Roots & Secrets & Sorry & Thanks & Time (Past, Present and Future) & Okay.
Love From Afar & Love Returned
We’re in the car, heading towards the studio to film our teaser. Our manager said it’s going to be a long- drive. Jong-In’s about to fall asleep and I’m bored.
“Oi,” I provoke, whilst punching his shoulder. “I’m bored.”
“Okay,” Jong-In mumbles with his eyes closed. He shifts just a little bit further away from me, trying to find comfort against the window. His discomfort is obvious in the way his back is contorted into weird positions. I offer my lap as a pillow.
“S-sleep on my lap,” I stutter like a stupid and girly fool. “Y-you know. If you want too, and all…”
One of his eyes peels open, suspecting some ulterior motive in my actions. Jong-In’s hesitant to answer as his mouth keeps slightly opening and closing.
“It’s okay,” he eventually replies.
And his eye closes. Silence fills the gaps between us like mortar, it glues us together but we’re never really touching. I don’t pursue.
As he rests on the left, eyes closed and body slumped, while I sit upright on the right side of the backseat. The middle seat is unoccupied and empty, representing the distance of stars between us. Jong-in’s hand falls to his side, palms facing upwards. They cup the air, as if waiting for something to grasp onto. Fun fact: if you place anything in the centre of a baby’s palm, they immediately grasp onto it, until, randomly, they let go. They say it’s a reflex, a survival instinct that dies down when they grow older. It’s probably that reciprocated maternal drive to latch onto anything warm and secure. Babies also instinctively swim when immersed in water, allowing someone the time to save them. I’ve never actually tried these theories out, about the reflexes of a baby. I guess this is a good time. A seventeen year-old Jong-In’s still a baby, after all.
I wave my hands in front of his face. No reaction. So then I proceed to stretch my torso over letting my index finger tentatively reach over to his palms. I stop to check Jong-In’s face again for any signs of noticing my approach. Nothing. His face is limp with sleep, mouth slightly agape. My index finger moves closer, my anticipation rises. I really want to test this theory out. I get in closer. I can feel the heat of his palm linger on the nerve endings of the tip of my index finger. I check his face again. Nothing, again. And then my finger touches his palm. There’s a stillness in the clammy air of the van that makes everything seem timeless. It’s like we’re not moving, the scenery outside stops and everything freezes into to place. It’s almost as if time was waiting for Jong-In to baby-clamp onto my finger.
Of course, Jong-In wakes up. He’s a light sleeper, after all. His eyes flip open; no hint of sleep inertia taints them. Was he fake-sleeping? Instead of reflexively moving back, I lose all survival instincts and just stayed there, finger still making contact with his palm, looking like a deer noticing the hunter.
Jong-In doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even make any weird expression for me to read.
He closes his eyes again.
And then he grasps onto my lone finger, like a baby.
With his own index finger and thumb, he softly latches to my finger, pinching it in the smallest degree.
I lean back into my seat, finger still captured by Jong-In. Our hands occupy the empty middle seat.
His palm is warm, but his fingers are cold.
It doesn’t matter because, combined, the two of us are 74 degrees Celsius.
One heat source, connected by the slightest touch of fingers.
I look through the car window and notice that time has stopped waiting for us. Everything is moving in an unfocused blur again, like the way it should be. Through the tiny reflection on the window, I can see Jong-In sleeping.
Something deep in the hard roots of my heart and head sinks.
I rip my finger out of his grasp.
Jong-In doesn’t do anything about it.
~
We’re given the same change rooms at the filming studio. We get into our costumes; get our hair and make-up done. We go through our first dry rehearsal, before the filming commences. It’s standard stuff. Loads of cameras on every angle possible, focusing on the tiniest of movements in the choreography. A director shouting out instructions, telling us to do the routine again for more shots. We repeat the dance over twenty times so that there’s enough film to make the edit with a bit more variety. Jong-In and I haven’t spoken a word since the car ride. Our manager asks what’s up. We both say nothing and walk away.
