REMINDER: NOTHING is really TRIGGERING in THIS CHAPTER but I do want to remind readers the tag that this story DOES depict some sort of mental illness but I WONT be specifying what it is because girl, I DIDNT STUDY THAT. And googling mental illness is not at all accurate because the thing with it is its not like a physical illness where we can be like Oh yeah thats obviously painful. No... mental illness is too varied for each person to be as clear as how any website with a list of symptoms would depict. I'm NOT saying self-diagnosing is bad (it CAN be though) and should not be done ever because NOT everyone CAN get properly diagnosed you know? NOT all countries give a damn about mental health some think its a rich person illness but i am here to remind everyone that if you self-diagnosed ur not a bad person but that just solidifies that self help MAY NOT be enough and reaching out to others MAY HELP you too.

A/N: Good luck pls survive til the end AND DO NOT TRUST THIS NARRATOR! Gather them clues! Look at the details! Everything is intentional! (except typos because I HAD TO BETA READ THIS MYSELF)

Moon Byulyi wished that things were simple. It's okay, because however complicated things- paperwork- photography- taxes- whatever they were, she's not alone.

She's never alone.

She was never alone.

Now that's all she is.

As her mondays blur into a coffee filled haze of her boss bossing her around. The photocopy machine copying and screaming in agony. The office filled with blurred faces. Unimportant moments. Memories she doesn't need. Memories she doesn't hold on to for her dear life.

Because Mondays are annoying, boring, and ugly.

Because Mondays have the most traffic, most annoying people hinder her from maintaining any normalcy. The trains would be late. Buses late. She'd try to drive but still be late. She'd try to work and focus. She'd try to tell herself she needs this, she needs goals.

Hold on to something stable. Hold on to something worth it. Hold on to something certain.

Or Compartmentalize. Or whatever they say to cope. She'd work and go home. Go home and cook. Cook and eat. All alone. Through it all though, she's still a fool. Because she still talks to her. Texts her- chats her- asks her- because she's selfless.

Have you eaten? Don't forget to eat!

Read.

She sends a picture perfect image of her and a meal.

I ate this today, it's fine.

Read.

Work , hope you had it better.

Read.

The one time her phone chimed- in the middle of her shower- like an idiot, a reckless teen waiting for her crush to notice her. She reads it all too enthusiastically.

Sorry for the late reply, I did eat!

She sent a picture of her food.

How's the shot? I tried.

She sent another picture of her with her cat.

I didn't have a good day either but look at my sweet little kitty!

Byulyi laughs, smiles, and feels absolutely giddy. Like she’s seventeen all over again. As if this was the normal part of her Mondays. As if all her pain washed away. But god. God, does she wish it was her. She wishes to be that cat.

What an absolute joke. She's jealous of a cat? Why is she behaving like she’s actually seventeen again?

The cat- the picture she’s still looking at- is being kissed and given all the attention she used to have.

Ah, . There it is.

The familiar bitter aftertaste she gets after each interaction with this Jung Wheein. Unlike before, when she doesn't reply after seeing the past Jung Wheein's message, she'd receive more, she’d be spammed. Just because that Jung Wheein wanted to annoy her. It’s because that Jung Wheein knows she loves it, she laughs at it and makes her feel better.

Now she's waiting.

For nothing.

That’s why after a pregnant pause of read, Byulyi finally replies.

Cute cat. What's his name again? She knows his name. She could never forget his name. But she feigns it anyway. Just to keep the conversation going. Because what the hell does she say?

She's used to Wheein quipping, each time she’s silently jealous of her sweet little kitty,

"Cat got your tongue?" but this Jung Wheein didn't say it.

Ggomo. Silly. I thought you remember things well?

Ah, there it is. The almost tangible but completely suffocating stab through her heart that slots itself deeper after every joke this Wheein would make.

I do. I also sing well. Do you remember?

She tries- hopes- holds on like the fool she is. The selfless person she is.

Hey, I may not remember the past but I'll never forget your voice. It always makes me feel like I belong somewhere.

She tries so hard to let go. She tries to tell herself to stop this charade.

This painful symphony that always reels her in to go back- to repeat- to perform one more time, an encore. Encore of this painful dance- in a chorus of unsaid promises that they've -never- told each other. The music that serves as the only comfort she enjoys.

Because even if she knows it's stupid- selfish- idiotic- immature- she still smiles.

She's going to smile, laugh and be happy despite the tightening- burning feeling of loss each time. Because this Jung Wheein is also doing the same. Because Byulyi can -with little exchanges like these- say she is not the only fool here. Byulyi isn't the only one hanging on by a thread. She is not dancing alone. She is not alone.

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