Fin.

When I'm With You (Clouds and Daydreams)

[ Rad Museum - Cloud ]

“The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.” 

- Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses.


 

She can’t remember when it first started just as she can’t remember the first time speaking to Irene and she doesn’t want to. Beginnings aren’t something Seulgi likes to think of. Looking back on a beginning implies you’re waiting for an end. That you know one is coming. And she doesn’t ever want this to end. Doesn’t think she can bear it.

She sits alone in the cold and the dark and skims pebbles over the river's jade face and watches as they bounce one, twice, gone. Each in perfect sync, each as if tethered to the previous. A dry wind is blowing. It’s been blowing for most of the day, and in those colder spring nights she dreams of warmer weathers to come in the summer months, when she won’t have to sit out here on the waterfront in the oblique dark listening to nothing but the soft thrum of cars out on the bridge. Scatterlights in the distant evening. When the nights seem to go on forever. When there seems to be no end to the sun and all remains pink and hazy and everything is imbued with a strange sentience.

That’s what summer is. Where everything feels alive for once. The geese and the ducks bobbing about on the water, the clouds slowly circling, the steady tap-tap-tap of people coming along the waterfront path, travellers from somewhere far from here, the boats calmly humming over the river, the laughter of children, the barking of dogs, her and Irene laughing. Or so she hopes. Alas. Summer is a different time. Different rules.

It's almost an hour before Irene arrives. She doesn’t see her at first, a faint and shapeless glimmer in the shadow of the bridge. She normally comes the other way, straight from home. But not tonight. She’s wearing the same puffer jacket she’s always wearing, so much so that Seulgi thinks one day she'll be able to remember Irene as just that jacket and nothing else, a sort of defining symbol to emblemise her with. And she has her hair loose and blustering about her face in the wind. And she’s pale, always pale. Pale and beautiful.

She smiles at Seulgi and Seulgi stands and stands for a long time not knowing what to do with her hands. Does she sit? Does she go for a hug? A high-five? She’s terribly awkward around Irene and it hurts but human nature is human nature. So she just stands there until Irene sits, as if waiting for the signal.

Sorry I’m late, Irene says.

It’s okay.

I had some errands I had to run. And some stuff for uni I had to finish up.

Its fine. It’s not even eleven.

Irene sets her bag on the grass and opens it up. Its dry, hasn’t rained for nearly a week. She takes out two styrofoam cups and peels away the lids and blows at them as they steam and simmer gently.

I brought coffee, she says. They sit and drink. They don’t talk. They never talk immediately, and whenever they begin it’s always in short conversations, always about nothing at all. What they did today, where they went, how their lectures were. Surface level stuff. Because going deeper than that is to break some sacred oath of trust between them, both knowing what can never be said, and there exists still the sanctity of brevity, there as in all things.

They sip the coffee slowly, as if to savour it. To savour the silence. Its good coffee, for what it is. A couple thousand won a cup but it's strong and not really bitter at all, there’s a sort of sweetness to it, a tart taste that lingers at the back of the throat. Or maybe Seulgi thinks there is because Irene bought it for her. Because whatever Irene buys tastes better. It’s something she learnt about in a Psychology 101 class she took for extra credit and she can’t remember the name of it anymore but she’s sure that’s what it is. That or just some unnaturally good coffee.

The wind blows. Their hair dances. There are no geese now, no birds of any kind to be seen anywhere. Not until summer comes, not at this time of night. They never really look at each other. Irene because she likes watching the water and Seulgi because she can’t bear it. She’s so beautiful, so illegal. Just out of reach.

I skipped my seminar today, Irene says, and Seulgi cranes her neck and asks why and Irene explains everything and she listens, but not really. She listens in the way people infatuated with the person and not the topic often do, nodding and smiling as if on cue, like a marionette performing. Oh no, she says. Well you didn’t need to go anyway, she says. Its only one seminar, she says. She says a lot of things. And Irene tells her everything and she agrees with everything and she looks at Irene and she’s only looking at Irene, not the tree fluttering about ten metres behind her in the wind, not the crisp packets and foodboxes blown out of the trashcan and blustering across the riverside path, not the distant foglights of cars on the bridge. Just Irene.

When she’s finished talking about her day she takes a sip from the cup and sighs and says: This is good coffee, and Seulgi agrees again.

