He reached inside his bones, cupped his heart, and whispered hello.

eighteen is two years (too young)

| my ribcage blooms like a flower |

It's a cavity. You either fill it up, Jiyong whispers, or rip it out.

It is an emptiness inside his chest; reach inside between his rib-ones and find a heart that has stopped beating. Just pumping pumping pumping blood for a body that can't breathe for itself anymore.

Pour yourself a glass of tequila, some soju, or maybe red wine. Sip it. Nurse it. Hope it's enough to forget and close your eyes, and count the days until it's all over. 

(Don't let yourself think about what happens if you can't get over it.)

“What's it like?” Seungri asks. He lays on their bed, black hair spread across white sheets around like his head like a halo. Seungri looks at Jiyong from beneath his lashes and Jiyong tries not to stare.

“What's what like?” Jiyong asks, distracted. 

“Falling in love,” Seungri says, he lifts his head slightly and his hair fall messily over his eyes. Jiyong's hands itch. He clenches them. 

“It's great,” Jiyong answers. Mainly because it's what's expected of him and he doesn't really want to explain to his maknae what love means to him, because some part of Jiyong, a tiny, tiny part, is scared that all that will come out of his mouth is Seungri's name. “But it's different for everyone.”

Seungri frowns at him. Jiyong wants to pinch his cheeks. His nails dig into his palm.

“Then how will I know?”

Ji