Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Nothing. 

For a moment, nothing except Jihoon exists in this void. He reaches his hand out but ultimately grasps at nothing. If Jihoon likens the void to a blob in his mind, it comes together underneath his fingers, forming a jello-like sphere. Curious, he imagines it to possess a texture similar to sand, which immediately causes it to flow between the gaps of his fingers, pitch-black and opaque. 

Yet, there is still nothing, and here Jihoon just is. 

He puts one foot in front of the other, over and over, but he wonders if he even moves. Seeing as he has nothing better to do, he continues—left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, le—

“I’m sorry.”

A voice suddenly echoes, surrounding him instantly and bringing him to a pause. All he can think is, ‘I know that voice.’ 

“I didn’t want it to do this, but…” 

The voice breaks; a part of Jihoon does the same. Even while entrenched in nothing, where Jihoon knows nothing of where he is, how he came to be, or what’ll happen to him, he knows instinctively that that vulnerability is uncharacteristic of the voice. Frazzled, he looks in one direction and then in the other, desperately looking for its source. Unable to find it, Jihoon tries running. He runs and runs and runs. He may not know whether his efforts in searching for the source would bear fruit, but he knows all too well that he cannot bear to hear that voice upset. 

“Jihoon-ah, don’t you feel that being with each other’s a bit suffocating?”

That snaps something in him, urging him to whip around and ask, as his heart breaks a piece per second, “What do you mean by that?” 

And, as though those were the magic words, the world around him suddenly burst into color. Lines and shapes of varying sizes slowly fill the space around him, stretching, twisting, and intertwining with each other until he is faced with the portrait of the man he’s in love with— Kim Junkyu. There, the taller boy stands in front of his apartment door, mouth set in a frown and shoulders squared, standing stiff as he faces Jihoon with both regret and resolve in his eyes. 

Six seconds pass. When he still gets no answer, Jihoon asks again, sharp yet shaky, “What do you mean, Junkyu-ya?” 

“I don’t mean it in a bad way–”

“Cut the bullshit, Kim Junkyu,” Jihoon breathed out in a rush, eyes rapidly searching the other’s face for any sign indicating this was a cruel joke. “You can’t just say that being with me is suffocating and then say that you don’t mean it negatively.” Seeing no signs of such, he asks, hostile as his eyes burn, “Since when has there been a positive form of suffocation?!” 

Junkyu sighs, closing his eyes as though the sight pains him. The shorter of the two wants to scream and tear his hair out—recently, not a day has gone where the younger doesn’t sigh in his presence. 

Not liking how he feels like he’s grasping at straws, Jihoon pressures him. “Answer me! Why is it so hard to answ–” 

“Because you get like this!” the taller boy screams, opening his eyes. In those eyes, Jihoon sees no shred of affection. “Whenever I try to breach a subject you don’t want to discuss, you get like this! You get all prickly and refuse to even try to understand!” Like a damn that has burst, Junkyu continues, showing no sign of stopping, “And honestly? Honestly, it’s so suffocating. It’s so suffocating because it’s like you don’t even give a damn about what I feel because it has to be all about you. I try to broach something calmly, and then you blow up. You blow up and it doesn’t matter what gets caught in the crossfire, whether it’s me, my feelings, or our relationship. It’s one of the things about you that’s so hard to deal with, you know? Haein’s ri–” 

Jihoon sees red as the tears flow freely down his face.“Haein? Kang Haein? You mean to tell me you’re still talking to him? Even after I told you that he’s bad news and that I don’t lik–” 

“See?!” Junkyu laughs callously, gesturing at him with a free hand. “There you go again. Out of everything I said, that’s what you catch on to? Haein is not a ba–” 

Scoffing, the older boy blinks away the tears, “What? Do you expect me to validate every insult you just threw my way and not the fact that you’re still talking to that boy?! And for the record, I don’t refuse to try to understand—I just ask if we can talk about it at another time because, news flash, not everyone is breezing through college at your pace! Not everyone is a genius like you! Some of us have to try ten times as har–” 

“So it’s my fault? Is it my fault that I’m having a good time? That I don’t break down every time I fail an exam or something? That I don’t shut everyone out whenever I do? That I have actual friends in my course?” Each sentence spoken feels like it’s punctuated with a bullet, and Jihoon lets each hit its mark. It doesn’t matter if he’s breaking or bleeding; he doesn’t dodge—it’s Junkyu pulling the trigger. “Is it honestly such a shocker that I’m not that sulking loner back in high school anymore? Isn’t this what you wanted?!” 