What about you? she says.

My day?

Yeah.

I didn’t do much. Just my lectures. And catching up on some notes here and there.

How are you feeling?

I’m okay. Generally, I mean. I’m doing okay.

She’s not, and it’s a lie, but it’s the best she can do. The only thing she can say. There’s nobody that really understands it, not unless they’ve been through it themselves. She doesn’t know if it's depression, or if it's clinical or situational, or how deep in it she is, but she knows it’s something. It’s kind of just there, is what it is. It’s just sort of lingering below the surface. It’s this thing that eats and eats and takes and takes and it never gives, it never goes away. She doesn’t know how to describe it either. It’s not lethargy, not really. It’s just a sort of apathy. Everything except talking to Irene is so much effort. Everything feels like such a struggle sometimes.

She’s not suicidal, never has been. But it hurts all the same and it has for a long time and all she can do really is amuse herself with Irene and it sounds selfish and maybe it is, in a way, maybe it really is, but it’s all she’s got left, or if not then it feels like it’s all she’s got left, and sometimes the feeling is all you need to convince yourself. The feeling is all that remains of you, tethered thinly to reality.

Irene smiles at her so gently it’s almost painful to witness. She puts out a hand and holds it over Seulgi’s own and it’s soft, almost too soft, and pale and raw in the night’s cold, but Seulgi doesn’t complain.

I’m always here, you know? Irene says. If you need to talk to anyone. If you need to just let things out. I’m here.

I know.

She smiles. It’s all she can do. All she can ever do. She doesn’t know what else there is anymore and it’s been that way for a long time. Once someone told her that it was a little bit like being stuck in the middle of the ocean and not really knowing how to swim to shore. How to find the way out. You can float, but that’s about it. And you have to keep pushing yourself and pushing yourself, you’ve got to keep testing that instinct that sets you back – that complacency. And when you learn how to swim – well, that’s a beautiful thing in and of itself. It’s not the swimming. It’s not the articulations, the circulation, the movement of your arms and legs finally in tandem, finally working with you and not against you – its none of that. It’s the knowing that you’re almost there, you’ve almost made it. You’re almost at the shore.

But that was a long time ago and things have changed, and Seulgi thinks it isn’t like that at all, at least not when you look at it. There’s no learning how to swim, because it would be unrealistic to suggest you can shrug off the hindrances that comprise our existences like that. As if you could just free yourself of them. You could just put out your arms and start paddling away, metre by metre. Everyone has something dragging them down. Something tugging at their leg. You’re out there in the middle of the ocean but you’re not swimming for shore. You can’t even see the shore. You’re just afloat, from beginning until end. You’re not even swimming at all. You’re just trying not to drown. And sometimes, she thinks – and only sometimes – it would be easier to just let yourself go under.

 

❆ ❆ ❆

 

Spring is the best time of the year. The days are longer and the sun is wider and the light pools red at the rim of the world and everything seems to just fall into place. That's what spring is. There's the ripeness of summer yet to come and the melancholy of winter just passed and it's all just there in this new thing, this coagulation of other times and places. It's the bitpart season. The season for reflection.

But reflection isn't what Seulgi wants. She wants to be free of anything even remotely resembling reflection, because the worst thing for people like her is to be reminded of the real world and of their place in it, even momentarily, even for that break in the rain where all seems light and warm again. She's a dreamer, is Seulgi, a daydrifter, a vagrant, a vagabond, going from place to place on the wind like nothing. She's one of many that inhabit the same space and yet just like each one of them she thinks she's alone. And that's the trickery of it, really. That's the poison chalice of solitary introspection. The false belief that everybody is alone drives it to become truth and once proven it lingers. It's self-referential, almost. It's unrecoverable.

There are lights here and there on the waterfront, lights from the lamps and a kid riding a bicycle and the distant rolling flicker of car beams shifting like searchlights. She moves between them with her hands in the pockets of her oversized coat. She can see her breath loop and coil in the air. Nobody pays her any attention. She sits on one of the benches, the same bench every day, about a five minute walk from Hannam Bridge, so that from there she can still make out the thin silhouetted figures of the late-nighters on the walkway and the lights of the cars moving like wisps in the fog.

