Seasons change quite a bit, Jongup's learned, and so do people.  It only starts in Summer.

      If the neglect of happiness is depression, then is the neglect of depression happiness?  After the seas part and that familiar spark in his eyes has resumed, Himchan notices the edges of the band-aid that seem to lift slightly, as if asking to be released and awaiting the readiness to be removed, but the poor thing stays longer.  Laughter has been shared and memories have been made, and he keeps the stickiness of the band-aid in tact by the constant reminder of the past and the pain, and lastly, the crescent smile of the ones who had been there to make the frown lines that seemed so permanently etched into his skin go away.  The soft padding that soaked up plasma and saline may be dirtied to an extent, maybe even more than whom it had been placed on, but that's what band-aids are for–a temporary form of relief, soon to be thrown away.

      Himchan is a screwed up kid, and Jongup is turning out to be no better.

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      Leaves begin to fall now, and he forgets what it was like to be unhappy in the first place.  That time is but a memory fading further and further into the back of his mind, and all he can think about is how he's glad it's over–how he never wants it to happen again.  The band-aid is just as wounded as the cuts it once hid, but still, it clings onto freshly washed skin with scarce adhesive, the blotchy stains showing through.  The cuts are merely scars now, but it's best that the object stays patched on just a little longer.  Just a little bit longer until there's no evidence to show, and nothing to be judged for feeling.

      Jongup finds himself ignoring the aching feeling in his chest.  Himchan didn't mean to, he chants to himself.  He doesn't know–doesn't realize–he just doesn't.  And the more the tiny boy thinks, the bigger the lump in his throat gets and his body is forcing him to run away, but he could never run away from his mind.  He wishes he could, but he can't.

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      Winter freezes everything unfortunate enough to be passing in its wake.  Maybe it's the contrast between the freezing rain and the bubbling happiness inside of him, but his eyes glisten from the reflection of the fire that's crackling melodically in the fireplace, fingers jittery from excitement that comes from absolutely nowhere.  He's free.  Maybe his eyes gingerly flicker over the tattered band-aid once or twice, taking in its poor state, and maybe not.  But as his fingers peel away the last of the glue, holding the dirty thing away at an arm's length and a grimace lacing his expression with his disgust, not a single tear falls.  It was much, much too easy to throw the object into the hot fire, but in many ways, maybe it could thaw it, for it had been waiting in the cold for so long.

      See, the band-aid had known that it was nothing but that–used as a quick fix for wounds–and it most definitely had known that once those wounds scabbed over and then eventually left a faded scar, it would no longer be needed.  There was a slight flicker of hope that seeped deeper into its gauze than any amount of pain, though, and it was the hope that in the end he would need the band-aid just as much as the band-aid needed him.

      Living and learning are quite exquisite things, as are feeling and remembering.  But no one remembers the pain after it ends, no one wants to relive the storm when it's finally tame, and no one cares about the band-aid.

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      Himchan holds his head high as he walks, back turned away from the boy who has his arms lying limply by his sides. Jongup can't even utter a word, and he decides that he won't try.  He's silent, a shudder running down his spine.  He was just a quick-fix—he was supposed to be burned by this—and somehow, he can't bring himself to regret it.

      And this type of disintegration, Jongup finds, takes more than a band-aid.