Kris's POV.

He's dead.

They tell me he died a week ago.

When his lawyer came, I had opened the door of my new apartment, expecting him to file some lawsuit against me or blame me in some other way.

No. His lawyer, who I had gotten very familiar with in the past few months, had only come to tell me that he died.

I had nodded silently, numbly and closed the door on his face without another word. I slumped against the door and sobbed, emotionless tears down my face. I don't know why I cried then. Probably because I missed him, and maybe a little part of me felt guilty for abandoning him, but mostly because the first thing I had thought of when I heard the news was, about time, and I hated myself for thinking it.

But it was about time. I expected it.

He was sick already. Sick in the head. But also sick in the heart.

I'm not being mean or anything. This was the truth. He had a brain tumor that was slowly eating away at him, killing him until he could hardly function. It had become too big for the doctors to remove without damaging him permanently. I had helped him get through the countless seizures, memory losses, and mood swings.

But that was all I was. A helper. I had tried—and failed—to love him. Because he could never be healed in the heart, just like he could never be healed in the head.

I hope Huang Zitao died with his friends and family around him, just like he'd wanted to. I hope the man he really loved was there too. I know now that it wasn't me. It never was. I was only his helper, not his lover.

Could I even consider myself his friend?

But now with Tao's death, the Panda's passing, I am left with nothing.

I fix my tie in the mirror and check my eyes. They are red-rimmed and bloodshot. I hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in weeks. My pale, bony emotionless face stares back at me, a hollow shell of what I once was. Back then, who was I?

I am now responsible for Tao's death—the reasons why, I'll keep to myself. I am now a killer thief. But I still don't know who I used to be. I can't change myself anymore, anyway.

My hand runs over the smooth, oxblood-colored silk of the tie and my heart squeezes painfully. He bought this for me. Not Tao. Rather, someone's name I can't speak of. Him. He was the other half of me. He was someone that completed me. Someone I couldn't live without.

Was. Past tense. But is he still someone I can't live without? Does he still miss me?

What are we anymore?

My director had transferred me to manage the Chinese Gucci store branch after I was successful in overlooking the building of the new store. I quit my position shortly after Tao died, telling myself there was no reason for me to stay in China. I would be transferred back to Korea. I didn't want another assistant. I don't think I could've lasted much longer in China anyway, even if Tao's brain disease hadn't gotten to him. The pain was too much. My own pain.

I would like to say it was the pain of homesickness. But I know it isn't.

I guess, I must admit to myself, I really do miss him. 

As for the thief aspect in being a "killer thief", Tao and I had lived together during our work in China. He had his own apartment that he shared with me. Many heated arguments and headaches later, I had taken a large chunk of money from our joint bank account and fled to Shanghai for an apartment of my own. By then, he was already extremely sick. I suppose it broke his heart when I left, his support and source of money gone.

Maybe he thought he even loved me a little, just like I thought I loved him. I don't know.

But I know with his lawyer's suspicious glare that he believed my departure killed him. He couldn't prove anything though. I guess he thought Tao loved me, too.

We were all lying to ourselves and to each other. Tao never loved me, his heart was for a someone I didn't even know. Did I love him, or was my heart also for someone else?

I shake my head and rub my temples. I need to stop thinking. I need to get out of here. I need to flee again.

I am always fleeing.

I grab my suitcase, run my hand through my hair one last time, and leave the apartment. I check to make sure it's locked, and I roll my suitcase to the elevator. I'm on the twentieth floor of the large apartment tower. The beach is a few minutes' walk away.

The beach. There's a beach in Korea that was my favorite place. It was a few minutes' walk from the place I lived in Korea, too. Maybe that's why I chose this apartment.

I swallow. I'm heading back. Back to Korea, back to my old job. I wonder if he still works at East Bank. I wonder if he still likes walking in the snow and making snow angels, or if he did that just to appease me. I wonder if he loved the angsty joseon dramas as much as I did.