Spring is the best season. The trees are proud of spring and they make sure to show it. Cherryblossoms litter the path like wedding decorations. Leaves of ochre, leaves of brown. There's a cool wind that particular night and a handful of boats out on the water and a small moon rising like a cat's eye and there's no Irene. She's at the library finishing her coursework because she's been busy the last few days and now it's last-minute catch up. But she's always been good at that. Or better than Seulgi at least. So there's no Irene. There's just Seulgi on the bench in the cold and that's a dangerous thing because the last thing any lone and struggling drifter wants is the chance to think.

Sometimes she dreams she's a popular singer on stage, and in these dreams she comes back to university and puts on a special show for all her old coursemates and Irene is there, just watching her from offstage, smiling and applauding and looking so very proud. Sometimes she dreams she's much cooler than she really is, and that in these cool-dreams she's impressing Irene with just how cool she is, much in the way she could never do in real life. Sometimes she dreams she was born in a different place, or occasionally a different time, where the idea of being with Irene isn't so ludicrous to society at large. It's a fickle thing, and it gets the best of her. And sometimes she dreams she were nothing at all. Just that. Just nothing.

She's lost in her dreams more than she'll ever admit because dreams are all she really has. It's the last line of defense against everything. Against the world. It's the safety mechanism that triggers whenever things become too hard to bear, it's the cocoon she retreats into when she wakes on the morning with nothing left but apathy and no desire to do anything but not be there at all. To just stop. It's dreams that keep her going, but dreams are deceptive and fragile things, and nobody knows that better than Seulgi. Because being someone else or somewhere else or not being at all is so very tempting, but the true power of dreams lies in how they remind us that what is real is real, and cannot be made unreal, not ever. That we must live with what we have because that is the way of the world, and always has been. And it is profoundly unfair and she knows it and she cries but cries over what? And to what end? The shaping of each life is formed from no knowable thing, and in our pursuit of such knowledge do we fall at every hurdle. But still. We persist, because we must. Because what other choice is there?

Spring is the best season. The birds come out in spring. They stand along the branches and they watch Seulgi with curiosity and she watches them in kind with jealousy. What do birds have to worry about? Sometimes she wishes she were a bird but she never dreams about it and maybe there's something to that, maybe it's for a reason. Or maybe there is no reason to anything in her life and the longer each day grows the more she becomes convinced of that. Every morning, every night before bed. Looking at herself in the mirror. She's someone she doesn't recognise anymore. She's just sort of there. Dust on the wind.

She's lucky the tears have stopped when Irene arrives. It's just after nine by her watch. She pokes Seulgi on the shoulder and Seulgi turns and blinks twice and wipes her eyes. She's been crying for a long time. It's not unusual because it's what she does. She cries over nothing and she does it a lot but it's something she's accustomed to so what's wrong with it? It is what it is and there's no explanation for it. Maybe Irene notices, but if so she never says anything. She sits there on the bench while Seulgi looks at her. She's wearing the black coat Seulgi bought her for Christmas four months ago and she's got no gloves on and her hands are red raw in the cold and her face, too.

I thought you were at the library.

Irene looks at her. There are no more cars or cherryblossoms or boats on the Han or matchstick outlines wandering the walkways of Hannam Bridge and there are no more birds in the pines or ice spiderwebbed in the grass. There's nothing but Irene. It all feels like a dream. Irene Irene Irene. But if she were dreaming everything would be different. Would be better. No more longing.

She brushes her hair out of her face and smiles at Seulgi. It's a smile Seulgi wishes she could capture. It's lightning in a bottle, the spark that starts on wet wood and just as soon is extinguished. Illegal, impossible. I was, she says. I got most of it finished already. Now it's just proofreading and editing.

Really?

Yeah. Honestly I'd done most of the reading already and a bunch of the notes. So it was basically just putting it all together and making it readable. You okay?

What?

You look a bit out of it.

I'm fine. Just cold.

You sure?

Yeah.

You want my coat?

Seulgi smiles and shakes her head and Irene just sits there and looks at her. Maybe she's oblivious. Or maybe she knows everything. Seulgi can never tell and it frustrates her to no end because she wants so desperately to know. She wants everything, and if that's too greedy then she wants only a little bit but she wants something tangible, something she can hold on to, anything at all. But all she gets is the smile and the dappled breaths and something about nothing, but she'll never complain because her whole life is something about nothing and Irene is the only thing that holds any sort of intrinsic value.

