The temperatures had dropped. Each of us laid in our own bed, contemplating our own thoughts, staring up at the same ceiling and inhaling the same dusty air. The only source of illumination was from the light pollution casting in from outside the window. The shadows from car headlights cavorted on the walls nearly savagely, playing out traditional African dancers twirling around a bonfire. Twice or thrice we heard the sirens of ambulances and police cars driving their tires thin.

There was a shift in behavior during the hours of darkness. Things — smells, scenes, scents — altered. There was something about the night, something unfathomable, that caused secrets to pour out and silences to elongate. It kept somnolent eyes moist from constant yawning. The time was past the witching hour and both of us still stood on the very scars of consciousness despite the drowsiness.

"Hey Hyunseong. Hyunseong, are you still awake? Myungsoo’s voice rumbled from deep within his throat.

I waited a few moments, pondering whether I should feign sleep, when without warning I found myself responding, “Yeah, I am.”

Myungsoo softly chuckled, replying, “Do you want to hear a story?”

"What kind?"

"Did your parents," he began, then rephrased, "I mean, were your parents ever acceptant of what you did and what you wanted to do?"

I wasn’t expecting a question to be brought back to me; I was anticipating a story, “I-I guess, in a way. Maybe,” I stuttered, ignoring how Myungsoo wholly disregarded both his and my own questions, “I don’t really know.”

"What do you mean you don’t know? You always seem so content taking all your literature and writing classes. I’m envious. Is your minor to teach?"

"I’m not really sure yet. Literature’s nice; the relationship I have with my parents, for the most part, isn’t."

"Oh?" his voice rose up an octave. I visualized an arrow undulating upwards and pictured him raising an eyebrow. Myungsoo’s attention was aroused.

"I-I didn’t get top marks in school, and sure, loads of students struggle with this. It’s not something new — but it was worse because I was alone. I strictly remember having a friend but then he moved elsewhere. I’m not sure where.

"After that, it was difficult for me to make new friends, let alone a friend. It’s like running to Square Two, or Three — maybe even Four — but having no idea how you got there because it seemed to happen from before time. Suddenly, you’re plopped back down to Square One without knowing the ropes. I was that insipid kid that wasn’t invited anywhere with parents that never made an effort. When I say my parents were always there for me, I literally mean they were always there. Their bodies were physically there.” I stayed silent, mulling over the inexplicable grounds for why I just told Myungsoo what I hadn’t told anyone else hitherto. We had just begun our friendship — if you could even call it that — yet I found the offer, or lack thereof, irresistible. I hastily mused whether I had spoken too much too soon before reaching the conclusion that I had to finish what I had started. Myungsoo didn’t interject any words as I cogitated.

My utterance augmented in animation, lacing with vividly bold colors, when I continued, “Then I read books. Everyone claims you can go to another world through them. After that we were introduced to writing in school. Not particularly stories but just writing in general. I thought it was fun so I decided, ‘Why not pursue this?’ Paper and pens became my new companions and the sentences I wrote made up for the sentences I didn’t speak.” I took a breath and waited for a response. Disconcertingly, I felt I was in the skin of an amateur artist under the severe scrutinizing eyes of fastidious judges, just bursting to blight my work. It soon donned on me what Myungsoo was already aware of: we had the whole night leftover. Time was not of the essence. We could have spoken at three words per minute, have our hearts beat at thirty pulses per hour, and nevertheless strain or risk no thing. I didn’t even have classes once the sun rose.

At that point in time no matter how fine and underdeveloped our relationship was, Myungsoo was then the closest person I had to a friend. I found myself platonically, enigmatically drawn to him because he was the first person that heard me out.

"Continue. I’m listening." he said.

"I don’t think, at first, they — my parents, I mean — liked all the writing. ‘You won’t make money from that! Anyone can write; anyone can take over that job!’ but I think my scores in math and science confuted my parents’ wishes for me to get a job as an account or physicist or whatever. Better to get paid a little and do what you like rather than get paid a little and do what you hate, right?"

"But don’t accountants make money?”

"Oh, they do. I just wouldn’t do well enough to advance in the company. I’d’ve just made the entry-level salary for the rest of my life." I lucidly stated, waving at empty air. Myungsoo laughed at this. It was nice to hear him laugh, after weeks of simple silence.

"I like you. Your humor’s…."

"Not really humor," I picked up, "but thanks."

"So I see you’ve dropped the honorifics."

"Yeah. I did."

A gasp, a sigh, a yawn. Then, silence. Afterwards, repeat.

That was how our night was spent, the way our sentences flowed. Each of us listened intently even if the other never responded. Seeing that the conditions were mystically infallible, this one conversation was how we connected. It acted as the bridge, the liaison. Bizarre as things were, it worked.

As night progressed, our eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Speech began to slightly slur and words commenced to garble, stepping on each other like accidentally stepping on someone else’s shoes in a cramped elevator.

Soon enough, our conversation was cut, and each bloke slowly slipped into slumber like someone dying on a hospital bed.

As the someone on the hospital bed breathed his last breath, our sentences waved goodbye to their commas and semicolons and met their ellipsis and periods. 

As the dull hum of the cardiac monitor droned on into the night, we fell asleep and dreamt of dreams that would fall deep-six, spiraling down to the pitch-black pits of our unconscious minds.