Would the memories end up devouring me?

I don't even know where I'm supposed to go. After he and I broke up, is his house still mine?

I clutch the keys of my apartment tightly until the sharp jagged teeth leave small cuts in my skin. I exhale slowly. My throat feels as if it's constricting. I feel this way whenever I think about him—which is all the time.

I realize, when I thought I loved Tao, I never felt this immense pain. This pain of longing, of want but also of fear. It really hurts that I'm so far away from him. I bite my lip.

Will he still accept me, when I throw away my pride and come crawling back to him?

I can only see. I pull my passport and boarding pass out of my coat pocket, and step into the elevator. There's a bus that will take me to the airport.

I'm coming home. Wait for me, Yixing.

Wait for me, Lay.

I go to the beach first. I don't think I can stand going to our house—Lay's house—right away.

Too many memories. Too much pain. What if he isn't even there when I get there?

I finger the key in my pocket. The key that I've always had, even when I moved into the apartment in Beijing with Tao, even when I moved into the apartment in Shanghai alone. It's the key to our house, my real home. Those were just—temporary getaways, I suppose.

I don't even know where we went wrong. Was it me? Was it me that spoiled everything, that turned our relationship sour?

It probably was.

I get on the last bus of the night from the airport. It's late and it's cold and the bus is empty besides me and another man. He smiles briefly as I board. I nod to him. He has dark hair, pale skin and a high forehead. Tao would've liked him, I think automatically. Tao and Lay.

I'm not exactly the most social of people, especially when I'm this exhausted, but for some reason I'm compelled to sit next to him. He looks up at me, his eyebrows wrinkled slightly in confusion. It's then that I notice that his face is friendly, but his eyes are full of pain.

The man gestures to the completely empty bus. "Sorry for being so rude," he begins, his voice soft and gentle, "but there are so many other seats."

I grimace. "Do you want me to move?"

"No! No, no," he says quickly, tapping my shoulder lightly as I begin to stand. "It's okay, really. I'm sorry for sounding like I wanted you to leave. I don't. I—uh—I was just wondering why you would pick the seat next to me, of all places." He removes his hand from my shoulder and looks away awkwardly.

I smile and return to my seat, a little embarrassed. "I don't know," I admit. "I guess I'm lonely."

The man pauses, glancing at my tired expression. He can't be much older than me, but it seems like he's been through much more. Immediately I feel stupid and childish for leaving the country just so I could take a break. "Yes. I'm lonely too." He smiles sadly. We fall into silence.

"Where are you headed off to?" The man asks after a while.

I sigh. "I'm going to see someone that I should've stayed with a long time ago. What about you?"

He nods, as if understanding. The bus rumbles too loudly. "I'm going nowhere. I just come and go. After work, I hang around the bus stop most of the time, climbing on and off at random stops when I feel like it. If I'm lost, I just find another bus stop and continue. Or I walk. It's a nice way to tour around the city." His lips curl up humorlessly as he stares down at his hands.

I'm staring at him for too long. I look away, blinking rapidly. "Um...pardon me for asking, but why?"

He looks up, his dark eyes deep and emotional. "I have nothing to do. Nowhere to go. I figure bus drivers might need company too, right?" He gestures out the window. "Especially at this time of night."

The atmosphere has suddenly become terribly awkward. I am in the presence of someone who probably doesn't have a decent home, or family. He wanders around doing absolutely nothing. Our ages can't be too far apart, yet I have a successful, well-paid career and a home to go back to. We live in different worlds, but I feel that he still has taken more out of life than I ever had. He is still wiser, even though he has nothing and I have everything.

The man clears his throat. "I never learned your name."

I smile grimly. "Kris Wu."

He looks down. "Kim Joonmyeon."

"Nice to meet you."

"The pleasure is mine."

There is another silence before Kim Joonmyeon lifts his head and forces a smile. "Not to pry, but are you an ambassador? Your Korean is very good for such a foreign-sounding name."