You wanna go for a walk or something? Irene says.

She thinks about it for a moment.

We don't have to go anywhere. Just sorta wander.

I kind of like it here.

You sure? Irene says. Seulgi looks at her. So pale and so absurdly tender there in the dim light. Just her and nothing else. Now stop. Slow this moment down. Hold it, keep it. All life becomes is memories. Memories and then memories of memories and then nothing at all. Sometimes she dreams she's in a big hall somewhere and someone's dancing, and people she's never seen before sit at these little tables and clap in a rhythm and cheer each other on and then the next person steps up and dances, until finally it's her turn, and she climbs up onto stage and does a pirouette and a second and nobody's clapping anymore, nobody's paying any attention, and she's dancing because it's time to dance. That's what she has to do.

You sure you're okay? Irene asks her, and for a moment Seulgi wants to say no, no I'm not okay at all, I haven't been okay for a long time and I don't think I ever will be, but she can't because Irene wouldn't understand. Nobody understands. Not really. There are people that claim to and people who are nice enough to try but the folly of the compassionate is that their balm of empathy is only temporary, and once it's gone the wound reopens and everything comes back again and sometimes it's okay but sometimes it's not. Sometimes it's much worse. Sometimes she sits there and she's angry that anybody tried to help at all and it's irrational but that's human nature for you. How could anyone even attempt to understand? How can the pain of any two people ever be the same? Our biggest detriment is the curse of individuality.

Come on. It'll do you good.

I'm okay, she says. Really, I'm fine.

Just cold?

Just cold.

A pause.

Seulgi.

What?

I'm always here, you know. If ever you need to talk about anything. Anything at all. I'll always be here for you.

I know.

All you've got to do is talk. Sometimes it's for the best.

I know.

A longer pause. Irene smiles softly at her. It's an understanding smile, but it's not quite understanding of everything and that's fine. Seulgi doesn't expect it to be. That would be asking the impossible. Yet sometimes she wishes asking the impossible of Irene were something she could do. Please. Just please. Can't you make everything work for once? Just for a little time. That's all I'm asking. Make it so our jobs and our friends and our very different lives wouldn't get in the way, make it so our separate and divergent paths came to some doubledback crossing, make it so nobody would look down on us or disown us or cast us out because we're two girls in love, because what's wrong that? Who am I kidding. Make it so we're two girls in love at all. Not just this. Please, Irene.

Give me your hand.

Slowly, tentatively. Irene takes it and holds it to her face and blows on it and laughs like a child. There.

What was that for?

You looked cold.

Thanks, I guess.

Anytime.

She looks at Irene again. Properly looks at her. There's a clock on her face and it's been that way for some time and Seulgi can't seem to erase it no matter how hard she tries. This timeticking written all over her features, in months, days, hours. Down to the last second. They're in their last year of uni together. Seulgi's going on to a master's in Business and Irene's moving back home to Daegu to do something part-time and that's that. They'll still keep in touch, Irene says, when she talks about it. That's how friends work. They talk to each other, they maintain that bond.

But Seulgi's not so sure, because whatever's wrong with her is wrong all the way through and nowhere does it manifest itself more clearly than in her refusal to talk to anyone beyond what is absolutely necessary. It's this terrible and completely unfounded fear of the unknown and the unseen. What if they're laughing at me? What if they think I'm a hassle. They will. Of course they will. Oh, it's Seulgi. What a nuisance. They're talking about her behind her back and she can't blame them for it because maybe she deserves it, because in truth that's all she is. A hassle, a nuisance. Something people share an annoyance at. Oh, it's just Seulgi. So maybe it's better she leaves them alone. Waits for them to text her. And slowly the texts grow more and more apart, and soon they stop altogether, and then she's alone again, and she'll always be alone.

It's not the making friends part that's so difficult, it's the keeping them. It's the depressive's most aggravating paradox. The cruellest of inventions. She's lonely when she's on her own and when she's with others she wants nothing more than to be alone again. Talking to people is exhausting. Every sentence is so very tiring to someone whose view of their own worth is self-flagellating at best. And the worst part is the cognizance, in Seulgi as in everyone suffering the same. That she knows precisely the issue but something perhaps as deep as the human condition prevents any sort of measure taken against it. As if she cannot bring herself to snap out of it. As if there's no such thing as snapping out of it at all.

