There I am, awake in the middle of the night, pretending to sleep as I hear Chanyeol’s sobs emitting from the bathroom. They’re loud and they echo, vibrating through the walls; but everytime he exits, this beaming smile is scribbled across his face and every trace of tears are gone. Suicidal and melancholic thoughts devour him everyday, so just why does he keep fighting it? He just smiles his pain away as if he’s okay, as if he’s not suffering, as if he’s not dying inside.

  He’s a walking corpse.

  He’s struggling to breathe.

  Why won’t he just let go?

  Chanyeol was diagnosed with lung cancer at the age of four, caused by the secondhand smoking from our father. At first, mother thought it was just the flu with his consistent coughing; but coughing turned to wheezing, and wheezing turned into droplets of blood. As his twin, the day he was rushed to hospital felt like a lifetime that my second-half had been pried from my life. Those were the days I pleaded for a miracle to happen, that this was all a nightmare and when I wake up, he’ll be healthy. That was never the case.

  The days I spent in the hospital morphed into weeks and before I knew it, I had spent at least twelve years in confinement. Chanyeol and I only had four years of fun and smiles before that was too abruptly stolen from us. Instead of a fresh summer breeze, we get only air-conditioners. Instead of the softness of grass, we get a hard linoleum. Instead of a bird’s lullaby, we get the constant beeping of his machine. I’m not sick, no, I’m perfectly healthy, so why do I need to experience this trap too?

  That’s right, I keep forgetting. Our parents died too. They wanted to bring a bouquet of roses to Chanyeol on one dreadful night full of rain and storms, but the roads were far too dangerous and wet. In the end, he got his flowers in a horrible state and he also got a lie that his parents were on a long and tight business trip, too scheduled for them to pay him a small visit. He took that lie, and even today does he believe that his parents are alive.

  The door clicks open and he shuffles back to his white duvet, cuddling it as the cotton embraces his skin. He sniffs, lets a tear drop, then throws on his facade and dreams with a smile. I just wish I could wipe that fake happiness off his face because it sickens me. If he were to let go, not only would he be free, but so would I. Call me selfish, but dying would be his best option. At least he’s halfway there.

  Please die, Chanyeol, please just let go of the pain.