"No. I hold a Canadian citizenship, but I work here, at the Gucci store in Seoul." His expression is like stone. Did I sound like I was flaunting my status? I wince, but he grins. He smiles an awful lot for someone who looks like he's going through so much. 

His expression suddenly changes, his eyes widening. "You work near Bus Stop 53, right?"

"Uh...yes? Is there something about it?"

He opens his mouth, about to say something, but then the bus slows to a stop near the apartment.

The apartment. His apartment. Our apartment.

"Oh. This is my stop," I say apologetically. Joonmyeon nods. "It was nice to meet you, Joonmyeon. I hope we meet again."

The man clicks his tongue. "I'm sure we will."

I am still wondering about his last comment when the bus doors screech shut behind me. 

But here I am. Back home, after three months. It makes me wonder why I ever left this quiet little town by the beach for the noisy, rushing city. I automatically run a hand through my hair. The apartment I used to live in is only a few blocks away from this bus stop, but now that I am so close I don't want to go.

I am afraid.

There are many reasons why I broke up with Lay. And there are many reasons why I shouldn't have. I suppose I thought I loved Tao. Now that I think about it, I never even liked him. Not more than a boss would his assistant. Maybe I just needed to get away.

I was just selfish. Lay seemed to want to break up, anyway. I suppose I just wanted to do it first.

Stupid and selfish.

​I shove my hands in my pockets, deep in thought. Instead of going directly to the apartment, I head towards the beach. The ocean smell already greets me, familiar and friendly despite the cold ominous night. My Gucci shoes crunch on bits of sand along the sidewalk.

I need to go there first. I need to hear the waves and taste the salt in the air. I need to be cowardly one last time before I see him. 

Because despite the yearning in my heart, despite how desperately I want to see him, I don't know if he wants to see me.

Why did I break up with him? 

Maybe I just couldn't stand the pain in his eyes whenever I was with him. It seemed like he always seemed to hate being around me after I made it clear my goal was to be promoted to manager. I never wanted to abandon him, but why would he hate me so much? I thought he would support me.

He did. Or he tried. It always seemed fake, every smile he gave me, every encouraging word. And when I received an assistant, his hatred seemed to grow. I think, that's when I started to love Tao. Partly because I was with him so much for work, it wouldn't have made sense if I didn't get to know him after all that time. And partly because I felt Lay's love for me begin to slip. Maybe I needed to convince myself that I could still love by loving someone else.

I loved Laylay. So much. And yet, as I grew busier at the Gucci store and had less time for him, he seemed to not even care about me anymore.

I guess I can't blame him.

When I achieved my goal to become manager, he was one of the last ones to congratulate me. And it hurt. So I celebrated without him. As a stupid, immature sort of revenge, perhaps.

I probably couldn't understand the pain in his eyes, the disappointed anger that always clouded around him, the depression. It was too much for me. He didn't trust me anymore, always taking his anger out on me and Tao when we could talk, thinking I was cheating on him. He never seemed to like my company anymore, or the little time I had with him at home. I had thought he needed space. So I had tried to give him it.

I bought him a car because I had begun to work late, and I didn't want him to stay back because of me. I rejected his offers for lunch, because I always needed to discuss work with Tao, and because I didn't want him to force having lunch with me. Distancing myself from him hurt everyday. And he seemed to close up on himself even more. So, after a while that childish me fled from him, with Tao, for China.

It all sounds like excuses. I guess that's what truth sounds like: excuses.

But now I'm back.

And now I hope Lay knows that I've matured. I've realized just how much a ing idiot I was back then, running from him because I didn't know what he wanted. I hope he's matured too, at least enough to accept me. Because I still want him.

I still love him. He's the one I love.