“I didn’t want anything like that! I never said that! All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy! And guess what?! I’m happy for you!” Jihoon cries out, raking his hands through his hair, “I’m so fucking happy for you, but it just makes me worried! Everything’s just changing so fast and I can’t,” he pauses, catching himself. Shifting the topic, he pivots, saying, “And Kang Haein’s reputation isn’t good, you know? They say he always goes to parties and never leaves them without getting wasted. I just didn’t want you getting mixed in with those people because we both know it isn’t your sce–” 

“Who said it isn’t?” 

The question is posed without much fanfare, spoken in a volume that is neither a scream nor a whisper. It is simply asked without malice or bite, yet out of all the things thrown at Jihoon, it’s what causes his train of thought to screech to a pause and pushes his world off-kilter. 

Amidst his tears, he asks, disbelieving, “What?” 

“Who said it isn’t my scene?” Junkyu’s face betrays nothing. Through Jihoon’s eyes, his figure blurs. “In high school, sure, it wasn’t. I wouldn’t have been caught dead at a party. Back then, I thought it was just a noisy, messy excuse to act like adults, but now, other people are making me realize that it’s not all that bad.” The younger boy lets out a weak laugh. It sounds almost defeated. “I wanted to experience these things with you, but you always shut me down or cut me off by saying it isn’t me. That it can’t possibly be me who wants that.” 

Junkyu pauses. He almost looks apologetic in this light. 

“You have this image of me in your mind, and you act like I’m always just supposed to remain like that. Like I can’t be anything but that.” Jihoon shakes his head and opens his mouth to deny it, but Junkyu raises a hand and trudges on. “At first, I loved it. We were kids then, and it was like a superpower. I didn’t need to say anything because you always just knew. In high school, it was a comfort. Amidst the chaos that was our high school years, it was a welcome comfort—a solace. Here was someone who knew all the good and the bad yet still chose to love me. You loved who I was then, and for me, that was enough. It was comfortable. So comfortable that I didn’t bother with other people—I didn’t even bother working on myself.” 

Jihoon blinks. His vision clears. 

“I loved it, but I became complacent. I became stagnant.” 

Junkyu stands within an arm’s reach from him, yet somehow, it’s the farthest he’s ever felt. 

Unable to handle that realization, Jihoon looks away and stares at the photos on his wall, most of which are of him and Junkyu, taken at a time when they were no doubt happier. It’s a stupid decision; now, all he sees is the ghost of a happy past, leaving him to wonder where it all went wrong. 

Had he missed something? 

Scanning all the photos, he is left to wonder if, somewhere along the way, he missed any sign of dissatisfaction. 

Hearing no reply, Junkyu plows through the silence, “I don’t know who I am without you, Jihoon, and I guess maybe it’s time for me to find out.” 

He wants to scream. 

He wants to yell. 

As the implications of Junkyu’s words sink in, a sharp stabbing pain emerges and possesses him, causing the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he stares at an old Polaroid picture of their graduation. It takes everything in Jihoon not to buckle under the weight of those two happy smiles. 

Wanting to communicate even a smidgen of the grief and misery burgeoning in his heart, he opens his mouth to vociferate, feeling numerous expletives dance on the knife edge of his tongue. However, when he makes the mistake of locking his eyes with Junkyu, Jihoon finds that all the fight leaves him instantly as a sob lodges itself in his throat. 

It’s unfair. 

Those eyes are unfair. 

How can he, even at this point, love those eyes?

So, he shuts his mouth, his eyes, and his heart. 

The older boy waits for the other to say something, not trusting himself. A clock ticks. A phone buzzes. A drop of water falls into the sink. Small bursts of sound continue to shatter the illusion of silence around them, reminding them that this is real, but nothing is said. Perhaps, really, there is nothing left to be said. 

