Mark presses his pillow to his ears to try and block out the anguished cries of his roommate. If he listens any longer he'll be tempted to go comfort Jackson, but Mark has learned the hard way that any attempt at helping Jackson during his late-night grieving will result in the younger man locking himself up in his room for three days straight--and Mark has no intention of that happening again.

Besides, Mark has no possible way to console Jackson. What could he possibly say? He has no idea how Jackson feels. He has no idea how it feels to answer the phone and hear that the person he loved most has been taken from this world. He has no idea how it feels knowing that the person he poured all of his soul into loving is buried in the cold ground because they were doing something that should have been done by him. He has no idea how it feels to be enveloped in self-loathing and gruesome loneliness--and Mark is positive he never wants to find out.

--

Mark rubs his left leg, frowning at the cast on it and at the wispy sensation of the dream world. He doesn't remember falling asleep. He also doesn't remember what he did to break his leg, so he just trusts the hazy feeling surrounding his body and carries on with his business in this dream. With difficulty, he stands up and hobbles over to a kitchen that feels so familiar yet holds no similarity to any kitchen he's ever seen before in his life. His eyes move of their own accord, flickering down to a slip of paper that lays forgotten amongst the clutter of junk mail and bills. Mark picks it up, chuckling fondly at the handwriting that he swears he has never seen prior to this moment. 

"He forgot the grocery list again." Mark smiles unwillingly, unsure of who "he" is or why he knows that this isn't the first time "he" has done this. Suddenly, the room is filled with the ominous feeling of anxiety and Mark can see the rain pour down through the kitchen window, and he is filled with an overwhelming sense of dread. This situation seems all to familiar somehow and it makes Mark's insides churn. His surroundings shift quickly and then he is standing in front of the refridgerator. A small photo stuck to the surface with a cheap magnet catches Mark's attention, and he examines it closely. Two familiar faces smile back at him; one is his own face and the other is--

The room spins and Mark finds himself standing in front of a casket, the people around him sniffling and solemn. The entire atmosphere seems as though it is filled with sadness, but no one is as broken as Mark. He can feel the emptiness and the agonizing sense of regret and anger well up inside him. The casket is simple, and inviting, but Mark does not want to look. His feet move against his will and he desperately tries to avoid looking at the motionless body; he feels that if he takes one look at the lifeless face he'll be unable to continue his life as normal.

His neck turns towards the body and Mark squeezes his eyes shut. Despite his efforts, he can feel his eyes begin to open and every fiber in his being screams to look away, but he can't. He doesn't.

He gazes at the face, pale and ashen, and he can feel the bile rise in his throat.

It's YoungJae.