She wonders if she were to peel the paint off her walls, how many layers would it have?

How many secrets lie behind its chips and stains, waiting to be relived or to be left as a forgotten memory once made in a magical moment when the world only consisted of them.

Do her walls remember the laughter that used to occupy the space in between it, filling up all its nooks and crannies?

When they whispered their hopes and dreams to each other, did her walls record every “I want to be an astronaut” to the empty words of “I promise to call you every night"? Were her walls as naive as they were, or did it see through their wishful thinking?

If she were talk to her walls now, would it comfort or pity her?

Standing in her bedroom, where it was less hers but more theirs, she stares at the plain white walls that had felt warm at one stage in her life but for more reasons than one, suffocates her now.

And Irene wonders, with a paintbrush in her hand that drips dark purple dye onto her carpet, if she were to paint over their walls, would it erase what is all that is left of Seulgi.

With every , would the memories be removed?

If she keeps on adding layers, would it override the years already there?

The walls continue to breathe their story, but Irene is desperately gasping for air,

Because she must be the one to paint their ending.