Lee Taemin…was there even a Lee Taemin anymore? The small-framed, thin man took a step back and tried to assess his life, hoping to pint-point the flaws and fault of a dying passion that used to be there. His passion for music, his passion for dancing, was already fading away with every single day. Everyday he lived was everyday he spent thinking of the seconds wasted away before. Lee Taemin was that kind of person, he was that kind of man that refused to think of everything else but the things that made him weak, that made him useless. He wasn’t a pessimist, no. He was more than that.

“That man…over there,” he heard the soft whispers of his colleagues from across the room and the gentle ruffling of rough soles on the carpeted floor. “Do you know him?”

“Do I need to?” was his partner’s reply.

“No, not really.”

That was how his life went by, and by due time, he was used to it. He was used to being jested at by his colleagues, schoolmates. He was used to the pain he felt everyday in his life, coursing through his veins and pulsing at the base of his throat. But truthfully, he enjoyed the pain. From the discomfort, to the adapting of it, to the gradual satisfaction from it. Hell, he enjoyed it.

He loved the rain, of the many things he hated, he loved the rain. He loved it because he felt like the Heavens were crying for him from above, showering him with teardrops for the pity of his life and for the empty, resounding loneliness that made up the large portions of his life. His brother, gone, lost, fled for a better future. His mother, dead, left him behind. His father unknown, God knew were he was and Taemin guessed that it wasn’t worth God’s time to tell him anything. That was fine, he didn’t want to know anyway.

When he was young, he recalled yellowed autumn leaves falling and spiralling into a pile, a fresh rain falling silently over them and a small little bicycle by the corner of the backyard. Then he recalled the dark nights, lonely wind chilling him to the bone, open windows and shattered mirrors. What made him human, he wondered? What made him humane? What made him human enough to deserve a life?

Nothing, he guessed. It was nothing worth thinking of anyway.

Their laughter irritated him, so much that he didn’t realise the box cutter he held tightly in his hands, the blade glinting and his grasp ready, unyielding. He frowned, setting the box cutter down and wondering why he held it in the first place. He heard the gentle pattering of rain on the glass window, and noticed how it sounded so much like a constant metronome. So dull, unchanging, constant. He relaxed a little, shifting in his seat ever so slightly.

Taemin didn’t bother to grab the umbrella, only his briefcase and the small little memo pad stuck onto the soft-wood panelling. Tucking the memo pad into his coat pocket, he walked out the building, the tattered pages of the memo pad gently, caressing it lovingly. He never thought it would have been logical to treasure the neon yellow memo pad that smelt of autumn leaves to Taemin himself.

The rain fell, the wind blew, but Taemin walked on without a care or worry. He walked on for the life he had and the small little memo pad in his pocket. His slender fingers trailed past the wet metal of the railing, enjoying the coldness at his numbed fingertips. He went to that place again. That small place by the side of the industrial cites. He never expected to see such a beautiful place in such an unusual place. But maybe it was beautiful because he had introduced him to Taemin, maybe it was beautiful because he had been the one to drag Taemin here and maybe it was beautiful because they had spent most of their memories here.

“Hmm,” Taemin dropped his sodden briefcase onto the ground and carefully sat down, looking up into the rain, challenging himself to keep his eyes open against the rain.

One, two, three, four…blink. Taemin cussed quietly, and then tried again until his eyes were sore. In the small shelter, he pulled out that memo pad, cautiously shielding the fragile papers with his body hunched over in the rain. It had gotten heavier, but it wasn’t much of a worry for Taemin.

How are you today? How was work? I hope you have eaten your breakfast. Have I told you how handsome you look in your office-wear? I just want to tell you that today; JongHyun had invited us over for our colleague’s birthday party. I really wish to go. I hope you will too.

It was written messily, the words scrawled over the yellow paper with a black ballpoint pen that he loved, the one where he had only used to write special messages. Somehow, he had used that pen for every note he left behind, which Taemin silently kept, collecting as part of his memories. It had been April 6^th then and it was April 5^th on that rainy day. Taemin had read more than he should have, reading the note that was meant to be read for April 6^th. It was the only thing Taemin had left of him now. Taemin had sent all his clothes for dry-cleaning somewhere in a distant state, and gave the staff the wrong number, hoping that his clothes would never come back. His books have been donated to a library of another country, with the small hope that Taemin would never have to see it again. His pictures were now slotted underneath the hidden compartment of his room , with the intention of tossing them aside. Taemin had gotten a new mattress, new bed-sheets, and new pillows. He rearranged the furniture to an arrangement where he could not even recognise his apartment anymore. All this…but only the memo-pad remained. Truthfully, he didn’t know what to do with it, so he kept it with the intention of burning it. But, as he held the paper over the tip of the flicker lighter, he held back, suddenly reminded of the sweet kisses, the gentle caresses and the soft, timeless smile he had. Those were the things that Taemin tried to forget, but ended up remembering. He hated himself for that, but hated him even more for leaving that way. Taemin suddenly recalled the strong arms around him in the morning, the soft whispers at his ear, and his breath at his neck. Now, all he could do was read the pages of the memo pad as time went by, day by day. It became the only thing he looked forward to, and eventually, the only thing he grew to love after him.

After Choi Minho.