After filming, we’re dragged back into the change room to wait. Jong-In and I are left alone in the room. We were told to wait until the director gives the tick of approval for all the required angle shots. I take my phone out and start to text Kris.
To Kris,
Filming is done. I’m bored. Me and Jong-In aren’t talking. I need to talk to you when I get back.
I tuck my phone away in my bag. I don’t need to wait for Kris to reply, I gave him no room to decline. Using the mirror as a sneaky way to spying on Jong-In, I see him plonked down on the couch, eyes closed and body limp. I hear my phone jingle in my bag. Jong-In’s eyes shoot open and they look straight at me through the mirror. His eyes make me feel transparent, like he can see through all my insides and be able to discriminate between each cell in my body. The eyes don’t’ move. They continue to see through me. Out of panic, I menacingly nod my head up mouthing,”fight me”. Jong-In, doesn’t look away immediately. He continues to stare at me impassively, unaffected by my obvious provocation, until closing his eyes again. Anger rises through the cells of my body. I grab the rounded-hairbrush on the stylist counter and peg it hard at Jong-In’s stomach. Of course, I don’t miss and Jong-In writhes in pain for a good minute. Instead of shouting and swearing at me, he bares the pain in silence. He curls into a little ball grabbing onto his sides. I can’t see his face anymore. He doesn’t make a sound. No whimper, no groan, not even a breath.
“S-sorry!” I say out of panic. He still doesn’t move, or make a sound, or even breathe. “I didn’t mean to-“
“It’s okay,” Jong-In says with the same tone as in the car before. “I’m okay.”
He’s okay.
~
“You threw a hairbrush at his stomach?!” shouts Kris.
“What!? Leave me alone. It was the closest thing I could find.”
“That’s not the point.” He sighs while shaking his head.
We’re silent for a while. The sounds of coffee being steamed, ice being blended, orders being served permeate the room like the humming of bees in a hive.
“So…What do I do?”
“Yeah,” Kris starts. “You have to open up to him.”
“I don’t have to,” I growl in defiance. “People get along fine without telling all the secrets between them.”
“Well, the reason you two are still ‘fighting’ is because you don’t open up to him. There’s a distinct lack of communication between you two. If only you’d just –“
“Just shut up.”
“Hey!” Kris shouts, attracting the attention of everyone in the café. He hushes down. “Look, you asked for my opinion and I’m giving it to you. If you don’t like it, solve it problem on your own.”
I’m tempted to punch Kris in the face and leave. Instead, I kick him from under the table and sip on my coffee. I knew doing soccer would come in handy.
“Oww!” he yelps.
Serves you right to speak to me like that.
I don’t feel like talking anymore, so I put on a scowl hoping that Kris will realise that I’m over it and that he needs to shut up.
I sip on my coffee until it turns into a tasteless, brown liquid. It’s the afternoon, dusk beginning to sneak its way into the sky. Once I arrived back at our apartment, I dragged Kris from his bed out the door. I told him to lead the way to a café. He did it without a word. On the way there, Kris asked what was wrong, and I told him most of everything. How Jong-In and I always turn from being normal to back what were before. He asked me what I considered ‘normal’. I told him that I didn’t know. He asked me what we were before. I told him that I didn’t know. We arrived at the café shortly after, getting a table in the far corner. A waitress came, her face lit up at the sight of the two of us. “You two look like Idols!” she said whilst covering with her writing pad. Kris said the mandatory ‘thank you’, whilst I just completely ignored her and played with my phone. She seemed a little taken back by me, but whatever. Not like she’d remember me when I debut, anyway.
My coffee begins to diminish. As much as I hate the coffee now, it’s nice to drink something in times like these.
“Are you at least willing to open up to me?” asks Kris, breaking the drinkable silence.
“No.”
Kris sighs and swirls his empty paper-coffee cup around. I see no point in opening up and disclosing my secrets. Secrets are meant to be kept sacred and hidden, not opened up and revealed to everyone you want to get close to. That would defeat the purpose of a secret. I’ll never tell anyone my secret. I’d safeguard it in life and bring it down in death. I’ll shield it with my corpse and my spirit and my soul, so that it’ll never see the light of day, or the darkness of night, or the airless vacuum of space.
