Kim Jongin is stuck. Some days, fleeting memories of Joo’s hands—cold and delicate, probably the only pair of hands he thinks could ever perfectly fit his own—would unveil the left side of his brain. A smile that brought light to his darkest, and kisses too many but never enough. Most days, however, retrospect would take him back to the white-ceilinged four walls that smelled of sanitized syringes under green and purple veins and machine-washed fabrics. It would also take him back to the sound of a monitor that beeped too loudly, until it stopped.