Like the death of a wind in its last breath, Kyungsoo’s expression is sturdy under the chill moonlight—eyebrows strained and wide hazelnut eyes—denial at it’s very best.

He doesn’t believe in the buried body hidden deep within the blanket of sea—corpse of the night, creature of the day, stretches out before the constellations of the sky.

No, Kyungsoo doesn’t believe in the gripping nails at the corner of his elbow, or the empty hollowness that swallows his thoughts whole.

Daunting pelts of rainwater drizzle his fringe into limp strands (Kyungsoo thinks, this is like a movie) —stale water mismatched against the salty tang of oceans.

Everything is so surreal, Kyungsoo dreams.

Only thing is—it’s not.

Everything is so real—raindrops plummet from the sky in heavy incoherence—everything is too real for Kyungsoo to believe.