I finish the last of my coffee. It’s gotten cold, leaving a slimy film all over my tongue and teeth. I start peeling the labels off the paper cup. A group of rowdy teenager enter the café, causing all the customers, especially me, to give disapproving glares in their direction. They spoke loudly of their misadventures with the opposite . The girls talking about the guys they’ve baited, the boys talking about the chicks they’ve conquered. An immature topic for immature people. Even if you have that sort of ual lifestyle, at least be modest about it.
Both Kris and my phone jingle at the same time. I grab my phone and open the text.
From Manager-Hyung.
Everyone has a free-day tomorrow. Enjoy it.
I sigh with relief. I really need to catch up on sleep.
“So, what do you plan to do tomorrow?” asks Kris.
“Probably kill a few people, rob a few banks. You know, what normal people do when they have a day off.” I reply with all seriousness.
Kris’ phone jingles again. He checks it and gives off a sad chuckle, before handing the phone to me.
“Read it.”
From Kim Jong-In,
Where are you? When are you coming back? Is Lu Han with you?
“What do you want me to reply back?” asks Kris as he reaches over to retrieve his phone.
I whip it out of his reach and into my lap.
“Hey, hey, hey. What are you doing?”
While grabbing my own phone from my pocket, I get on Kris’ contacts and type in ‘Kim Jong-In’ in the search bar. I meticulously copy Jong-In’s digits and save them on my phone under the name, ‘Kid’. I hand Kris back his phone and he fervently checks his entire phone. What, does he hide on it or something?
I start to type ‘Kid’ a message.
To Kid,
At a café. Late, maybe never. Yes, what’s it to you?
Satisfied with my text, I send it. I slam my phone on the table, this time, waiting for the reply.
“Stop messing with the boy.”
“I’m not doing anything to him.”
“You’re so dense.”
“ off.”
I wait for fourteen minutes and twenty-one seconds. Yes, I counted. He hasn’t replied to mine or Kris’s phone. . It’s obvious you’re ignoring my message. Stop being so immature and reply!
“Sorry,” asks one of the teenage girls from before. “Can we take this chair?” It seems that there aren’t enough chairs for her little possie on her table and she wants to use mine.
Kris smiles, “Yes, sure you –“
“No,” I interrupt; placing my ripped, empty paper cup on the chair, letting it sit there like it had an of its own. “My coffee cup is using it.”
“Umm…” The teenage girl eyes bulge out for a split second. She shifts awkwardly in her spot, lost for words and unable to move, apparently. She was probably caught off guard with my response. Well, it’s your fault for assuming I’m some sort of angelic cherub, just because I look it. I don’t entirely agree with the ‘angelic cherub-look’ thing, but that’s what I’ve been told.
Kris takes the paper cup off the chair and puts it right in front of me.
“Sorry. He’s in a bad mood today.” he says trying to salvage the situation, standing up and picking the chair up for her.
“That’s my mood every day,” I grumble.
Kris ignores me and proceeds to carry the chair over for the girl. I feel a little heartbroken for my paper cup. Now it has nowhere to sit but the table, and tables are not meant for sitting. That’s bad table manners.
When Kris returns, he says nothing. He just sits back down and looks directly at me.
“What? That’s it?” I provoke. “You’re not going to tell me off?”
“Nahh. I’ve come to accept that you’re just a brat.”
“Oi,” I kick him under the table again.
“Alright, alright. Settle down.”
Kris and I start making idle chit chat. Mostly about practice, and what’s to come when we debut. I gave up waiting for Jong-In’s reply, because it was obvious that he won’t. The flow of conversation between us to is good and solid, until I happen to hear the end of another conversation.
“…and then he jumped. He landed in the quad and like, splat. He didn’t hit anyone on the way down, thank God. But like all the kids that saw it had to go through like counselling or something. It was like super traumatising.”
It was the teenage girl from before. Everyone in her possie had their eyes wide open and mouths agape. Some of the girls had covered their mouths. It was almost like a watching a teen-flick.