And so, the clock continues to tick. The phone continues to buzz. Another drop of water falls into the sink. Amid it all, Jihoon thinks. He thinks and thinks and thinks about the words he could use to beg, apologize, or plead. He strings together phrases and sentences in his mind, but all the words he knows, even when combined, seem to fall short. 

For the first time in his life, Jihoon doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what to say to make the pain go away. He doesn’t know what to say to make the other forgive him. He doesn’t know what to say to make Junkyu stay. But maybe that’s apt. How could he dare utter another word, after all? It’s his words that caused Junkyu all that pain. So, he’ll take this as his punishment—living with the knowledge that he’s hurt the person he loves the most. 

With all the love left in him, he asks, “Are you sure?” 

A sharp inhale leaves Junkyu’s lips, exposing his shock. 

Jihoon finds himself holding his breath as his tears fall, one after the other.  

Part of him wails as a heavy pain starts to unravel with the realization that this could be it for the both of them. Yet, despite it all, Jihoon loves. He loves unwaveringly. He loves, nevertheless. Closing his heart doesn’t undo all the years he’s spent loving the other, but perhaps it’s necessary to stop him from loving who Junkyu would be in the future. Still, the Junkyu in front of him is the one he has always loved, which is why he knows that he must learn to let him go. 

Junkyu opens his mouth and closes it, eerily similar to how the shorter boy did earlier, seemingly arriving at an internal impasse as the silence surrounding them weaves itself around a palpable, unspoken truth. 

Forcing the air through his lungs, Jihoon reiterates his question, “Are you sure?” 

In lieu of answer, the taller boy looks away, clenching his jaw. 

The silence strangles Jihoon. A force composed of equal parts hope and fear weighs his tongue down, forcing him to wait. The clock continues ticking. The phone buzzes again. The water drops fall, pitter-pattering into the sink. The older boy doesn’t dare breathe. He doesn’t dare blink. He doesn’t dare do anything and allows everything to pile atop each other, sound on sound, fear upon fear, and hope upon hope. Jihoon hopes that maybe the latter boy changed his mind at the very last second. Hoping that, by tomorrow, they’d be a cuddled bundle of hoodies on the bed, none the wiser to the world around them. Yet, Jihoon also commits the sight of Junkyu to memory, fearing that it would be the last time he’d get to do so. Fearing that, by tomorrow, he’d be figuring out how to go about the world alone. 

As it turns out, he had reason to fear being on his own, for Junkyu turns around and opens the apartment door, making the decision for the both of them. Bits of light flicker in, annoyingly highlighting the other’s decision to leave without even meaning to. Jihoon doesn’t dare look away. 

Halfway out, Junkyu pauses and whispers, “I’m sorry. Live well, Jihoon-ah.”  

The ‘without me’ goes unsaid, yet it’s all Jihoon hears. 

Then, Junkyu leaves. 

Just like that, his love leaves. 

Love walks out of his life, closing the door behind him as he goes, leaving Jihoon to contend with the finality of it all as he strains his ears to follow the sound of Junkyu’s fading footsteps. Shutting his eyes, he clings to the echo of each step with a stillness, not wanting to breathe or move lest he miss the last seconds of how love sounds like in his life. 

 A new voice announces, “Memory sequence one, done.”

When he’s reacquainted with the sound of silence—one he must now face alone—Jihoon finally breaks. He breaks and falls to the floor, closing in on himself as he brings his arms around his knees. In his misery, he thinks that his days would now resemble this—miserable and alone, with no one to hug him or wipe his tears away. 

Opening his eyes, he stares at his door with a sick desperation, willing it to unlock itself and reveal Kim Junkyu behind it. He conjures up the image of an apologetic Kim Junkyu poking his head through the door, returning with a convenience store bag filled with their favorites as he says he didn’t mean any of it. Then, he’d cry, scream, and cry some more, but welcome him back nonetheless. Jihoon strains his ears again, terribly wishing to hear the sound of an elevator ding, a knock, and the echo of returning footsteps, but, to his dismay, he hears none. 

