세나: The talk of last night changed me.

It changed me in a way that made me feel more burdened—positively burdened, because I realized that even after all…I was still really living up to that little kiddy pact. In truth all I said last night were just out of honesty, and I doubt if my best friend would impugn it. Sure, anything can happen; there’s a lot—and I mean, a lot  of time for that, the marriage, I mean (we’re still too young and stupid)—I have ten years at least—and I always have the freedom to choose someone else; I was permitted to, but you might ask, if I truly loved another guy, why bind myself to Sungjae?

Why?

To say that it’s friend loyalty would only be an understatement. He’s someone I can’t leave. And someone I can’t live without. Maybe, if I’m lucky enough, to live for the next ten years and everyone would give us their blessing—this is my wish. My dying wish. To spend the remainder of my life with the one who made it livable.

Had anyone asked me if the idea of being Mrs. Yook crossed my mind, I would answer without a second thought, yes.

The day after the serious talk I had with my best friend about straightening up whatever that was haunting him (the manner in which it took place was I was riding on his back) the shooting continues. It’s break time, yet again, and, as quickly as I could, I look for a place where I could be alone. Luckily, no one notices that I’ve smuggled myself out of the center of the set and climb up the rooftop of another building, to at least have some air to myself. The set’s been altogether too suffocating; not helping in easing up my already dire state of the body and of the mind. Physically, I’m having a headache and I’m having slight trouble breathing.

Breathe in, breathe out.  I tell this to myself again and again, clutching my fingers onto the corners of the rooftop’s crisscross barrier. Breathe in, breathe out, Pyo Se Na. Not here, not now. I can’t allow myself to have someone see me in this kind of state. Especially Sungjae. Man, he’s gonna fret like hell if he knows of my explosive little secret.

When I think I have eased myself up, sensing that I need to go back to the filming location before my absence goes noticed, I decide to come back. I still feel wobbly, but I can conceal this. After all, I am an actress.

The first three steps down the flight of stairs feel safe, but as simultaneously I hear the tapping of another sound of steps, my vision starts to twist, making a kaleidoscope of my sight—probably caused by this migraine, and I don’t know if it’s just me, but before my sight turns all-black I see Sungjae’s face (how did he get here?) and I hear a thunder of “Se Na!” before I pass out.

The next moments are between resurfacing back to consciousness and passing out again. The next thing I see when I open my heavy eyelids are brightness—brightness everywhere; and I feel like I’m being wheeled to somewhere, while I’m lying on a soft bed, and people frantically dictate me to ‘hang in there’. The next time I rise from the abyss of sleep is I am in an all-white room, and that’s the last thing I remember until right now.

I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping. I know I’m sleeping. This is given by the fact that I’m breathing steadily, and no matter how much I will myself to move, I can’t. They say you’re paralyzed when you’re asleep. Knowing this, part of me listens to a low mumble of conversation inside the room, and in fairness, I do recognize the voices. It’s Sungjae. I’m expecting that the room is crowded, but he seems to be conversing with just one person.

And that voice is…

Oh, he’s here?

Peniel?

I don’t know where it comes from but I find the strength to open my eyes even just very slightly. I am a little bit surprised that I recognize the ceiling, which is a little unlikely; since I’m pretty sure I was brought to the hospital not so long ago. Has it been hours? Days? How long? My mind starts to overthink but even with that mere activity I already get tired. So my eyes let the darkness take over once more, and I sink back to slumber.

For the first time in this long sleep, I dream. Bad thing is it’s not just any dream, but a nightmare. In that dream I’m already dying, and everyone’s mourning over me and Sungjae—he holds a grudge against me for not telling him sooner. For betraying him. For not trusting him. And in that dream—he’s in-love, with me? Not platonically! You know that feeling when in a dream, something that’s not true in real life is a given fact in that dimension? Though in my mind there’s a nagging that this isn’t true, I’m trapped in this dreamland, after all—that I find myself believing.

He’s kneeling before my tombstone and he’s pummeling the grass violently, obviously, he's still hasn't gotten over my death. He’s saying words of hate and at the same time of love—and I want to tell him that I’m still here, flesh and blood. But I can’t. I keep on calling his name again and again but he can’t seem to hear. Sungjae! I would say, but to no avail. I can’t even hear my own voice. Again and again, again and again, forcefully, manfully, tirelessly do I call for him, but nothing happens. It starts to suffocate me—this scene, this awful premonition, this—this nightmare of falsehood which is, I’m afraid, somewhat prophetic.

