It takes him about every after dawn to realize one thing: he was officially alone.

For the past five and a half years, it never seem to sink into him. He was left alone in an institution -- the very same institution he used to laugh at when he was young. He had seen this place a lot; he used to go here a lot -- to visit his grandfather. His parents told him his grandfather was crazy and so he needed help and care his parents couldn't provide.

His parents told him his grandfather was crazy. And he died at that institution. Did it mean he was crazy as well and will die there eventually?

He admits, he has done not-so-wise things before. Heck, he might have been one of the most stupid and reckless man during his age, but he was sure he wasn't crazy.

It takes him about every after dawn to realize another thing: he was officially hopeless.

He couldn't do much now that he was at the age of sixty-five. His once sun-kissed, smooth skin was now adorned with visible wrinkles and was now a little soggy. He hates to admit, but he really wasn't growing any younger.

His years have been teasing him into his own (most probable) self-destruction, but he chooses to hold on.

Every after dawn, he makes himself believe there's still something to hold onto.

It takes him about every after dawn to realize one last thing: he's undoubtedly lonely.

Being alone was bad enough. Waking up to the same white, musk-scented bed, and pastel green room has become bearable for the past five and a half years. But waking up lonely was not something he got used to. Will never get used to.

As the sun rises and pokes his stubborn eyes open, an immediate frown makes its way to his face.

And it stays there, until every after dawn.

Just before the familiar, soft alarm rang in his ears, his eyes fluttered open. He grunted, partly annoyed that he had just lost about an hour of peaceful sleep until the caretakers call them out to the cafeteria to eat. He didn't do much though, he knows he can't bring back what has already passed by.

Just like the last five and a half years of his life.

Sitting up, he noticed one thing. The bed next to him was already unoccupied. The main clock of the room read: 5:22 am.

He groans, he was awake an hour earlier than he should be.

He used to think that people referring to the old being "cranky" was something out of a mere imaginary context. But by being "old" himself, he couldn't help but feel as if he was being mocked by fate.

His words were backfiring.

So later that day, after dawn, the news that Mr. Jung died had spread out to the whole instituion. Great, he thought. He was really alone now. Even his bed/room mate left him.

That dawn, he sat down beside the wide window, thinking about how he would survive practically the rest of his life stuck there, a place for the neglected aged. He watches as the trees let go of withering leaves and he scoffs, how odd. It made him think that he was like the leaves -- he was old and was needed to be let go. Not to mention, he was old. It irritated him to a short extent, as he finds himself digging through a past he never wants to see again.

Sighing, he stands up slowly, takes a final glance at the tree outside the window, and makes his way to his bed.

He closes his eyes and can't help but let out a supposedly-frustrated sigh. He ends up huffing slowly. Sighing leaves him gasping for air in matter of seconds.

It wonders him how he had never made "friends" in that place, but it results to his realizing that of course, no one among them wanted to get "attached" once again only to get hurt when one of them does die of well, old age.

After one particular dawn, just as when he was about to rest, the doors to his room snapped open and the air was stained with loud protests of "get your hands of me" and "leave me alone". He scoffed, wondering how the hell his once peaceful room was now currently being assaulted.

Once the caretakers stopped (dragging) convincing the "newcomer" (or so he was labeled) to sit down, they took an apologetic bow and left the two of them alone.

'Stupid people,' the shorter groaned crankily, rubbing off his small, wrinkly arms off of imaginary dirt. He tilted his head up, glared at the sun-kissed man in front of him and snapped, 'what the hell are you looking at?'

They hadn't spoke to each other the next day. It was a little awkward, but then again, when people grow old, there aren't really "awkward" moments in life anymore.

It changed during the dawn of that day, though, when they were once again confined inside their room, alone together.

'How's your day?' the shorter asked, his eyes wide as they were before.

It shocked him. It genuinely did.

'I'm Kyungsoo, by the way,' the man handed out his frail hand to him, and smiled as if he was a friend. It was weird, and it was unlikely, but he found himself mustering a small smile as he took the shorter's hand.

'Jongin.'

Okay, so first chapter is up. I actually am not sure what this will turn out to be, but rest assured the story is planned and has a definite ending. Just not sure how many chapters will be made :(

Pictures that will be used are not mine, unless stated otherwise.

Stay tuned, yes? ♥