“But why? Why did he do it?” they whisper.
“Because the ‘love of his life’ broke up with him. And other stuff. Whatever, I’m not surprised. Apparently he was all Emo and . Fully into those death-metal Western bands. Gross, really.”
“Ahh…” Everyone sighed. They seemed relieved that the dead boy was only an Emo, an insignificant piece of flesh that can be dropped from heights and scattered across the concrete.
And then one boy giggled. “Damn, I feel sorry for the ‘love of his life’. Had to deal with that emotional .”
Anger rises through me like flood. I crush the poor paper-cup in my hands. Pushing back my chair loudly, I stand up and peg the crushed cup at their table. It smacked one of the boys right in the head.
“What the was –“
“Shut the up!” I shout, getting the attention of everyone in and out of the café. “What the do you know about it?! What makes you think you can belittle someone’s existence like that?! This is what I hate about heads like you, all of you. You’re all pathetic. You don’t know the aftermath of a suicide. It’s painful, and not just for the actual person, but for everyone around them. Their family, friends, teachers, acquaintances. Losing someone, anyone, is hard. You can’t just push it aside, letting it slip between your fingers and your thoughts. It lingers. Death lingers in everyone’s thoughts until the day that Death himself, strikes his final blow to your body. Even then, it’ll be hard –“
I choke on phlegm. I didn’t even notice the hot tears that ran down my face, how they piled up in droplets on the table. My vision gets cloudy. I try and wipe the tears away, but they keep coming. They keep coming in waves. I start whimpering uncontrollably. I clench my chest, hoping to settle myself back down, but it doesn’t work. I try and take deep breaths, but I can’t. I struggle to grab air, breaths come out as wheezes. I’m a hot, wet and uncontrollable mess.
“Lu Han…” says Kris in a soft as comfort tone.
I storm out. Hot wet salt melts off my face and sprinkle the café tiles with salty rain. Kris follows behind me.
The whole café has stopped moving, ceased making coffee.
Time once again stop moving.
But this time Jong-In isn’t with me to make time start up again.
~
It all happened really fast. But of course, it didn’t really. It lasted for two years. But whenever you think back in the past, look back at the memories, everything is sped up. The past has a different perception of time, relative to the present, and even the future. In the past, everything is rapid and swift. That’s why when you remember something it’s not gradual, but sudden and out of the blue. The present is normal. We perceive time in the present by the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, the years and so on. On the other hand, the future has no perception of time. You can’t clock on seconds and minutes on what’s going to happen in the future, because the future hasn’t happened yet. The future is like finding a key in a river of gushing water. You can try to see the key at bottom of the bank, but you can’t. The foaming bubbles of water block your view. You can only hope for the best that the key is there, while you wait for the tide to recede and the paper moon to go away. But now, I’m talking about the past. How the past is so fast now, and how the past changes time itself.
Back at home, Beijing, I didn’t live normal life (whatever that really means). I had a well-off family, but that didn’t mean much back then. They treated me like a piece of meat they had to feed and occasionally give little bundles of money to. Home for me was soccer, my second home was singing and my third home was in a completely different suburb to my own. Two of the three inhabitants of my third home were exactly the same as my parents, except not as well off. The third inhabitant was the only reason I called that household a home.
He was just a boy, at that time. I met him in a park, swinging alone on a pair of swings. He was innocently looking up at the sky, in his school uniform. Strange to see a school boy in a park during school hours. (You see, I was homeschooled. I was never allowed the luxury of meeting new people, not that I would have.) I approached him, ready to reprimand him for his uncouth behaviour, but then he whipped out a soccer ball and asked me to play with him. He said he was waiting on another friend to ditch school to play soccer, but was instead ditched himself. I accepted, fuelled by a strong desire to play soccer with someone else besides my trainer. We played ball the whole day, and the day after that, and the day after that, until I told him that he shouldn’t miss out on class because of soccer. He told me to meet him here in the park every Saturday morning. We did. We met up every Saturday morning at the park. We played for hours, before taking a break. I’d offer to pay for lunch, but he’d always decline and paid for us both. I knew he didn’t have as much money as I had, so I decided to do something in secret to pay him back.
