Time tick tocks quickly, and sometimes it would be a pleasure turning back the hands of time.

Kyungsoo wakes up, drenched in sweat and panting heavily.  He dreams of skin suntanned to perfection, eyes as dark as embers and hair a color of hazelnut.  He wakes to the same dream months ago, his heart thudding with some emotion he has long forgotten.  Looking around him, he takes in the room— walls bare, a table placed on the side with a stack of post-its in the corner of yellow and green colors; time giving it its weathered and crumpled state, and on one side his scrapbook.  Beside the scrapbook is a notebook.  A year gave the pieces of paper its degraded state, ink blotting against pages and pencil marks slowly fading.  The dog-eared pages imprinted creases and wrinkles that stayed where they are. He does not remember who gave it, much less who wrote it.  A gripping sensation invades his chest as he approaches the table, apprehension in every step he takes. He takes in the state of the material, running his hands on it as the sensation brings back a flood of emotions wracking him to the core and something clicks in him but it is vague, of a shadow in the balcony, smoke rising from between his fingers.  He does not open the notebook, just as he never made the move to after reading it once, after Jongin's death. Shaking his head, he heads to open his scrapbook, sighing as he falls in his routine of remembering everything, even just for today.  The last page looks torn; and Kyungsoo wonders why as he closes the scrapbook, tainting his head with the details of people he met.

It is a year since Jongin's death.

The small man still systematically man-handles the super glue with precision as he puts eyes for Pororo dolls, still works in the bar, but today there is a nagging feeling in him made more apparent by the arrival of someone.

As Kyungsoo sings of hearts broken and memories forgotten, a figure catches his attention.  He is nursing a bottle of beer, looking at the singer intently.  When his set finishes, said person walks up to Kyungsoo by the bar, a friendly smile in his face.

"Hi?"  The small man asks, wary.

The other regards him with an expression laced with pity and tinged with amusement before paying for what he ordered and asking for Kyungsoo to have a chat with him.  The smaller thinks for a moment, judging if he should trust someone he just met, technically, for the first time.  His senses tell him he should, and soon he was sitting in front of the other, expression guarded.

"You— you don't really remember me, don't you?"  Rainbow haired guy asks, and Kyungsoo quickly shakes his head in response.  The other sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

"I'm Oh Sehun, Kyungsoo.  Jongin's editor."  Person named Sehun says, seeking any hint of recognition.  Kyungsoo never recognizes anyone outside his scrapbook and he shakes his head again.

"Okay, I guess you don't remember."  Sehun continues.  "I'm going to ask you something, is it okay?"

Kyungsoo nods.

"Do you still have the manuscript?"  Sehun asks, making Kyungsoo's otherwise calm demeanor turn into a questioning one.

"What manuscript— did you hand it to me?  I might have it but I don't remember— I have anterograde amnesia."  Kyungsoo explains as if the other does not know.  Sehun nods and takes a deep breath.

"I know, Kyungsoo."Sehun smiles and pushes the question."Let's see— a notebook?"

Kyungsoo nods, remembering what he saw earlier that day.  "What about it?  How did you know?"

Sehun's patience clearly falters a bit, Kyungsoo could see, as he ruffles his hair.  "I gave it to you, Kyungsoo.  Jongin made it for you."  The name stirs something in him, involving the image he saw when he brushed his fingers on the cover of the notebook and Kyungsoo feels the gripping feeling once more.  When the smaller does not respond, Sehun continues talking.

"I don't know if you read it then, and I don't know if you do."  Yellow post-its are handed to Kyungsoo.  "He wants you to have these."

Sehun stands and bows, leaving Kyungsoo who did not ask the question he had been itching to ask.

Who is Jongin in my life?

Looking at the post-it, he sees a familiar scrawl- just the same on the post-its on his table, the ones he takes a glance at, and nothing more. 

"Hi, hyung. I don't think I'll be able to keep my promise of seeing you tomorrow, I'm sorry. I take it Sehun just gave this to you? So I need to reintroduce myself.  Hi, hyung, I'm Kim Jongin, the writer next door.  I hope you'll remember me after today, and keep your end of the promise to not forget."