I look up. I'm at the beach. The moon is bright and round. It's light is cast onto the crashing waves, as if the ocean is throwing moonlight onto the sand. Further away, the mirror reflection is held in the gentler, rippling waters. Small white granules of sand slip into the tops of my leather shoes. The wind blows my hair back and my scarf across my face. It's cold, but I doubt it's colder than Lay's heart.

I just hope for the best.

Staring down at my shoes in the dark, I trudge through the sand to the road of the apartment. I can't stay here long. I need to face him. I need to face my fears.

I need to see my Lay.

The smell hits me first.

The place is only slightly brighter than the dark black night outside, looking gloomy and reeking of alcohol. It's disgusting. I shut the door behind me, adjust my coat to hang it on the rack, and walk in.

I am still too afraid to go directly to the apartment, so I've found myself in a dingy, filthy underground bar instead. The one bar I always told Lay to stay away from. But I'm sure he's come here frequently after I left him. I know him too well.

I look around, taking in the tacky jazz music that contrasts ironically to the drunk old men slumped in their seats. They're either asleep or dead.

Someone smirks from behind me. It's the bartender, a surprisingly young and fresh-faced man. He has huge eyes that bug out a little, neatly gelled hair with a stray curl on his forehead, and a crooked smile. Still there's something goofily mesmerizing and cute about him.

He looks me up and down, rubbing a grubby shot glass with a rag that looks dirtier. "What are the likes of you doing here?" he scoffs, checking me up and down.

I lean against the counter, slumping to eye level with him even though he's not much shorter. Two can play at this game. "It must be the shoes," I say sarcastically.

"Gucci." The bartender nods in approval. Then his eyes grow even larger and his hand freezes on the glass. He looks up at me with sudden suspicion. "Can I ask your name?"

I lean away, mirroring his expression. "Why do you want to know?" I gesture somewhat uncomfortably to the half-dead figures around the booth. "I'm sure they've come to and fro many times without you ever knowing their name."

He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. "True. But maybe I've seen you around?"

"No, I'm sure you haven't. This is my first time here."

A short pause. The bartender looks away and sets down the glass he's cleaning. He clears his throat. "I'm saying—you should leave. If you won't give me your name."

I stare at him. "What? Is this how your bar treats customers?" Automatically I think back to everything in public I might've done wrong. Maybe this man had just been there at the moment, and he recognized me.

He sighs as he watches me argue with myself internally. To my surprise, he sticks out his hand. "The name's Park Chanyeol."

I look him up and down cautiously.

Chanyeol rolls his eyes. "Look, I just want to know who you are. I—I'm a friend of someone you probably know. He came here all the time."

My heart skips a beat, and I straighten immediately, my head nearly knocking into a nearby lamp. "Lay?"

He gives me a long stare before his mouth curls into a humorless smirk. "Wow. You must be him. You still remember him, I'm surprised."

"What do you mean? What has he told you?"

He shrugs again. "Nothing much. Just that he hated his life and was extremely depressed. Because of you. He would often pass out drunk around here, or make a huge mess. Thanks to your boyfriend, I've been the janitor for this place countless times. I've also carried him to his apartment just upstairs." Chanyeol clutches the rag in his hands tighter, his fists clenched against the counter. He narrows his eyes at me. "What exactly did you do to him? Are you even in a relationship with him still?"

It's my turn to clear my throat and look down awkwardly. The guilt consumes me. But why would he be that depressed? He never gave in to drinking himself unconscious—at least, not when I was around. I thought me leaving him was the best for both of us. I thought it was what he wanted. "Um. No. We haven't been in contact for a while. Do you know if he's around now?"

"Tell me your name first," the bartender says. "I might not sound too happy about Lay's drinking habits, but I love the dude and I don't want to accidentally send a serial killer to his door or something."

For some crazy reason, the pit of my stomach burns when he mentions I, love, and Lay in the same sentence. "I'm Wu Yifan, the guy you're probably looking for. People call me Kris."

Park Chanyeol smirks and nods again. "Sure. So you're him. Well, according to his usual schedule he comes here daily. Two or three times."