Sorely disappointed, he looks back down at his knees, but the sight of his sleeves makes him freeze.

 A familiar voice questions, “Mr. Park Jihoon, can you hear me?”

“Ah, fuck,” he says aloud, looking at the faded pink sleeves of the hoodie currently hugging him. A fresh set of tears sprang to his eyes, as he repeats,“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Once upon a time, this hoodie hung on the back of someone else’s gaming chair. It hadn’t been his then, but it was good as, because he always wore it. Junkyu had offered to get him a new one, but he had preferred this one as it had been loved and lived in. He pouted. Junkyu relented. 

Not once had he imagined that he’d be wearing it when they broke up. 

Finding it ironically hilarious, Jihoon lets out what sounds like a crazed laugh, lifting his left hand to touch the fabric before he sinks his face into the crook of his elbow and cries. 

He cries and cries and cries, blinking in and out of his apartment. One second, he’s crying in a dimly lit apartment; in the next, he’s crying under bright circular lights. Squinting at it, he lets out a noise of confusion, prompting someone else to turn the lights off. 

“Mr. Park Jihoon? Are you with us now?” Kim Doyoung gently asks, holding out a box of tissues in his direction. Jihoon immediately reaches for one by reflex before he realizes that he’d been sobbing through his oxygen mask. Taking his actions as the answer, the intern moves on to a different question. “That was quite the memory, wasn’t it?” 

Pulling the mask down, he chokes out, “You could say that.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

It takes everything in him not to flinch. 

Rationally speaking, Jihoon knows Kim Junkyu isn’t in the room. It’d be impossible for the latter to be here as he is neither professionally qualified to be nor does he have any reason to be. However, his presence remains. His voice reverberates in Jihoon’s head, not granting him a moment’s reprieve; his shadow stands in the corner of the room, tempting Jihoon to steal a glance; his scent dances teasingly right under Jihoon’s nose, carried by the wind of a distant past. 

Kim Junkyu isn’t in this room, but Jihoon figures he might as well be. 

“Ah, you’re still reeling from it,” the intern comments knowingly. “Memory echoes suck, don’t they? When we pull a memory to the surface, sometimes the brain itself takes time to let go of the memory completely and ends up mixing bits and pieces of it into the real world.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Dabbing the tears away as he tries to breathe through the heavy weight pushing down on his chest, he wastes no time in asking, “Can we move on to the next memory?” 

“I’m afraid we can’t just yet,” the new voice Jihoon heard earlier says in a no-nonsense tone. Turning towards its source, Jihoon locks eyes with a tall boy with tan skin standing next to a series of machines. Curious, he glances towards the name tag pinned onto his uniform and reads the hangul spelling out Park Jeongwoo right above the title of intern. “Your vitals are all over the place. We need to stabilize those before we put you under another memory.” 

“Shit,” he aptly states, finding no other word to describe how he feels and how the situation is. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Amused, Doyoung comments as he brings over a paper cup filled with water and more tissue. “Shit, indeed.” 

As Jihoon reaches for the proffered items and murmurs his thanks to the shorter intern, the doctor’s voice playfully chimes in, “Are we just throwing professionalism outside the window now, Intern Kim?” 

“Just establishing banter, Dr. Kim,” Doyoung explains as he throws a smile towards where the doctor stands. Jihoon follows his eyeline and sees the man who greeted him earlier as he entered the room, now holding a clipboard. Even after reliving his memory, Jihoon’s earlier impression of the man remains—in another life, the doctor could have been a celebrity. 

He had told Junkyu the same once when the latter shared his plans of taking up electrical and electronic engineering over a video call. Jihoon had said that the taller boy could have been an idol or an actor if he wanted, that he had the height, the face, and the professionalism demanded of the job. Junkyu had laughed and said it’d be hard for them to meet, so he’d rather not. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Jihoon downs the water in one gulp. 

“Is that so?” The doctor hums, then redirects his attention towards Jihoon, “How do you feel?” 

