll, refusing to look up.

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, pushing up his glasses casually as he bent over to examine Jinyoung’s charts. “Not sorry because I let your friends know about your condition – they should know for your own good – but because I haven’t introduced myself to you. Mr Park, I’m your resident doctor for your stay, Im Jaebum.”

How rude, Jinyoung thought. Was it because of his age? He had never seen a doctor as feisty as Im Jaebum. He also did not appreciate the fact that everyone was talking about his hospitalisation as a “stay”, as though he was on vacation.

“Hi Jaebum, I’m Jinyoung,” he said without any care for a respectful tone, a disgruntling attempt to provoke Jaebum, who seemed unfazed.

Jaebum eyed the two, still flabbergasted, standing by the bed, and then shuffled his way past them to Jinyoung to check on his arm. “Well, Jinyoung, let your friends know not to expose you to possible physical danger because diabetes will make the healing process slow and make you vulnerable to other complications such as infections.”

“I know that, sir,” Jinyoung grumbled. He had heard this so many times since he was born, he could have mistaken it for his name.

“I meant that for your friends to hear. And good, I will check on you every six hours. If you have any discomfort or questions, just ring up the nurse. Have a good rest.” He turned to leave, completely ignoring the existence of Jackson and Youngjae. “By the way, it’s fine. You can call me Jaebum.”

Jaebum walked out without turning back and Jinyoung felt like he lost a mind game of some sort. Yet, that feeling was short-lived as his friends pounced onto him forcefully. He let out a choked moan as his arm got stuck in the messy bear hug.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry!” Youngjae frantically retreated as he realised they were hurting Jinyoung, but Jackson continued to stick to Jinyoung like a bee to pollen. He was mumbling about being sorry and it was when he blabbered about deserving to die that Jinyoung stopped him.

“Guys, it’s fine. I’m perfectly fine. I’ve had type one diabetes before I could walk. The last thing I want you guys to do is to treat me like I’m one of the dying patients here,” said Jinyoung.

Jackson raised his head from Jinyoung’s chest (finally!) and pouted like a wronged child. “So, I’m not going to die for agreeing to let you cycle?”

“You will, if you don’t leave soon,” Jinyoung suggested upon spotting his mother from outside the ward. She was scampering around, her little feet in heels making clicking noises down the quiet corridor, as if she was so worried that she couldn’t read the plastic signs that indicate: Ward 37.

His friends took his hint and mouthed goodbye before sneaking out the door, and it was within seconds that his mother found her way to his bed. As she began to speak, Jinyoung’s mind wandered somewhere else. Her voice was like Charlie Brown’s teacher on that Snoopy cartoon. “Be careful… waa waa waa… dangerous… waa waa… take care… waa waa waa…” 

He was staring at the curtain on the other side of the room, wondering what kind of person laid on the other bed. There was a huge box beside the bed, a tell-tale sign that he or she was not an overnight guest.

“Darling, are you listening?” his mother asked.

“I have to take care of myself?”

“Ah, so you can hear me,” she said, slumping her shoulders. It had been a long day for her too, to endure the rollercoaster of emotions Jinyoung always put her through. Jinyoung loved his mother, but he was no longer the little boy who hung onto every word she said. Besides, her words are always the same. Caring, full of love and concern, but magnified the issues that came with his chronic condition. He was thankful but at the same time, done with it through and through. It made him feel sicker than he already was.

“Listen to the doctor… waa waa waa… rest well… waa waa waa… I’ll be back tomorrow… waa waa…” 

Unexpectedly, his mother’s nagging was the only thing that made him feel at home, the place he longed to be at that very moment. As night fell and the painkillers kicked in, he dozed off. Tomorrow, he would wake up, Jaebum would deem him fit to be discharged and he would say goodbye to this white hell.

Ah, Jinyoung’s life was overflowing with destiny. 

Ill-fated ones, of course. The nurse from yesterday greeted him good morning by sticking the thermometer in his ear like one would in the toilet bowl with a toilet brush. The aggressively loud beeping by his ear snapped him out of his dream about dinosaurs lurking behind the other bed’s curtain, but it was the frantic call for the doctor that woke him up completely. He didn’t expect such vigour in the same nurse.

“Thank you, Nayeon,” Jaebum said. Jinyoung stared as she bowed then dragged herself away with heavy footsteps. Nayeon – the zombie nurse.

“Interested?” asked Jaebum, his eyes shifting ever so slightly in suggestion. It was only after he nodded his head in Nayeon’s direction that Jinyoung realised what he was talking about. He shook his head vigorously.

“She is not my type. Hundred percent, no way,” said Jinyoung.

“Well, don’t have to get so defensive. I’m not judging or anything.”

“Well,” Jinyoung countered. “Aren’t doctors supposed to be mindful of their patients’ privacy? Why don’t you do your job and not ask so many questions, Jaebum?”

“I am doing my job. And my job tells me that you might have an infection because of your fever. Are you feeling nauseous? Or dizzy? Or do you feel extreme pain anywhere?” He asked the questions like he was reciting sentences. How could someone be so emotionless? The better Jinyoung got to know him, he more he began to think it was a mercy Jaebum had any features at all. So very blank and high was the dead wall of his face. 

