Sundays are meant for sleeping in.  For late breakfasts and unfunny sitcoms.  For church-going and lawn-mowing.  For grocery shopping and baby future chasing.  For reading really good books that might change your life, or watching really sad movies that might change your sleeping schedule.  

For me, Sundays are for crazy deeds and words that I'll later regret.  A little bit of risk, a dash of adventure.  I want to get away from the hum of death and decay that always seems to wind its way into my dreams.  I want to for once, hear nothing but silence--not wails, not sirens, not the hum of a barking beagle.  Just quiet, if only for a day.

It's the second Sunday of the month, and I take the bus down to 9th street, on the west side of town, to pay a visit to one of my most favorite places, after the studio.  You could say, a home away from home--away from home.  I've been there more than enough times to count, maybe even too many times.  I know the way there like the back of my hand, and the way around it like the back of my other hand.  

In other words, I like it there, in the place that I can call my own--without the disturbance of, shall I say...humanity.

"Here," is the rooftop of an abandoned building, once one of the biggest entertainment companies in the city.  Rumors say it was shut down after the unexpected disappearance of one of its most successful promotion models.  The company went bankrupt after his missing case.  

I find it strange that an entire company would collapse because of just one being, but then I assume that nearly everything in this world depends on the work of one person.  And it makes me--angry.

Angry.

The thought provokes me as I step off at the bus stop, a mere block away from my destination.  I hurry across the street, toward the building.  There is no one around here at this time.  LIke I said, most likely sleeping late or watching the latest episode of a Romeo and Juliet spin-off.  I open the front doors of the building, unlocked because no one wants to reclaim a building that's seen the loss of a public prodigy.

I take the stairs to the very top floor, seven to be exact.  My steps move quickly but the ascend is slow, saving time before I reach the top.  My shoes echo in the empty staircase, clouds of dust forming around my ankles as I raise my legs to meet the steps.  The handrail is rusty and filthy between my fingertips.

I reach the highest story in a matter of minutes.  And when I do, I open the door that leads to the roof, and I'm greeted with a sight that takes me by surprise.  

Surprise not because I didn't expect it, but surprise because I expected to be alone.

Jongin.  

I recognize his lowered shoulders as he sits with his legs crossed like an Indian, unaware of my approaching footsteps.  His back is turned to me, head thrown back like he's been enjoying the scenery, not the sight of grudge-stained buildings and cracked cement, seven stories below him.  He takes a deep breath and sighs.  

"I haven't been up here for so long," he says suddenly, without turning to face me. 

I breathe quietly.

"I didn't think you'd come," he continues.  "It's lonely up here, all alone."  

He sighs again, extending his legs before him.  His feet disappear over the edge of the concrete roof, and he leans back onto his hands.

I approach him, slowly.  I'm wary of his relaxed nature, showing up in a place that I've assumed to be mine. Acting like he's been expecting me, speaking as if he thinks I find his presence worthwhile.  It makes me doubtful - like a Sunday morning mirage.

I step out onto the roof and realize that it's beginning to rain.  Not pounding drops like before, but small, timid tears that litter the flattened cement.  The sky has turned gray and tacit.  Jongin sits, gleaming in a white button-up, the collar open just enough for the rain to dot through.  I note the color of his clothing, the color of his skin, and it melts into the gray of the cement.  A perfect match that makes me wish I had brought my camera.

"Lonely.  What makes it lonely?" I ask.  

Jongin is a confusing set of questions and answers, more of the former than the latter, and it makes me oh so curious.  I don't think I'll ever understand him.

"Loneliness is a feeling.  I don't think I have the right to define it," Jongin replies in his usual tone that depicts a matter-of-fact and nothing but.  I shuffle forward, hesitantly.  

"Loneliness isn't a feeling.  It's a state of mind."  I bend down to sit beside my colleague, albeit at least two feet away.  "A state of mind that seems to get the best of everyone."

"So you do know."

I tip my head in his direction.  "You would be amazed at how much I know."

He laughs, but only for a second before he is quiet again.  Silence bubbles between us, and all I hear is the humming of the rain.  

"What do you think it would be like?" he murmurs, a few syllables that I recognize just by reading his lips.

"What."

"If we were fall off of here.  Down there."

I peer past the length of my legs, down toward the empty roads, seven stories below.  It's a lonely distance between sky and ground, between heaven and hell.  It looks cold, even mystical down there, through the low mist.  I shrug.