Taking time to formulate an answer, he plays with the empty cup, rolling it between his hands. To say he feels nothing would be an understatement because the weight on his chest is present again, but saying that to a doctor would be raising multiple red flags. Had he not experienced it before, he’d probably link it to a physical ailment, but Jihoon knows what the heaviness he feels entails.

So, he answers, “Heartbroken.” 

Dr. Kim hums as he jots that down and nodes to himself. When Jihoon doesn’t add anything on, he prods, “No nausea, dizziness, headaches, or anything of the like?” 

“No. Nothing like that.” He sniffs before he blows his nose into the tissue. “Physically, I feel fine.” 

“Do you wish to proceed to the next memo–”

“Yes,” Jihoon replies, eager to get away from the memory he had just relived. 

The doctor hums, clicks his pen, and looks towards the other intern. “How are his vitals looking now?” 

Without missing a beat, Park Jeongwoo answers as he looks at multiple screens with lines and words Jihoon doesn’t understand, “Some are a tad elevated, but nothing so alarming compared to before.” 

“Intern Kim, what do you think?” 

Doyoung, who moved to the other side of the room to stand next to his co-intern, leans ever so slightly into Jeongwoo’s space and begins to read the screens. The latter, not expecting the rather intimate proximity, startles somewhat but ultimately stays in place, eyes lingering on his co-intern for a second too long, with a gaze too sweet and a longing too familiar to be anything but. 

Jihoon, out of everyone, would know—it’s the same sight he sees when he looks at pictures of him and Junkyu. 

“Live well, Jihoon-ah.” 

‘Oh,’ Jihoon thinks, momentarily forgetting the weight on his chest. 

The taller intern’s reaction is miniscule, invisible to most except for those who knew what to look for. Had Jihoon been uninterested in looking for distractions, he would have missed it because now, it was nowhere to be found, gone as quickly as it came. Now, the gaze is gone, masked by the veil of professionalism as Intern Park points out specific data points to Intern Kim. Regardless, there is a gentleness persisting, entwined with every movement undertaken by the taller boy in consideration of the other. 

Looking at the two interns standing side by side, Jihoon cannot help but ponder whether Jeongwoo knew how to play the piano.

After a definitive nod, Doyoung looks to where Dr. Kim stands next to Jihoon. “I second Jeongwoo’s statement. Patient Park’s temperature is normal, blood pressure’s at a good 110 over 75, and his pulse and respiratory rate are on the higher end of the scale but nothing out of the ordinary given that he has been crying.” 

Then, Dr. Kim looks towards him and asks, “Do you wish to proceed with the procedure?” 

“Of course,” he readily answers, throwing the tissue and cup into the vacuum trash chute built into the seat. 

“Alright.” Nodding, the doctor moves away and sets his clipboard aside as he prepares a different machine, pushing buttons here and there. “Intern Park, please put the next item into the scanner box. Intern Kim, walk Patient Park through the process again.” 

“Yes,” the two say in chorus before moving to their respective stations. 

Park Jeongwoo heads over to the area where the aforementioned box sat. On its own, the box doesn’t look all that impressive; it’s an opaque white box with a transparent door attached to it via stainless steel hinges. Outside this setting, it could have passed as a display cabinet. However, once one considers how the box is the heart of the whole operation and not just some display case, it becomes an imposing figure. When Intern Park takes the hoodie out after pulling on a latch at its side, the formidableness of the box increases exponentially as this means Jihoon’s about to revisit another memory. 

Doyoung, now standing next to him once more, gently slides the oxygen mask over Jihoon’s face. “So, the procedure isn’t so different from what you did during the first run. When the memory is ready for you to enter, we will be asking you to begin your countdown again. You should be able to disengage from each memory as it ends, but as you’ve observed, we do try to bring you back when we sense some difficulty from your end. Do you have any more questions before we proceed?” 

Wanting to somehow brace himself against the next heartbreak, Jihoon tries to look around Jeongwoo’s shoulders but fails. Sighing, he asks Doyoung, “Can you tell me what the next item is?” 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” The shorter intern rearranges the tubes and wires connected to Jihoon. “Whether a conscious decision or not, you might try to anticipate the next memory, which might get in the way of the strongest memory because of recency bias. That, in turn, causes you to go through more than just the strongest memory associated with the item. Of course, in some cases, there is more than a single strong memory tied to an item, and in the later stages of the procedure, the process of elimination gets easier, so we can’t exactly stop you from guessing what’s coming next.” Then, he faces Jihoon with an earnest smile. “However, since we prioritize your wellbeing above all, we’d like to minimize that happening as much as possible as it can get emotionally and mentally exhausting.” 