I realize that I’m whining in my sleep when part of my cognizance comes back to the human world, and my senses lend me the perception that someone is embracing me, here in this very bed. My torso is enclosed in a thick, strong arm and a head is nestled on my shoulder, ultimately to shush, shhh right on my ear while a hand taps my hip lightly, continuously.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” A person mutters very close to my organ of hearing, but I refuse to comply. It was scary. All too scary.

“Shh,” the boy’s voice soothes again. He doesn’t stop until I am depleted of my energy. After a long while of calming me down, I ease into sleep again, and Sungjae is relieved.

A steady round of snooze is what’s next to that. It’s long. But then I start to feel the coldness of my room seeping into the blanket and right into me, and my body shivers as a response so as to produce heat. I snuggle closer to myself under the duvet but no, it doesn’t work. My eyes squeeze, and my teeth start to chatter slightly. Then I feel some weighty object crawl across one side of the bed in slow, but rocking motion. When it stops, something warm and soft touches my exposed cheek—a palm, maybe? The warmth sends comfort to me immediately. I rub my cheek against it slowly, gently, like I’m an animal wanting to be pet, and the squeezing of my eyes relaxes. “Your hand’s really warm, Jae,” without much thinking, my mouth forms. I expect a reply for this, which is likely of Sungjae, but strangely, he doesn’t talk. I feel shifting beside me and next to my back is another body situated; maybe Sungjae’s lied down to a more comfortable position. Well, literally. The hand stays, and I still wait for the reply to my thanks that’s been lost in the air for seconds now. I hold on to the last faltering thread of my consciousness, but as no reply still comes; the warmth of the hand, the closeness of another body next to me, and the comfort of everything makes me sleepy, and I rest again.

“Hey,” the guy with the turned-up nose greets me sweetly, when I open my eyes. I blink again, slowly, because the faint sunlight that intrudes through the windows still hurts me, no matter how mild they are.

“Hey…” I mutter, sort of dumbly, rubbing my eyes while getting up. He assists me; putting a hand on my back to push it, and the other hand holding steadfast to my arm.

“Are you alright now, Se Na-ssi?” Sungjae’s hyung politely asks.

I manage a smile accompanied by a timid bob of the head. “How long was I out?”

He eyes me blankly, letting a brief moment pass, and then answers, “You slept for a week.”

All drowsiness escapes my body, realizing how much time I have wasted. When he sees my eyes widen (he’s the first one to realize that) the serious expression is wiped clean off his face and he laughs, “I was kidding!  You were totally out for the past forty-eight hours,”

Two days. At least I could still make it to the chapter deadline, which is tomorrow night, and maybe I can handle it. Even if I’m having trouble on what to write next because of the writer’s block, I can’t back out now. I’m getting to that edge in the story. “I…where’s Sungjae?”

“He’s out. To buy food for you. He said he needed to, because he ate the spicy rice cake he bought yesterday because waiting for you to wake up was starving him,” he suggests laughter, which I good-naturedly take, assenting with a smile. I can’t find anything much to say now. And I don’t mean to talk, either. So silence settles after that; Peniel makes this comfortable by manfully checking on his phone, maybe to scan some messages or nothing at all, just to make him seem like he’s doing something.

I realize I have to ask about something. “What happened?”

He looks up. “You passed out. Sungjae found you.”

I invisibly wince at this. “And?”

“And…?” he eyes me back with the same curiosity; maybe to ask me what I want him to say next. He delves into what may be the closest to this. “We…we brought you to the hospital. Your vital signs recovered easily; the doctor permitted your discharge. We all agreed to it, so now here you are, in your room, Se Na-ssi,” he smiles.

I nod twice. “I see,”

“But why’d you faint, anyway?”

“Eh? Well…I was having a migraine that time and…really…I wasn’t feeling well,”

His mouth clamps down to a straight line, and after a second of making his reply, “You could’ve told us, you know,”

“Heh. You’re concerned?” I tease.

Now I realize, he can be scary when he’s serious.

“Well,” I recompose myself, not letting my alarm show. “I’ll try to remember that the next time, then,”

Dead seriousness lies beneath that expression, but it’s easily masked by, “You should. Your best friend almost died of worry,”

A sense of guilt peeks over me, that it makes me feel contrite. “Uh…sorry?”

