“Let’s go, Heebinnie,” softly my arm is tugged to a forward direction, as I look aimlessly at what is ahead, too weak to speak, or to even function properly, at all. “Heebin-ah, kaja,” Bunhong softly smiles, with the slight scrunching of the brows, pertaining a beseech.

I comply with what she says, and after what I think had been a week of medication I am finally going out of the hospital, ready to go back home, now ready to face the world again. So as to make things a whole lot easier for me, Kim ahjussi, whom is actually my psychiatrist, makes me bring home simple, yet very important notes.

1.)    My name is Ahn Heebin. 16 years old. 2.) Someone died on my sixth birthday and I saw it. 3.) He was Choi Junhong, twin brother of my best friend Choi Bunhong. 4.) I made a friend named Zelo. 5.) He is imaginary.

Nonexistent. The boy named Zelo is nonexistent. He was just borne of my imagination, something that my schizophrenic self had made, and I need to remember that I will never see him again. That he was Choi Junhong, himself. The little boy who died before my very eyes. The little boy whom I didn’t help. The little boy whom I merely stared at while he was asking for help.

But they said I shouldn’t blame myself. No one wanted it to happen. It was an accident. And part of exonerating myself from what I think was a crime, is forgetting about it.

My parents were right. Ahjussi is right. Zelo was right.

I shouldn’t look back.

Sceneries swiftly pass by me as I look out the car window, finally going home after days. I don’t know how I should feel right now, I don’t know what to do, because I feel like everything—everything, has been taken away from me. It had been taken before me, and I merely watch it go away, and now I think I can never get it back. Because they said this is what should be better for me. To face reality, to perceive the fine line that separates the reality from what is not true, from what is just made up. Schizophrenia. I have schizophrenia. I ought to remember that.

For the past few nights my sleeps had been empty; no dreams; just that black, sound, peaceful slumber that I have never felt before. No more child asking for help. No more boy who has this blonde hairstyle. No more sweet-talking, no more don’t look back.

Is it wrong to wish that my nightmares would just return?

Because in my dreams, that’s where Zelo is. Because in my dreams, that’s where he exists. Because in my dreams, there is where I see him. Where I meet him. And now that I have finally gotten rid of what has been the greatest plague of my existence, I wish for it to return because Zelo—Zelo—Zelo, the boy whom I only, genuinely loved, even if you would say it only took me a few days to love him—I miss him so much. So much that it hurts. At the hospital, before I go to sleep, waiting for the effect of the sleeping pills to kick in, I find myself grasping my chest as if a hole had been bore there, sobbing salty tears of pure sadness. Is it wrong to wish that he would show up to me, regardless it is because of my schizophrenia or not? During those nights I would ask myself, Zelo, why? Why did you have to leave? But then the answer is just within me, of course. It is there. It is perpetually there. Reality loves to slap me on the face. Hard.

“Come on, Heebin,” the car comes to a stop before I even know it, and the door to my side opens, revealing my best friend gesturing me to come out of the car. I am home. I am finally home.

From what I remember, the last time I  have been here ended on a sour note, especially because I was taken out of here without my consent. I don’t know what has happened, really, but somehow the mess that I had left