Kyungsoo traps his memories within the crumpling frame of his cardboard box.

His scribbles trace back and forth—between the yellowing photographs and burnt diaries, torn pages and smudged fineprint.

Really, today Kyungsoo speaks with nostalgia woven into the crescents of his eyes—empty walls and barren shelves wrapped with dusty fingers.

And the minutes pass with an overemotional mother and ignorant father—the occasional punch of laughter hanging thin in the austerity of surroundings.

They say their goodbyes as Kyungsoo fights against his quivering lips. The air is filled with, “I’m gonna miss you,” and “come back soon, okay?”

So the morning passes into a hot afternoon lapping at the stillness of water. Jongin’s heavy truck pulls in—clanging metals, black exhaust—and he honks for Kyungsoo.

The elder rushes down the steps, a cart of boxes and bags wheeled from behind him. And as they set off to leave, Kyungsoo’s family a disappearing distance away, Jongin asks,

“Ready for college, hyung?”

And Kyungsoo smiles in return, “nope.”