“Jungkook, are you awake?”

His eyes snapped opened, they were in red, in sadness and heartbreaks.

“Jungkook how are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?” the nurse approached, a clipboard in her hands.

The brunette stared at her with wide eyes, confusion written all over his face.

“A nurse found you unconscious in the intensive care unit, it seems like your body is reacting. But don’t you worry, your transplant is going to carry out in two more weeks”

And he realised he was back to their room, which was once a paradise, a wonderland of delicate beauty and magical charms. He plopped himself up on his elbows and looked to the left, across the once occupied bed and to the window. It was closed, but the curtain was pulled apart. Thus he could see it, the colour of his, the one he wished to sprinkle around his garden, to paint everything in his world, to set a hopeful smile on the pretty face.

Hastily, he removed the tiny tubes connected to his body and dashed to the door. He could hear the faint shouts from the nurse, across the hallway and down the staircase. Perhaps, it was true. Perhaps, it was not. True or not true, he wanted to reach there, to the kingdom of dreams, of his love and faith. He passed through the main entrance and down to the endless meadow.

There it stood, swaying in the wind, a mop of delighting pink. It was dancing on its own, every gust of the wind resembled the notes of an orchestra, as if they were born for each other, a meant to be, so brave, so beautiful. And it made him wonder if he was his orchestra, played only for him, to write him the most astounding classics. And he would be his dancer, danced only for him, with the most gracile moves that would ever exist.

His footsteps were now slow and sturdy. The pink was glowing softly under the sun, a camouflage for all the pains and worries buried deep inside its heart. The falling of each petal was like the shredding of hopes, little by little, and there would come a day where nothing is left, everything would be gone, all the dreams and fantasies. Broken into pieces, scattered around, condemned in perdition.

“Aren’t we the same? Trying so hard to tell the world we are fine, living a life in which all we do is to pretend. I don’t even know myself, I don’t even recognise the real me, isn’t it pathetic? Like a shell without a soul, living his life in self pity, completely useless and shameless. But do you know why? Do you know why am I like this?”

It had stopped dancing, instead, it stood still and listened to him, casting down its gaze at him. It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was a complete opposite to the storm ranging in their hearts.

He tilted his head and looked up. Behind the pink, there was the baby blue with tinge of white. It was his final destination, it was where he could see him again.

“Because he left me” he breathed out a sigh.

“He was my world. I have lost my world” mayhap he was numb from the pain, not a single tear was seen in his dark orbs.

“Have you seen him? Have you seen my flower that is yet to bloom?”

Dead silence was the only answer for him. Tired, he turned around and smiled. “It is fine, I will see him very soon. They say it is a pacific nation, it is void of pain and worries, it is beautiful and serene. And by then, he will be able to live a perfect life, we can grow the flower together. I am sure he will love it. When he is happy, I am happy too”

“Jungkook” he heard it again, like what had happened in his dreams. When he made a swift turn, nothing fell into his sight but the livid pink.

“I must have gone crazy”

But he failed to notice the small movement behind the winter blossom when he let out a loud mocking laugh.

“Jungkook...” the little voice trembled.

It was not a dream. It felt real, too real. He could almost touch him, to run his fingers across his lips, to take his hand into his, to pull him into his warm embrace. He would never hesitate to write a story out of his beauty, to play a song on the piano out of his glamour.

He saw him again, his flower, his salvation, his world.

He saw him again, it was him, it was his.

He saw him again, Park Jimin.