"From here it would look like a long fall," I say.  "But I don't think it's very long at all."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him nod with a quiet, "You first?"

Me first.  

I turn to stare him down with eyes clouded with the most horrible of suspicions. I love the way he grins when he sees my uneasy expression.

"I'm kidding," he says, tapping my upper arm.  "I would never push you."

__

Two hours later the rain subsides, but the air is still thick with the stench of water and nature.  As we continue to speak, our voices are still dull with the unfamiliarity of a heartfelt conversation.

"Do you come up here often?"

I nod when I don't mean to.  "Once, twice a week.  Maybe."

"That's funny.  I've never been here before.  This is my first time," Jongin murmurs.

I clear my throat. "How would you know that I would be here?"

Jongin smiles for a few seconds, the tight lines around his eyes nurturing the young look in his pupils.  "You'd be amazed at how much I know," he answers finally.

I let out a smirk.  "You're clever.  I like that."

"Me, too," Jongin says, emitting a half moan from the back of his throat as he lies back.  His arms fall outstretched, his legs are long - one straightened, one bent.  "Don't get too used to it though.  Wonderful things don't last forever."

I lie beside him, hands placed behind my head to avoid anymore awkward contact.  I breathe in the scent of the late morning and the atmosphere that Jongin exudes just by the rise and fall of his chest.  "I'm thinking I should come here more often."

"Why? Because you know I'm here now?"

"Because I've never taken any pictures here before.  I should start."

I'm expecting him to laugh, but he doesn't.  "I'll help you with that," he says instead.

"Yeah? How do you mean?"

He turns onto his side, resting his cheek in the palm of his hand.  "What do you say to us making this our heaven, just the two of us."

I feel his eyes on me as I close mine.  "What are you talking about."

"Heaven.  Have you ever thought of something like that?"  He flings himself onto his back again.  His chest expands as he inhales and exhales loudly.  "We'll come here everyday.  You as the photographer, and me as the guy who sits and stands awkwardly to make you happy.  Okay?"

He sounds like a child, something born just yesterday, completely unaware of how ugly life on earth can be. He thinks that he can make me happy.  If I didn't get around to tell him, he would never know.  There is very little that can make me happy.

But the paradise in his words has me intrigued.

"What makes you think I'll agree to something like that?" I muse.  "Photography isn't child's play."

"Child's play.  Who said I was playing?" 

I sense the offense in his voice, but also the haughtiness.  The syllables ring with the same rhythm as the mysterious man's wave farewell in the supermarket just a few days ago.  I'm suddenly reminding myself of the young girl being drawn away, and a pit forms in my stomach.

Jongin's voice is so quiet now that it's barely audible.  I remember the exact words he said to me before.  If something's wrong.  Tell me. I'll fix it.

I want to tell him that there's so much to fix that it will take him a lifetime before he can get through it all.  I'm an upside-down person, turned inside-out.  I'm wrong from the bone to the skin, while Jongin is crazy from his head to his toes.  I'm scarce in words, and he looks scarce in thought.  It would a bit of false hope, if I told him that everything was all right.  Because it isn't.  But I'm not sure if Jongin is someone I can say these types of things to.  His honesty to me hangs on a thread, and a slip of the tongue will cut him free and send him flying.

I feel a gust of wind tousling the hair above my brows, and Jongin's majestic confidence feels weaker and weaker.  His presence is distant to me now, knowing that I'm must have offended him in some way.  I'm slightly apologetic, not actually intending to rebuke his ideas.  Because he must have put quite a bit of thought into them.

"Jongin, tell you what," I say.  I sit up, rubbing the wind out of my eyes.  "Tomorrow, let's meet up at the studio and we'll talk about it.  Okay?"

I open my eyes, blinded by the sudden brightness away from the rain.  My eyes rake across the concrete of the roof, searching for his languid smirk or a nod in agreement.  

But Jongin is nowhere to be seen.

A/N:Thank you guys, for staying with me all the way to chapter 9~ It came faster than I expected haha.   It's been a while since I've updated, and this chapter is a compilation of a few weeks worth of impromptu bursts of inspiration.  Is it weird that I suddenly get these weird urges to write when it's like four in the morning?  Thank you again, my lovely readers.  YOU are my motivation and inspiration.  I appreciate each and everyone of you!!!