Kyungsoo creases his brows.  What does he mean next door?  He never had any neighbors next door, as far as he's concerned.  But as he reads the next one, clouds of doubt form in his mind.

"Here's what I propose: follow all my instructions and at the end I'll answer one question.  Okay?  First one— I want you to smoke a cigarette."

Kyungsoo flinches at the words, a sudden taste of bitterness in his mouth.  He wants to rip that piece of paper but something tells him he's not going to do that and he sighs.  Rolled on the last piece of paper is a cigarette and Kyungsoo doubts his decisions as he takes it in his hands, telling Minseok he's just going out for a while.

He goes back home and looks for a match, then proceeds to the balcony.  He scrunches his face, something telling him that this is not a good idea.  Something tells him he held the piece of vice between his fingers and regretted it.  But the curiosity was strong; the question burning in his mind.

Who are you?

Fingers hold the cigarette, now lit, against his mouth— and a trembling, heart shaped mouth takes in a breath, lips closing on the unlit tip. A puff was all he could manage before coughing loudly, taking in air to replace the nicotine that went in his system. Oddly, he really feels as if this is not the first time he's done this.

He steels himself and tries again.

And again.

And again.

Soon he has finished the cigarette, the ashes collected way below the balcony.  The cigarette is now thrown and Kyungsoo could feel the warmth spread through his body.

Now what?

The small guy decides to go back to his shift in the bar, trying hard not to smell like he just smoked.  Minseok, upon seeing him, waves and beckons for him to come, and a post-it sees its way to his hands when he goes back to his place.

"Don"t worry, Minseok knows you smoked one.  By know you must have noticed that I know you more than one should, and that is an honor for me.  Thank you for smoking and not eating the cigarette. Next— go to my room— I mean the room next door.  The keys are found under my mat.  Your shift ends in 3, 2, 1."

Kyungsoo looks at the clock and sure enough, it is as what the other says.  Minseok gives him a smile so full of sadness Kyungsoo could barely smile back. 

He is in front of the door now, sighing as he lifts the mat and there is the key, glinting lightly.  Taking it in his hands, he feels a surge of emotions so new he stumbles backward for a bit, trying to process everything.  Looking at the door, he mutters a curse under his breath.

When we meet, Jongin.

He opens the door and is greeted with walls full of yellow post-its, corner to corner.  Every nook, every canny filled with yellow.  It was like sunlight seeping through the open window and the color makes Kyungsoo’s heart flutter and beat wildly.  He gasps, shock evident: then he sees a picture on the floor, littered on the side with green post-its. He walks to it and crouches.

On the picture is a guy, skin suntanned to perfection, eyes as dark as embers and hair a color of hazelnut, smiling at him.

The guy from his dreams.

He's real.

Kyungsoo reels from the initial shock, looking around as the papers flutter against the breeze coming in from the window. Noticing that the papers have writing, he picks up the picture and approaches the left wall.

"Thank you for following my instructions.  The guy on the picture; that's me.  Next instruction: burn it."

By the far end of the room is a drum with some ashes.  Kyungsoo thinks these are the ashes of previous papers, judging from their appearance as he peers in.

What if he does not burn the picture?

Approaching the wall, he looks at the post-it beside the first note.

The paper looks like time has taken its toll on it, handwriting still legible but the ink blotting on the opposite side of the paper, the post-it slightly crumpled and faded.

"Don't make the same wrong decision twice, Kyungsoo hyung. You'll put it in your scrapbook along with what happened today."

The message ended there.  The next post-it read:

"I don't want you to remember now.   I want you to remember tomorrow.  I want you to remember that I love you for the same reason the sun loves the moon."

Kyungsoo moves on, post-it after post-it after post-it, moving rightward.  His heart is thudding fast as he tries to process why— and his dreams, the one that haunts him in his sleep, become clearer as the posts progress.