“Go and tell that to Sungjae,” he smirks, but it’s not a playful one—but a harsh, caustic one, somewhat evil.

I reconstruct my pride and reserve its spoiling when my best friend comes. It happens sooner than I think; when the conversation is over the door of my room opens forth, revealing this tall guy with black hair who’s identified as Yook Sungjae. “Oi!” he interjects as soon as he sees me, and nearly drops all his baggage when he dashes to me, and practically squeezes the breath out of me when he throws his arm around my neck in an embrace. “You’re awake!!!”

“Uh—yeah—b-but don’t kill me—“ I slap his forearm several times, signaling him to let go. “—hey, I’m h-having asphyxia,”

He gets what I mean and draws out, and his face is the paradigm of felicity. “Se Na I missed you!!!”

I crack a smile. “Sure you did,”

“No kidding!”

I laugh. “I believe you,” I take a look over his shoulder, and there’s Peniel who watches us with tender happiness. I offer him a smile to which he doesn’t respond, so I channel my attention back to the one standing in front of me.

“Are you okay now?” Sungjae asks.

“Yes. You know, it was just some migraine. Nothing that could beat me,”

His smile tones down a little. “The doctor said it was fatigue,”

“Maybe it was,” I agree stiffly. “My fault. I didn’t take care of myself well enough,”

“I swore to Ahjumeoni I’d take care of you,” he states, and for a long while, I can’t find my voice. It’s somehow pitched short in my throat, but recalling that another person aside from us is present in this room is what makes me regain it.

“She didn’t need that,” I snigger bitterly, and I peek at the person behind him for the fraction of a second. His face bears little curiosity, and I resolve to tell him this maybe one of these days. He may or may not deserve to know, but maybe telling him a part of my deeper self won’t hurt.

***

“Se Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Se Na-ssiiiiiiii!”

“Sweetieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!”

Well we all know from who the last scream comes from.

“Hey, champ, we missed you!” Eunkwang-oppa rubs my head. Minhyuk-oppa slightly jogs to me, arms in spread-eagle fashion, and I surrender myself to them and I hug him also.

“We were worried!” he says, sort of breathlessly, and when he lets go, the politely blissful faces of Hyunsik-oppa and Changsub-oppa smile at me.

“Hi guys,” I greet with only one corner of my mouth up, rubbing the back of my head.

“Aww c’mere you little—“ they both encase me in a hug, and I conclude that I must be really endeared to these people that they love to crush the life out of me. “I heard it was fatigue, Se Na-ssi? Hey, I know you work hard, but don’t do it too hard!” Changsub-oppa laughs at me, his sleepy eyes forming crescents on his face. Fortunately they still think of giving me back my air and they let me go. I assume they’re going bombard me with questions but they don’t, much to my conclusion that they let me have my personal space. I tell them that I’m subjected to a three-day rest, and I define that as doing whatever I want, though I don’t tell them. Presently we’re all in the company, their favorite hangout (and I doubt I’ve been fond of this place too) and maybe I did miss them too; because I decide to spend the rest of the day with them.

“Score!!!” Sungjae cheers, when he finally wins against Eunkwang-oppa in that soccer game they’ve been fond of playing. I just sit, silently impressed, and beside me Donggeun is also quiet reading something. I take a look at what he’s reading, and it strikes me as mere gibberish, gibberish, gibberish. Then, looking at the screen of his iPad I realize I have to get something.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, disregarding if they hear me or not, and immediately get out to pick up my laptop which I left in another room. As I walk to that room I’m already panicky thinking if I had closed it or not, and I try to relieve myself that yes, you closed it. But part of me doubts it. I remember not having closed the window where the file of the chapter was opened, but I don’t recall having closed my laptop. Oh, damn. If someone sees that, I’m gonna die.

Taking a deep breath, I put my hand on the doorknob and twist it carefully, slowly, agonizing myself in excruciating slow motions and the door creaks open.

Oh, man. This is just painful.

I say to myself, seeing someone standing inside the room, his torso leaned in slightly to the direction of my fully-exposed laptop screen, as if he’s reading something, and to add a cooler effect, one of his hands is in his pockets and the other is holding up a drink to his mouth.

I probably make this sound that’s between the yelp of a person and the neigh of a horse, that he senses my presence, and looks at me with a rise of the brows. “This is your work?” Ilhoon-oppa inquires, pointing a finger at the screen.