Soon enough, we were close enough to go to each other’s houses. This happened almost every time we finished playing soccer on a Saturday. Even if I knew he would always pay, I’d bring money anyway. You see, as soon as I arrived in his house, I’d always stuff money, even if it’s more than what he paid, into his piggybank. I didn’t do it out of pity or charity. I did it because he was friend and because I was thankful. He, I think, never noticed. He never noticed my little piece of friendship, because he’s dead now. And that’s all that matters.
We had a little gag together. You see, I had a balcony attached to my room. Since I was on the third floor of my villa, I had a pretty nice view. He always had to sneak into my room through the hole in backyard hedge. My parents didn’t like visitors over. Anyway, he always used to hang half his body over the edge, letting the blood rush to his head and his arms sway side to side. I reprimanded him about his dangerous habits, saying that one day, he’ll fall off. He said it always took the edge off a stressful day. One day, when he wasn’t at my house, I hung my body over the edge. The day hadn’t been that entirely stressful, but it really did make me feel good. The air curved around my body and I was without fear of wind or vertigo.
We often went karaoke. I was never passionate about singing. It just happened to be something I was good at. He was the first to notice and praise me for it. We would always start singing a song together and then he would secretly stop, letting me have a solo. I told him to stop doing that. He said I had a nice voice, and didn’t want to ruin the song with his own grating voice. Honestly, the boy had a nice voice. He had a type of timbre that resonates into people’s souls. It certainly wasn’t the best, but when he sang, even when he spoke, his words and voice would soothe the soul and comfort the fire.
We spent the next two years and a hundred and twenty-three days together, playing soccer on Saturdays, and sometimes during school hours, eating lunch together, hanging over at each other’s houses, hanging over the edge of my balcony, singing karaoke. It was the nicest two years and a hundred and twenty-three days I’ve ever had in my life.
The day the boy committed suicide, is a blur. I can’t remember specifics. But I know he jumped off my third-storey balcony, when I was visiting relatives overseas. He snuck in through the hole in the backyard hedge, used the spare key we hid underneath the centrepiece statue of the fountain, ventured into my room, and jumped off. He fell three-storey’s high and went splat. When they found him, his body was stone cold and the blood had already crusted.
There was an extensive investigation into his death. It lasted for months. Our family could not have killed him, we were overseas and we had the perfect alibi. But alibi’s don’t heal the dead. The investigation ended when they found a suicide note in the boy’s locker. It was addressed to everyone he knew. Each person had a little paragraph devoted to his last thoughts. His parents had the shortest of words, and I had the longest. The scary thing was how we wrote. He wrote like he was speaking to me from the dead. He wrote like he knew he was going to die that day, like he was from the future.
Thank you, Lu Han, for being there for me even though you never knew that there was something wrong with me. I miss the times we played soccer on Saturday’s and during school hours. I miss paying for lunch. I miss hanging over the edge with you. I miss singing karaoke with you. You should really become a singer. Please do it. Your voice is beautiful. I’m sorry for leaving you, but I had to. I couldn’t bear it anymore, that deep darkness the willpower out of my body. I still remember the first time we met on the swings. I wanted to die that day. I didn’t know how, but I wanted it so bad. And then you came into my life. You made the glorious roots that supported my willpower for the next two years. But you weren’t enough. Your roots eventually crumbled under the pressure of death. Death lingers, you know. Death lingers in everyone’s thoughts until the day that Death himself, strikes his final blow to your body. Sometimes, Death doesn’t deal the final blow, but you do. In a way, I cheated death, yeah? I’m sorry, Lu Han, for leaving you. I really am. I don’t know what else to say.
I’m sorry and I thank you.
As a I read that letter, all I could think of was how I wasn’t enough.
And so, I left China to study Korean overseas. I heard the music industry there was really booming, so I took the chance, hoping to somehow become a singer. Another two years and a hundred and twenty-two days later, I was accepted into SM Entertainment. But for some reason, I didn’t feel like celebrating.