So maybe she'll lose Irene, too. She'll get the texts and the calls but she won't initiate with any of her own, and it sounds so stupid and so immature because Irene is her best friend and she loves her more than Irene will ever know but still something inside her forces her to the great irony of inaction. And the texts will go from twice a day to once a week. Once a week to a quick check-up every fortnight. Then once a month. And soon enough she'll fall out of contact with Irene and years later she'll come to regret it but what can she do? The mind's greatest downfall is its ability to make the simple and the capable feel impossible.

Spring is the best season, except this spring there are only twelve days until the end of term time, and fourteen until Irene's back in Daegu for a month for spring break, and then five weeks back at university before exams and a week after and then graduation and the end of it. The seconds going tick-tick-tick on Irene's face. Maybe she should just do it. She's steeled herself time and time again in the mirror, for this as for everything else.

I love you, Irene. I just have to say it. I'm sorry but I can't pretend anymore. I've loved you for two years and I can't hide it and I don't want to. Maybe it's wrong. I don't know. But I can't bear faking it any longer. I love you.

You okay?

She looks up and realises she's said nothing at all. Just sat there with her hands in her pockets still. Irene's breath catches in the cold and vanishes. Seulgi smiles. She's almost crying and then she is and she can't help it and it's stupid because in the cold her tears hurt against her face and she looks like an idiot but Irene's right there as always, so concerned with everything to do with her.

Seulgi. Seulgi, look at me. What's wrong?

Nothing.

What's up?'

I'm just feeling a bit under the weather is all.

You wanna talk about it?

Yeah, only she doesn't say as much. She says: It's just the stress. Exams coming up and everything. I need a break.

I know that feeling. At least it's only two more weeks, right?

She looks at Irene again. Now is the time and there will never be a better one but she doesn't. She just sits there. Because what if Irene rejects her, or turns her away, or worse - what if she says nothing at all? It's hopeless, and pointless, because for the depressive the threat of the unknown is paramount and suzerain. Maybe Irene will says yes, I love you too, or Why didn't you say anything before? Or You're an idiot, Seulgi, and you're my idiot. But maybe not. The unfortunate truth of it all is that fear of loss will always outweigh the allure of gain. And losing Irene is something Seulgi fears so much it has begun to hurt.

 

❆ ❆ ❆

 

Summer is the worst. Irene is not there and she should be. Irene is home in Daegu, and she's got both her parents and her brother and a dozen friends from her old school and a couple coursemates from the same neighbourhood and twenty-something people in a WhatsApp group she's talking to on the daily and Seulgi's got the quiet solace of her cold and empty room and sometimes a couple jokes her mom sends her way and that's that.

She cries in the shower because it's the best place to cry. Nobody can hear her there and it doesn't matter how much she weeps because the stream washes it all away. Sometimes she cries when she's in bed at night or out walking and sometimes she cries over dinner for no reason. It's why she's taken to eating in her room, on the computer, alone. Watching something on the internet or browsing Facebook and thinking: That could be me. Anything at all. Skiing, holidays in Europe, club nights, the adventures of old friends and lost acquaintances. Any one of them could've been me. Alas. Could've.

Irene still texts her. She's grateful for that and a little proud in her own pathetic way, because Irene's always had more friends than she could count and yet she hasn't forgotten Seulgi. She's promised she won't. Promised it many times. She'll text and ask how Seulgi's doing and once a week they have a thirty minute catch-up session and for those thirty minutes everything is okay again. Those could'ves and those should'ves are nothing, they're irrelevant, don't exist. Just Irene there on the phone. Just the sky and the clouds and the warm days spent gazing at the universe together. You're time's now, Seulgi. You're up on stage. Dancing, dancing. Time to face the music.

She needs to let go but it's so very hard. She thinks perhaps it's the worst of all her problems that she can't simply forget something like that. Can't just throw it all away. But then what is life if not memories and more memories? Maybe she should treasure that, the time spent and not the time lost, the time missed.