I falter. "What? Two or three times?"

"Mmhmm." He picks up the shot glass and rubs the same spot, over and over. "Sometimes in the morning. And he drinks loads. It's bad and I always try to discourage him, but hey I work here and if he wants to drink, I can't stop him."

I clench my fists and bite my lip. How could you, Lay. How could you ruin yourself like this. What happened to you? "And?" I force myself to say.

"Sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes late at night. And he always drinks way too much, enough for any normal person to pass out. But he's addicted now." Chanyeol's eyebrows furrow. His hands stop moving. "Hmm, now that you mention it that's strange..."

"What's strange? What?" I'm practically yelling now. I don't know where my sudden rage and despair comes from. Maybe it's from the disappointment that his friend Chanyeol never stopped him from drinking so much. Or maybe it's because I wasn't here to stop him.

"He hasn't come by today. He usually does, every morning. Not this morning. And now it's really late...he usually would've just left, if he hadn't passed out yet."

I'm already standing up and grabbing my coat from the coat rack by the door. "Was he here yesterday?" I ask urgently. The growing ball of terror and desperation is filling my gut, and the stench of the bar doesn't help my spinning head. 

"Um...yes," the bartender says, thinking deeply. "He was here last night. He staggered back to his apartment right after."

I'm already pushing the door handle to leave. Before I go, I hesitate and bow quickly. Even though Park Chanyeol is a lowly bartender at a disgusting bar, he's given me vital information I need. It's worth a blow to my pride—and my aching back—to find my Lay. My Xing.

"Thank you for everything. Sorry for the inconvenience," I say rushedly.

Chanyeol just glares at me and shakes his head. "Look for your ex if you still love him. Then thank me."

I hardly hear the last part. I'm already out in the freezing black soulless night. The moon is no longer my friend; it is a cruel bright flashlight that glowers on my old apartment and blinds me with its reflection in the crystallized white snow. The stars twinkle, too far away to help me.

Lay is definitely a creature of habit. And once he decides to make something turn into a habit, whether it be good or bad, he would never just suddenly stop it.

Something is obviously wrong.

As my Gucci leather shoes pound on the sidewalk in full sprint and the cold bites into my skin and my coat billows behind me, all I"m thinking is, Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God

Please let Lay be okay.

Please let Lay be okay.

I don't know what I'm going to find at the apartment.

What do I even want to see? A sick and pale Lay, an unconscious half-dead-from-drinking Lay, or a neat and empty room that looks like it's been untouched?

What if he suddenly decided to go on vacation, just as I flew here? As if he somehow knew of my intentions to come back to Korea, and he fled last minute?

As much as that thought stabs at my heart, that's what I hope for. I'd rather have him running than sick and stuck in one place. If he was running away, at least I'd know he's alive enough for it.

My long legs are sprinting up the metal stairs, the shiny brass buckles of my precious Gucci shoes clanging on the railings as I climb. My thighs are beginning to burn, but I ignore it. I ignore everything. I just need to see him. I just need to know he's okay. 

Even if he doesn't want me anymore, even if he slams the door in my face the second I knock on it, that doesn't matter. As long as I'd see his face. As long as he would answer the door.

The doom crushing down on my heart is choking and unbearable. I'm thinking of the best but fearing for the worst. This is the strangest way to feel. 

My foot doesn't lift high enough, and my shin hits against the next stair above me. Pain lances throughout my leg, and I know there will be a black-and-blue bruise but I keep on running up, albeit at a slower pace. I'm coming from a small passageway that opens to the public garage right next to the bar. Using the elevator might've been faster, but I'd have to go past the late night watch guard, Jongdae, and explain myself. He considers us friends.

I can't.

I just can't.

After countless flights it seems, the door to the apartment is right there. I stand in front of it, my legs aching, as I fumble in my coat pocket for the key. My hands are clammy and cold despite how hot my face feels, sweat running down my forehead. I tremble, a weakness I almost never show.