“No? Good. Take these,” he shoved a couple of pills into Jinyoung’s hand. “We will monitor your temperature for the next hour and if your fever persists, Nayeon will come to schedule you for further check-ups. Now, if you excuse me.”

Jaebum walked over to the other bed in the ward. The curtain was drawn for the first time since Jinyoung had been there, though only partially. He could see Jaebum running through his usual questionnaire for the patient, checking on his charts, doing the most boring tasks of being a doctor.

He almost choked on his pills when he caught a glimpse of the patient’s hair. It was white – not salt and pepper like that of his grandfather’s, but as white as the hospital walls – and seemed to have signs of thinning. Jinyoung could tell because he was rather proud of his own “luscious, black hair” (quote his hairdresser). He deduced immediately that he was an old man, and he hated it.

Old people reeked. They reeked of wisdom and a sense of calm, an acquiescence to fate, such that Jinyoung felt bad about being whiny and afraid of... death. As if age was a drug, these elderly patients were numb to the possibility of their passing. They had journeyed their lives and were just waiting for their long-awaited rest.

Old people dawned upon him the immaturity of his age, and he embarrassingly confesses to his obsession of trying to be an independent and educated young adult. Wise beyond his years, eighteen-year-old Park Jinyoung – the introductory commentary he would have when he gets featured on Time magazine. It sounded farcical in the presence of an aged person.

This was why he was absolutely devastated when the results came in and confirmed he was down with an infection and had no chance to escape the confines of his ward for at least a whole week. His mother had to work, and his friends had school. He was trapped in a hell of antiseptic fumes, with an old man. That sounded about as fun as his math lecture.

Just then, Jinyoung’s phone pinged with the notification of a message. It was Jackson, texting in class as usual. Before he could type a response, more messages came in, at such a rapid rate it was embarrassingly like a dated commercial jingle on a broken record. He should have set his phone on silent.

Jinyoung bit his lip nervously, looking over to the old man’s bed in case of any signs of irritation. Nothing. Just in case, he hopped over to the shared bathroom and locked the door behind him before pulling out his now constantly vibrating device.

Hey.

Hey. 

Reply pls. 

Mr Kim is soooo interesting I’m half asleep. 

Hello? 

Are u ok?

When r u coming back to sch?

Tomorrow?

Perhaps later? 

Don’t want u to miss my basketball match

This was followed by a long string of heys and hellos that were nothing but a nuisance to scroll through. Jinyoung wondered how they were still friends with this disproportionate need of attention between them. Also, why he was hiding in the bathroom like he was committing a sin? Not that he was scandalous in any way, but he might appear to be more scandalous than he intended to be to his fellow ward mate.

Hey, have an infection apparently. His shoulders dropped in defeat as he typed. Probably stuck here for the next week fml. 

JACKSON: you ok bro? sounds serious

JINYOUNG: fine but come visit soon, stuck with an old man here… life is boring 

JACKSON: srsly good luck to you. wish I could come over but sch hours = visiting hours hello? 

JINYOUNG: oh pity 

JACKSON: ask jaebum to move u to a different ward 

JINYOUNG: you crazy? you think this is four seasons hotel or what 

JACKSON: just tryin to be helpful.. btw lorenzo choi thinks he is cute 

JINYOUNG: who is?

JACKSON: jaebum, who else? u? 

A notification for another chat flashed on the screen, and Jinyoung couldn’t help but bend over in laughter.

YOUNGJAE: did Jackson tell you something absolutely ridiculous and totally untrue??????

JINYOUNG: maybe… 

YOUNGJAE:  

YOUNGJAE: I knew something was up when he wasn’t using the group chat ing wang 

JACKSON: hey, tell lorenzo choi to stop hitting me 

Jinyoung almost jumped out of his skin when he heard urgent knocking on the washroom door, as though he was caught red-handed doing something illegal. There was no reason for him to be jumpy; or maybe there was, his subconscience avoiding potential conflict with the old man. He was so not getting sworn at by a cantankerous elder like the one on the bus a month ago (Jinyoung had fallen asleep and unintentionally not given up his seat).

“Mr. Park? Are you okay in there? Mr. Tuan would like to use the washroom.” It was Nayeon.

Tuan? That was an unusual surname. Jinyoung wasn’t sure he’d ever heard of it. He hurried himself anyway, flushing the toilet to forge the impression that he was doing actual toilet business and not unauthorised hogging-the-toilet-from-elderly business. He could sense an increased urgency in Nayeon’s knocking – of course, the elderly had weak bladders – so he left the washroom in a haste.

Expecting to meet his ward mate for the first time, Jinyoung was surprised to see Nayeon instead, and half-relieved that the old man was still shuffling behind the curtains because first impressions were probably unfavourable at washroom entrances.  

“Sorry to rush you, but Mr. Tuan has to take a shower before his therapy,” said Nayeon.

Therapy? Physiotherapy? 

“No worries, I was done anyway,” lied Jinyoung. In fact, now that he was out, he was starting to feel the beginnings of an urge to go. Oops. 