She's learnt over a long time that life isn't about making false promises or lying to yourself. It's about being honest to everything you are, on the basest of levels. But honesty is no excuse for an absence of compassion or understanding and the balance struck between the two is very fine indeed. She's done pretending she's fine. She's done trying to hide everything away and act as if it had never existed but she won't ever downplay herself because there is nothing in the world more dangerous than denying your own struggle. The hardest lesson she's learnt through university and into life, from Irene and herself and her friends and her parents and everyone else, is that the painful and unfortunate truth of the world is the fragility of balance. The uncertainty of any meaningful outcome. That there is no guarantee that everything, or even anything, will be okay.

And that's fine. She's learnt that from Irene. From the daydreams and the cloudwatching and the quiet nights spent side by side laughing over trivialities. Life goes on without you. You adapt or you are left behind. The real truth is that you have to take what comes your way and learn to cherish it because sometimes that's the best you're going to get. Sometimes no amount of daydreaming can change that. Stop searching for happiness and start looking for content. When you find something that fulfils you the happiness follows all by itself. Seulgi's learnt that the hard way.

She won't ever be over Irene, but that's okay. Memories and memories. Life's great stage. She'll be there forever, as a lesson if nothing else. And in five years' time Seulgi will look back on everything and sit on that same bench by the side of Hannam Bridge and she'll smile and think of Irene and know everything happened for a reason, everything had its place in the plan of her being. Don't worry, Seulgi. It's your time to shine. Dance and dance. They're not watching but it doesn't matter. Dance and dance and dance. The stage is yours.

Don't worry, Seulgi. Everything will be just fine.

 

❆ ❆ ❆

 

Leaves fall in autumn. They fall from the trees one by one. Carmine, scarlet, russet, gold. Leaves replaced by other leaves, replaced by other leaves. And leaves to replace those leaves. A new start. New beginnings.

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TankedCat3 #1
Chapter 1: Tbh, this is probably the best, non-, fanfic I've ever read.
Seulgi_bear_ #2
Thank you. This is more than just a fanfic to me. I feel like all my life, I've been going through what seulgi has felt, with daydreaming, loneliness, depression -- knowing what the fix is but unable to snap out of it, it is so cruel, and your work put articulated I lot of the feelings I felt but couldn't voice. Im still struggling to see an out, to learn the lessons and walk through the stages, but knowing seulgi did in, and reading her insights comfort me in a way that really means a lot to me, especially right now. I don't know you, but your work has touched me in a way that I don't feel completely alone in this world -- thank you. Thank you so much
commanderchicken
#3
Chapter 1: When people said fanfics are all just about romance, they really haven't read stories like this. I know it's just a short one shot but it felt like I've read a lot. In a painfully beautiful way. A personal journey throughout the seasons.

Thank you really, for sharing this amazing work author. For writing. For existing. Just thank you.
gomikigai
#4
Chapter 1: this story hits too close to home
Kimchi43 #5
Chapter 1: This piece actually made me tear up multiple times haha. I don't want to think of it this way, but I've been through tons and tons of breakdowns, all alone, most of the times without anyone being there for me, most of the times in the dark and lone of my room, on my bed, just crying away until I'm too tired and eventually drift off to sleep while still sobbing. I relate to this story so much so I can feel a pressure on my chest and just trying to prevent myself from breaking down again. It's kinda hard going through those times, and i get it. Heck you might even get it for you wrote this piece and shared it with all of us. What i wanna say is, this is a really great story written to express those kinda thoughts and props to you for that! I really love this, kinda reminds me of the times I'd gotten through each breakdown, and really just appreciate each of these moments because well, as what they say, what doesn't kills you makes you stronger. Hahaha thank you for this! I love it. Always love to see new works from you. (:
WanderingButterfly
#6
Chapter 1: I'm not gonna lie. This kind of story is the last thing I'd expect to see on a fanfiction website like this. I'm just randomly going through @Universe12345's reading list he has on his profile and was brought here.

I have never experienced depression in my whole 19 years of existence so I don't know how it feels to be in that state but this story helped me feel what it feels like to be that sad. To be that desperate. The way the author had written Seulgi's introspection felt so vivid that I can feel what she's feeling and see what she's thinking.

There are a lot of people who's going through depression, who have their own battle, their own Irene, and I hope they can find the respite they need to get back to their feet in a world that offers so little of that.

i hope more and more people see this so that they can understand people who's going through something like this.
jjae96
#7
ineresting!