But I love him. I need him.

It's only when my eyes focus and I'm not as frantic that I realize the door is already slightly ajar. Suddenly time seems to freeze. I pull my hand out of the pocket and rap it lightly against the flimsy wood. The door only creaks as it opens wider, and I step in.

The first thing I notice is the silence.

The second thing I notice is the stench.

The air smells sour and stale. A drop of something runs down my cheek, and this time it's not sweat. I smell puke, blood, tears, and something worse.

Loneliness. Sadness. Pain.

Why? Why would he have felt these?

Smelling all these thick, mixed emotions threatens to make me collapse on this sickeningly familiar carpet of my old home. I force my feet forward. The apartment is still creepily silent. Knowing Lay, if he had heard an intruder pass by he would've already rushed in to the living room with some sort of pain-inflicting object high over his head, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. I smile grimly at the thought. More drops-that-are-not-sweat run down my face.

"L-Lay? Yixing?" I call out meekly. Still, it seems a loud noise that interrupts the eerie atmosphere. 

Where the hell is he?

I just start to notice how messy the place is. The TV is smashed in; a vase that he'd gotten from his mother is shattered in pieces and on the floor. Clothes are scattered everywhere. Some are stained with blood on the sleeves.

My heart squeezes at the sight.

I thought you promised me you would stop, Laylay.

I continue down the hallway. Something shiny catches my eye, tucked in a corner on the floor. I pick it up. It's silver with pretty leafy designs, and inscribed with a Y. It's Lay's couple ring that he shared with me, lost in a pile of filthy sweaty clothes. It hurts to think that he's abandoned his ring, even though I know I'm the one that broke it up. But then I rub on my own finger without thinking and realize that it's bare. I'm not wearing it either. My stomach turns a little. I place it in my pocket and move on.

And then my new Gucci shoes step into a puddle of something that reeks. I look down.

Vomit. Lots of it, mostly alcohol and blood. But, I notice with alarm, still fresh.

Still fresh.

My eyes widen. My heart leaps. My legs start to run in excitement.

It hasn't been long. He's still here in the apartment somewhere. Probably the master bedroom, the one we used to share until I moved to the guest room.

"Lay!" I begin to shout. "Lay! I've come to see you! LAY! L-"

As I burst open the door, my voice is suddenly ripped from my throat and my legs turn to stone.

I stare at the floor. Because I don't dare to look up. 

An unhealthy amount of more alcohol-blood puke stains the carpet. The phone is covered in it. But in the midst of all this lies a chair.

It's been turned over. It has some blood on the edges of the seat.

Even though my brain screams at me not to, my gaze still slowly crawls up. 

There are feet suspended in midair. They are very still.

My vision is blurry now. My throat is suddenly dry. My fists clench and unclench. But I can't feel anything in me. Nothing. The excitement that had carried me here has been out of me as quickly as it had come.

This isn't real. This can't be. I'm still dreaming. This is just a nightmare.

Yet, I'm not. It isn't.

What I see of Lay, his head limply hanging down with blood trickling from the side of his mouth, his neck still purple, his skin not yet pale or bloated, the blood still fresh, is not the last image I want to see of him.

Nor is the Gucci tie that Tao had let me keep, now around my Lay's neck, what I want to see.

Nor is the glinting couple ring that has slipped from his fingers into the mess below, inscribed with the letter K, what I want to see.

Trembling, still trembling, I back myself out of the room with my stone legs. I lift my stone arms to close the door, and then turn my stone face away.

Suddenly I yank my Gucci shoes off my feet and chuck them as hard as I can down the hallway. They hit the opposite wall, but not before denting the plaster and losing their shiny brass buckles. The leather pieces fall apart on the ground.

Watching them makes my vision grow blurrier. I throw my head back and let out a wailing yell of anguish.

And then I curl up against the door and let the tears stream down my face.

fin.

Analysis