Feelings are worse than thoughts.

There is always a reason behind the thoughts; a sensible reason, so you can change them with logical opposing judgments once and for all, as long as you are willing to. And they are obedient, they listen to you when you try to be make sense and when they understand they are not wanted, they are not needed; they leave.

That’s why thinking that you are lonely is easier. I have friends, you say, and you recall everything you’ve been through and relax in your chair, maybe smile at the peaceful memories passing on your eyelids and before you need to declare it out loud, you are convinced that you are not lonely and it passes as an unmemorable crack your brain came up with.

Feeling lonely, is another story. It’s unexplainable, irreassurable. Like a stubborn little kid in your head, it listens no reason, accepts no enticement. It keeps crying the same thing over and over, ignoring the hands of sense trying to calm it down, the solid evidence against itself. Only thing you can do is waiting it to stop crying as it dirties the walls of your brain with desperation, even if it takes minutes, days, months or weeks.

It’s a raincloud following you, and only you, while everyone else enjoys the warmth of the bright sun.

Sehun has the best amount of best friends. There is a proven fact that people usually don’t have more than three or four real friends, and he has eleven. Some of them, he wouldn’t continue seeing after first introduction, however he’s glad that his career has forced him to know each one of them better, therefore gaining him the best circle a boy can wish to have.

That’s why, at times like this, he wants the slap the out of himself.

It makes no sense, knows no logic that the loneliness grips at his heart, tugging on but not tearing it off, leaving him with the stress of uncertainty torturing his thoughts. He has everything, from shallow needs of greed - like looks or fame, to deep requirements of soul - family and friends. Being a part of Korean music industry is sure exhausting, but that is no price he can’t pay for what he takes in return. Then why is it that his hormones can’t be satisfied, he asks himself. Why am I so ungrateful?

Not always he’s struggling with this bitter sentiment. Ordinarily, he’s only disturbed by physical fatigue – and maybe Jongin’s naivety sometimes, other than that, he’s easy to please. He’s aware that he has a rather stern face, so he makes sure to smile as often as he can to his elders, never letting his eyes to do anything but crinkle in delight when he does so, and easily laughing. There are times he can’t help but feel and act grumpy, like when he’s hungry or sleepy, but doesn’t everyone has those days? His friends understand and correspondingly, he never crosses that line of respect, and everything usually follows a happy routine.

He has no rights to feel depressed.

But once in a while - sometimes six months, sometimes two years; he finds himself laying on his bed (or any bed he’s sleeping that night), and thinking. No, not thinking, just feeling. How can he think, after all, when he has nothing to… well, think? His mind is blank when his conscious tries to come up with an excuse for his mood, but it gets nothing; but the gloom refuses to decay, diffusing in his skull when it can find no support to solidly sit on. Sometimes it’s normal, just another moment of grief teenagers get with no visible reason; but rarely, like tonight, he shivers in the warm summer night, tears swelling up in the rim of his eyes – but not dripping, never. He doesn’t see the knife stabbing his chest, though it hurts nevertheless, it hurts like and Sehun doesn’t know how to stop it. It feels like he’s thrown away in a forsaken corner of the universe and he’s convict to stay there forever, it’s ridiculous because goddammit he’s sandwiched between Zitao and Joonmyun on a single sized bed and-

Until there is a hand squeezing his left shoulder, he doesn’t even realize he’s shaking. Opening his eyes, he sees the dim lights of lampposts making their way through the curtains lightening Zitao’s sleeping face. Common sense hits him when his eyes finally sees other people around him, so he relaxes under the touch, turning around (and making Zitao’s legs fall of the mattress in process) to face Joonmyun.

The elder’s face is sleepy but the concern is sparkling in his eyes, and his voice is too awake for four o’clock in the morning.  “Hey,” he whispers, “what’s wrong?”

Sehun smiles, but his eyes doesn’t crinkle this once. “I don’t know.” His voice is husky, but he hopes his honesty is clear.

Joonmyun’s thumb brushes away a drop of tear that has managed to sneak out of the youngster’s eyelid. “’Kay.” He pulls Sehun closer (even though it’s not that possible to do so for that they are already pressed together on the bed), and places Sehun’s head in the crook of his neck, fingers reassuringly brushing the blonde strands of hair.

The feeling doesn’t disappear, nevertheless, Sehun somehow feels better. The kid in his head is still crying as loud but this time, there is a relief blooming somewhere else in his mind – and he can manage as long as it finally lets him sleep.

Maybe by the sun rises, he can get his senses back together again.