“Good, I was about to take you to Wing B for your blood test and insulin shot anyway. If you could please follow me,” she said with an impersonal smile, which Jinyoung thought actually would look pretty if it was sincere. He briefly wondered how Nayeon was like outside of work. Perhaps she needed a vacation; all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. But obviously, work was her priority, and all sparks of affection Jinyoung had for her dissipated into thin air as she dragged him (almost) abusively by his sleeve to Wing B.

Routine to others was waking up on the third alarm, catching the bus right before it leaves, getting their morning coffee from their local Starbucks. Routine to Jinyoung was syringes, syringes, syringes. Life is a state of give and take. Give blood, take insulin. Jab, jab. Until he could no longer feel pain and his scars became so distinct they painted an unsightly constellation.

“How is your day?” the nurse who took his blood asked. She was actually concerned, but her kindness applied, unfortunately, at the wrong time and on the wrong person.

“Couldn’t be better,” griped Jinyoung.

Nayeon abandoned him for his journey back to the ward, and it was only without company that he felt a bit empty. Not in the emotional way, but he felt something was missing, as though he lost his phone somewhere.

He stopped in his tracks as he came to a realisation. Aha. His phone, which was usually either in his pocket on in his hand, was absent. It was no wonder he thought he was walking topsy-turvy; his right side was lighter than usual.

A scavenger hunt ensued when he was back to the ward, and it didn’t take him long to realise that looking under the mattress was silly and not worth his effort with just one functional arm. It had to be in the washroom. However, Mr. Tuan was surely taking his own sweet time behind the door. It had been half an hour, and he could still hear the pitter-patter of the shower.

Deep breath, Jinyoung. Was it morally wrong to have to consciously conjure his inner zen to keep his patience with the elderly? Because it was taking him an immense amount of self-control to not knock on the door. Especially when he heard the vague sound of his phone vibrating noisily against the countertop. What if Jackson was sending him inappropriate texts again? There was no doubt a man from the older generation would shake his head at explicit and more importantly, untasteful ual jokes.

Jinyoung was half expecting to get cursed at when the door final-ing-ly swung open. He wasn’t expecting a theatrical show opening of an R rated Broadway musical.

Behind the unassuming bathroom door came a billow of hot steam reminiscent of the dry ice used in stage effects, and when it cleared up, the main character materialised before his eyes. And well, god damn. Nobody told Jinyoung that someone could look so majestic under a flickering toilet light.

The man – if he even was one and not a special being that transcended classification –  exuded a dreamy auality that made him attractive to both men and women, with his long lashes and chiselled jaw line, framing his delicate features that were still a boy’s. His hair, a dazzling platinum blonde, was dripping with water fresh from his shower.

Jinyoung’s vision travelled with the dripping water, his mouth agape as he watched the clear droplet roll down a beautiful, smooth chest and sparkle like a diamond against that porcelain skin. He needed a reason to justify his indecency.

Gravity was the reason water was dripping down.

Gravity was the reason Jinyoung was looking down, and further down… down…

“Where are you looking?” the man spoke. He had a voice deeper than the hole of embarrassment Jinyoung was free-falling into.

“I w-wasn’t looking!” Jinyoung spluttered. He was such a talented liar.

“Clearly,” the man laughed. His laugh was hearty and rumbly and – was this guy a perfect specimen or what?

“Uh, well, we’re not exactly in a situation for self-introductions but hello I guess? I’m Mark,” the man said, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly before extending his hand.

A glistening, toned arm. 

“W-who are you? And what are you doing here?” Jinyoung squeaked.

That sweet laughter rang within the confines of the ward once again. “I said I’m Mark, and what do you mean what am I doing here? I stay here.”

Jinyoung eyed him suspiciously, then did a double-take at the countertop to make sure his phone was still there and this Mark – whoever he was – was not a pretty-looking thief. Mark put two and two together and passed Jinyoung his phone, not missing that adorable tremble in his hand when their skins touched.

“There you go,” he said.

“You do not stay here,” stated Jinyoung, although it came out uncertain like a question.

“Pretty sure I do?”

“You are not Mr. Tuan. Mr. Tuan is a lovely old man. You are a… not-lovely young man,” Jinyoung jabbered, nonsense falling out of his mouth.

Mark laughed again, as if it was the only thing he knew how to do. Not that Jinyoung was complaining, because if that was so, Mark certainly had mastered the art of laughter. His stunning smile could enchant even the most stoic of humans, like Jaebum and Nayeon.

Speak of the devil. The two poker faces appeared behind him from nowhere. And Jaebum dropped one sentence that came hurling down on Jinyoung like an atomic bomb.

“Mr. Tuan, we’re ready for your session.”

He was talking to Mark.

Mr. Tuan was the person he would be staying with in the ward. In a best-case scenario, he would be the person he shared meals with, had deep conversations with, spent the night with. But Mr. Tuan was not some random, old man.

Mr. Tuan was Mark. Mark Tuan: gorgeous homme fatale. And Jinyoung just ed up his chances with him.