"I want you to know that time moves forward, but sometimes the pleasure of moving the hands of time back is exquisitely painful but beautiful.  And I want you to move the hands of time backward, back to the time you knew you loved me back."

"I want to know your every tomorrow."

"I want to be with your every today."

"I don't want to be part of your yesterday."

"Hyung, I hope your heart remembers."

"If by tomorrow you forget that love me, I'll remind you tomorrow that I love you."

"Our tomorrows are made of promises and words."

"I want you to burn my picture in your heart."

"Let's see fireflies again, hyung."

"I want you to know and remember how we danced to the music of our hearts."

"Please say you'll remember hyung."

Kyungsoo's heart beats fast against the cavity on his chest and his mind is reeling.

He loved me?

I loved him?

Looking at the picture, his heart did remember as it began to pump faster, if that was possible.  More post-its flashed in his eyes as he moved quickly as if those will disappear by tomorrow, the picture of Jongin on his hands.

The scrawls become slightly intelligible, the script shaky as if shaky hands made this with shaky breaths as he tried to stay for one more day.

"I want to ink the music of my heart on your skin so you would see me as you hear every beat of your heart.”

“Tomorrow, hyung, let’s go to a meadow filled with daisies.  I’ll run my hands through the flowers and you’ll smile at me.  We’ll lie down and watch as the world spins around on its axis, oblivious to two souls trying to catch the moment in our hearts.

“ I’ll close my eyes with your name on my lips and mine on yours.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll dance, you and I, to an unsung beat, or the beating of our hearts as one.  We’ll laugh then, because it’s very silly.”

“Tomorrow, I’ll laugh longer, and you’ll laugh harder, because it’s always been the other way around.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll wake up with limbs entangled with each other and you’ll ask who I am, and I’ll answer you with a kiss, and I hope you’ll remember.”

“Please remember, hyung.  I hope you remember.”

The notes end there.

Kyungsoo reels from everything that has happened and feels a warm, salty liquid come from his eyes, trickling to his cheeks.  The picture falls to the floor, with it Kyungsoo’s heart as he realizes what he feels now.

He has dreamt of Jongin.

He has dreamt of Jongin’s fingers skimming his skin; he has dreamt of fleeting whispers of sweet nothings and touches that made his skin shiver in excitement; he has dreamt of their breaths mingling and I love you’s and See you tomorrow’s.

He has dreamt of hospitals, of masks and taking shallow breaths, and of people frantic as the line on the monitor stoops down to a flat one.

His heart has screamed for Jongin.

He did love Jongin.

Kyungsoo stumbles for the door.  The picture is left lying on the floor as he fumbles for the keys to his own pad, wanting so desperately to think that this is not real.   Stepping in, he rushes to the table and takes the post-its, putting it randomly on the wall.

He reads the notes and emptiness envelopes him.

Slumping down, he cries the new sense of grief that has escaped from his fingers the night he finishes the notebook and rips the last page of his scrapbook in rage, burning it to ashes.

He cries for the forgotten memories, and he cries for the memories that will forever be gone with the wind.

He cries because all he was left of the promises are broken words and dreams that will never bring back the breath of Jongin.

He cries because the truth comes kicking him in the gut:  Jongin is gone.

Kyungsoo spies a piece of yellow fluttering on the wall under the table, like it misplaced itself in hopes that Kyungsoo would see it if he looks hard.  The small man crawls and grabs that piece of paper, holding it in his hands like a fragile being.   He reads the note at hand.

“Hyung, if I’m gone, please don’t cry for me. I will try to see you tomorrow, okay? I love you. Don’t forget!”

As Kyungsoo sobs, rocking back and forth as he holds the notebook filled with the words and memories of yesterday, he thinks of the sole question Jongin promised he would answer.

Jongin, Kyungsoo thinks, why did you leave me?

Closing his eyes, the emotion too overwhelming, Kyungsoo finds himself asleep embracing the notebook—and again, yet again, he dreams and forgets. 

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ok guys sorry ; n ; kill me now i-