of angels and bitter coffee

Dear Jongin,

Ever since I was young, you had always told me that memory is an important part of us. Memory is what creates most of our being; it is both the past and present that shapes us for the future. I asked you whether memory was good or bad, but you simply left me with the fact the memory is important, and never really answered my question.

I remember the day our clothes were painted black, our smiles were faded into straight lines and our eyes were no longer limpid but clouded—all for you. That day was a dark day, Jongin, but that day was a day that I remembered how you loved me, and I too returned that unconditional feeling, but to me, you had always looked like a part of you was missing. To me, you were a bird with a wing broken and scarred; you were soaring the skies but falling at the same time. You had always been a strange figure to me.

Like those times at night when you would just look out the window as a gentle smile would slowly creep on the curve of your lips, as if you were recalling something worthy of such a feat from you. I never really got to understand the reason behind that smile of yours, but what I understood was that I loved your smiling face.

Like how you would never let me call you anything but Jongin, even if it never felt right for me to do so. "To symbolize our equality," or so you tell me. I never really got to understand why you seemed happier with me calling you like that.

Like those times you would let me buy rainbow ice-cream whenever and however I wanted for breakfast, lunch or dinner, even if it wasn’t particularly healthy for me, but buying anything else was out of the question. I don’t know if you were just trying hard to be cool, or if you just wanted me to die of diabetes when I grew older.

Like how you never ever took sugar in your coffee -- even if it tasted bitter and horrible to me -- and how you liked your toast extra black, which was just plain retarded because your toast looked like it had just been sent from the pits of hell.

Like how you had this habit of going outside to who-knows-where every Saturday, whether it was a cyclone or a snowstorm out there, you simply always had to be out. Which essentially, was just confusing as because why go outside when you can be marathoning years worth of Running Man episodes all day?

But maybe, the weirdest thing about you was when you told me that angels don’t exist. I expected you to help me retain what innocence I still possessed at that age, and protect it from the cruel hands of reality, because many others my age had been told that angels were real, along with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, but strangely you didn’t tell me so.

Despite your refusals in the existence of such creatures, I personally believe that angels do exist, Jongin.

Maybe you just needed one to realize it.

With love, 
Hana.

saranghae

Still don't know what I'm doing, don't mind me. CanI just say that I realized how my username is directly linked to this fanfiction, although unintended. Oh dayum. Maybe it was just meant to be.

credits - contradictori