62 days after the accident.

Jongin had formed 2 distinctive habits since his world had torn apart.

First, as his consciousness gradually piled up every morning, he had to assemble all his energy into raising his left leg. Even when both of his eyes are still wholly closed.

But just like the other 62 days, the pain still slithered through his left leg to his waist every time he tried to form a 45 degrees angle. His consciousness evoked into the maximum level, to the point that his eyes became wide-open. The glistening white ceiling of his room greeted his vision. Jongin sighed deeply.

Where is the end of this misery?

The second habit he formed was to hate Friday. Thank God It’s Friday? More like, God ing Dammit, Why Is It Friday?

It was not about the two classes he had to attend. It was about the unavoidable weekly activity at 5 PM on Fridays that became the source of his hatred.

He had to attend physiotherapy in the hospital.

Although the doctor had also said that Jongin would not have the ability to move 100 percent normally like he used to, this therapy was still obligatory. The goal was no longer to restore Jongin’s left leg’s ability. But to catapult, then drop to shatter the remaining hope he had of being able to carry out activities that had been the epitome of his life’s enthusiasm.

Dancing.

To have the faculty changed every class Jongin attended this semester into the first floor only was not a privilege, either. It was just another way to shove a fact to his face that he was disabled. And for that, he didn’t want anyone to sugarcoat this fact into a friendlier term. What for? Everyone in this faculty already knows this decision was made because of Jongin.

Because he almost got his left leg amputated on last winter break.

The class ended at 4 PM today. Even if the new semester has been going on for 5 weeks, some of Jongin’s classmates still lent him a hand to walk him out of the class. Jongin rejected them politely. He needed to gain control of his actions to suppress the sense of anguish ingrained in his mind since the accident happened.

In other words, Jongin loathed receiving pity from other people. It made him want to puke to see the poignant look people threw on him.

He grabbed the crutches that lay on the wall right next to his desk. Inserting his arm into the crutch’s sleeve, he grasped the upright handle with his hands and then jolted the bottom to the floor while slowly leaned on his right foot to stand up. He walked carefully out of the classroom.

But Chanyeol was an exception.

That tall guy came from the back and gave Jongin a smack on his shoulder. It was Chanyeol’s signature gesture to greet his best friends. Smiling from ear to ear, Chanyeol grabbed on Jongin’s right arm to help him walk.

“You’re walking even worse than my grandpa after he returned from the war, man. Speed it up”.

“Then stop holding my arms. It’s not your personal possession”.

Did it work? Of course not. Quite the opposite, Chanyeol pulled Jongin’s arm even closer to his torso. Both of them chuckled.

“Wanna play PUBG tonight?”, Chanyeol suggested.

“Sure. 8 PM?”.

“I had to go somewhere this evening. Project purposes”, he said. “How about 10?”.

“Sounds great”.

Jongin yearned to have quality time with his best friends in his home that was supposed to be his safest, most comfortable place. But since the accident, he usually held himself back upon the feeling of anxiousness if he did anything that is considered imperceptibly over the boundaries by his dad.

That is, including bringing his friends to play an online game until morning at the weekend.

Mr. Lee, Jongin family’s private driver, had been waiting inside their car at his faculty entrance gate. Chanyeol bid Jongin a goodbye by patting on the boy’s shoulder a couple times.

“Good luck for your therapy!”, Chanyeol shouted while Jongin opened the car door.

With a straight face, Jongin flashed his middle finger to Chanyeol, who was laughing soundlessly.

The cold air from AC, the smell of fresh bergamot, and Mr. Lee’s smile greeted Jongin when he sat and closed the car door.

“All good, Mr. Kim?”.

“All good, Mr. Lee”.

Mr. Lee then drove the car out of the campus area to a private hospital in Seoul.

~***~

The therapy session that afternoon runs just like what it is. Jongin did the therapy half-assed, as he had planted a mindset that it is 99 percent impossible for him to reverse the damage on his left leg. There was still 1 percent hope hanging at the back of his mind—a hope that he could return to his dancing world unobstructedly like he used to—but it was so tiny that Jongin almost always jostles it deep into his unconscious mind.

On the other hand, Mrs. Shin, Jongin’s personal doctor, was not yet giving up on Jongin’s progress. Maybe she was just wary of facing a depressed 21-year-old boy. Maybe she just wanted him to recover quickly so she could get rid of him faster. Maybe. It was all in Jongin’s head. Mrs. Shin was a woman in her mid-40s who was actually genuine and loving—so distant from the conventional cold and emotionless doctor’s stereotype Jongin had on his mind.

“Good afternoon, Jongin. How’s your class going?”, Mrs. Shin greeted him with a broad smile when the physiotherapist and Jongin entered her room.

“Boring”, Jongin sat on the chair right in front of Mrs. Shin’s desk.

“Because you understand everything already?”, Mrs. Shin took the paper board from the physiotherapist.

“Yeah, I guess”.

“I get the same problem during my college year”, she said while glancing at Jongin. “That’s a clever student’s problem. Don’t worry”.

Jongin raised both corners of his lips into a smile, just to be polite to Mrs. Shin. He observed Mrs. Shin, who examined the notes that Jongin’s physiotherapist made that day on the paper. That woman didn’t show any mad or angry expression, even though Jongin was utterly sure that his therapy that afternoon didn’t run smoothly.

“Do you still need pain-killer?”, Mrs. Shin said before taking off her glasses and put the paperboard on her desk.

“A lot”, Jongin answered quickly. “I mean, I want to climb the stairs normally so I can go back to my original bedroom, but it’s excruciating to do so”.

“Well...then you should start your step, literally and figuratively, from the physiotherapy”. Mrs. Shin smiled at him. “Your progress has been stagnant for the past two weeks”, she said while pointing at the notes on paperboard with her pen. “Do you need another help, Jongin?”.

“Another help?”.

“I see that you have many thoughts going on in here”, Mrs. Shin tapped on her temple a few times. “If it’s not channeled properly, it could affect not only your physical progress but also your personal well-being. Do you perhaps, want to consider meeting a medical professional? Just to help you vent?”.

“I’ll think about it first”. It’s a no for me. “And discuss it to my parents”. And never talk about it to my parents.

Mrs. Shin nodded her head. She scribbled something on the notes, tore it up, and gave it to Jongin. It was the prescription for pain-killer. “Alright, Jongin. Let me know if you had made up your mind”.

Walking out Mrs. Shin’s room, Jongin’s energy was way more depleted than 10 minutes prior when he first walked in. Jongin thought he would be desensitized by all these recovery-physiotherapy-ery things as times goes by, but his mind refused to change the status quo.

It didn’t take lo