The stubs of cigarettes littered on the floor don’t bother him anymore. He is tired and the incessant pounding in his temple trouble him more than the smell of spilled whiskey reeking from the dusty carpet he is lying on. He listens to his breathing- shallow, ragged.  A pattern he cannot quite follow yet he chooses to concentrate on, drowning out the sounds of the traffic outside his dingy apartment. One last massage to his eyes with two of his fingers sends him to sleep.

His dreams are always the same dull, grey beach. Not much sun is peeking from behind the clouds, the waves lapping at the shore as the cold sea breeze latches onto his skin with a chilling bite. Jongin knows he is dreaming. He always had. He’s relived this dream so many times that he’s lost count. Once it was reality, a thousand times it was just a projection of his memory. But it’s okay. He likes it; so much that he hasn’t learn to let it go just yet.

He knows that just about this moment, tiny arms would encase him in a warm hug and a nose would burrow itself in the crook of his neck. And he is right, so he automatically snakes his own arms to secure the ones in his chest, a thin smile etching on his lips. He remembers this. He misses this so much and he wants it.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself.”

Her voice sends his memory into overdrive but before he knows it and much to his disappointment, he jolts awake. There is nothing but the empty apartment. He’s alone and the feeling of being alone creeps up his chest, vines of loneliness encasing his estranged heart. He’s missing her too long to even remember her face, even in his dreams. It’s empty, he’s empty. Like a walking, gaping hole. Maybe it’s because of the alcohol or perhaps it’s because of the amount of chemicals rushing through his veins.

He considers that maybe this is good. Forgetting her is good. So clambers up the creaking steps to his bedroom, rushes to his personal bathroom despite the way his pace sends wooziness to his head. When he feels faint, he doubles over the sink, expelling the bile lodging up his throat. When he looks up to the mirror on the bathroom cabinet he sees a man he barely recognizes. It’s a marred version of him. Maybe.

He yanks the cabinet open and an almost empty bottle greets him with too much familiarity. There are two or three pills sitting at the bottom and Jongin fishes one out when he successfully pries the bottle albeit with difficulty.

“Hey, yourself.”  

And he pops the pill into his mouth, the bitterness already welcome in his tongue.

Go away, he thinks.

Just go away.

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