~
I told Kris everything. Everything I could recall from the past, while we sat on a bench in the middle of the street. I tried hard not to let the tears fall, but that never works. A bunch of people asked whether I was okay, and whether I needed help. I wanted to reply and defend myself, but I couldn’t. I was too lost in the past to say anything present. But Kris was there and he said that he would deal with everything.
Once I was done telling him everything, it was late, and our stomachs were empty. We went into the closest diner and ate food. My eyes were red and dry, so I hid my face from the world. We ate our dinner in silence. Kris didn’t try to make conversation.
We arrived back in our dorms at almost midnight. The lights are all off. Kris offers to take me to bed, but I decline, saying that I need to shower. He says goodnight.
I wash everything off with a cold shower, all the dirt and especially the dry salt that’s all over my arms and face. My eyes are still pinkish from the tears, but I ignore them. I just hope that they’re gone tomorrow. I sit on the shower floor leaning on the tiled wall. I try to cry tears, but they get mixed up in the icy water and I don’t know whether or not the tears are even there anymore.
After my shower, I walk out of the apartment and head to the park swings. I’m wearing a tank top and sweatpants. Not exactly clothes to fight the cold, but I don’t want to fight the cold. I want it to embrace my body like Jong-In does with his arms. I head to the swings with slow and heavy steps. My shoes make heavy indents in the frosty grass leaving footprints like snow. My damp hair form icy peaks in the winter air. Sitting on the swings, I think back again to the first time me and the boy met. I feel like crying. I want to cry. But I don’t. I don’t think I can anymore.
I head back to the apartment. I open the balcony doors and hang my body over the edge like I did in the past. I close my eyes, letting the wind dance along the curves of my body. The weight of the day seems to erode off my shoulders as long as I’m letting the blood rush to my head and the wind play with my hair. Again, I feel like crying, but I can’t.
I head back into my room. I keep the lights off, in case Jong-In is still awake. I don’t want him to see me in this state. I close my eyes and use my memory to guide myself through the room. I head to Jong-In’s bed because I don’t know where else to go. My bed is nothing to me anymore. I lift his blankets up and slide in. Almost immediately, Jong-In wraps his arms around me, letting me nuzzle into his chest.
“You’re freezing,” he whispers as he rubs his arms on my back to keep me warm.
“I know,” I whisper back.
He hugs me tighter. His warmth melts all the ice on my body and I melt into him. He nuzzles into my damp, cold hair and breathes in deep.
“Tomorrow,” he starts. “Do you want to go out on a date?”
I sink a little further into his chest.
“Okay.”
______________________________
This is one hell of an update for me. Seriously. It took me the whole day (minus the Exo-Disneyland phase on tumblr.) I really should have been doing my work since this is my first real weekend in three weeks. Don't worry. I don't see this is a burden. In fact, i'd rather update my fic more than anything. It's just my HSC is a guilt trip, making me feel guilty everytime I'm not doing some sort of school work.
NOTES:
- Umm... the title of this chapter is extensive. I mean, I normally do the title last since they all are the recurring motif of that chapter. This chapter just had heaps of title possibilities so I used them all.
- Lu Han's past! Yay! (not really). Okay. I need to tell you about how I think of these stories. At first, I have set events that HAVE to happen. For example, this chapter was the revelation of Lu Han's past and the asking out of the date. These are the key points that i had planned out. Everything else is left to my improvisation. The group of teenagers were part of this improv. I didn't expect to put them in, but I did. It kinda makes writing stories and fiction a little bit more exciting and dynamic. I always give room for improv, revolving around key events.
- That whole theory about the babies is true! I learnt it in Year 9 Science. The thing about Time is just an observation I've noticed. I don't do Physics and school, so I have no idea of the scientific principles of time.
Thank you for supporting me, and apologies for the late-ish update.
PS. I don't know when I'll be able to update next, so don't hold your breath. Otherwise, you might die and I don't want to get sued.
And remember, stay safe and eat fruit (in other words, follow me on twitter).
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