Before Jihoon could get a word in, Jeongwoo said aloud, “Item number two is loaded. The scanner’s ready to go.” 

Jihoon hadn’t even heard the door on the box close. 

With a gentle smile, Doyoung asks him, “Can you count down from ten for me, Mr. Park?” 

“Ten,” Jihoon begins, squinting at the lights above him, waiting for it to turn back on. 

As he imagines himself donning the pink hoodie once more, he says, “Nine.” 

“Eight…” He trails off, nearly asking as his vision starts to blur and fade, black lines appearing and swirling around each other, pulling him in until he’s pulled completely under. 

Jihoon opens his mouth and forms the syllables of seven in his mind, but before he can say it out loud, he finds himself seated in a classroom in front of a blank easel with seven paint-filled pots. To his right, a female classmate complains of possibly getting paint on her uniform. To his left, a male classmate is already messing with the paint, flicking bits of it onto his friend with his brush. 

Amused, he seeks Junkyu out and is pleased to see that the other has the same idea even from across the room. Immediately, Jihoon looks at the boy on his left, wordlessly telling Junkyu to look, and, to his gratification, the other does as he suggests. When Junkyu looks back at him, amusement dances in his eyes, and the two break into giggles simultaneously. 

Before the older boy could grab the younger boy’s attention again, the teacher at the front of the room called for everyone’s attention. “For this exercise, I’d like each and every one of you to paint whatever you think signifies happiness.” Teasingly, she adds, “That shouldn’t be such a complex idea for high schoolers to explore within an hour, right?” 

Picking his pencil up, he mulls over the word happiness, and only one answer comes to mind. 

Shaking his head, Jihoon repeats the word over and over in his head, giving it a different intonation each time in hopes that the result would change, but nothing does. The image is, unfortunately, persistent. For Park Jihoon, aged 16, there’s only one person he can think of when the word ‘happiness’ is brought up, but he couldn’t possibly paint that person, now can he? 

He’s already fulfilled the teenage cliché of falling for his best friend, so he’d rather not confess in this manner either. The teasing from their schoolmates? He could put up with that. Junkyu, on the other hand, would die at being the center of attention in that manner. He’d hate being confessed to and put on the spot like that. 

With a sigh, Jihoon forcibly shifts gears, thinking, ‘What’s the next best, not suspicious thing that makes me happy?’ 

Thankfully, the answer to that comes easy, too, pushing him to put pencil to paper, sketching out the scene he sees in his head as their teacher puts on classical music to, in her words, ‘get the creative juices flowing.’ 

Once Jihoon is satisfied with each branch, bud, and cloud, he places the pencil down and moves to open each paint pot. When he looks to wet his brush, he realizes that his paintbrush cup has no drop of water in it. Not wanting to waste any time, he hurriedly stands up with his cup in hand, goes to the sink at the side of the classroom, and fills it up. Feeling a stare boring into him, Jihoon turns his head in the direction it originated from, only to find Junkyu looking at him. 

His best friend, Kim Junkyu, is looking at him. 

The worst part is Junkyu isn’t even embarrassed at being caught—he sticks his tongue out. 

Willing a blush down and forcibly ignoring the butterflies set aflutter in his stomach, Jihoon returns the gesture ahead of turning the tap off, rushes back to his seat, and begins painting, eager to get the memory out of his mind before it renders him as a useless, blushing mess. Eager to redirect his energy, he mixes the reds and the whites, the greens and the blues, the yellows and purples, bringing the colors together to create the scene he pictures in his mind. Carefully, he layers stroke upon stroke and line upon line until he brings the image he has in mind to life. 

Now, the once-plain canvas is dyed with the touch of spring, depicting a branch of cherry blossoms in full bloom. 

When he leans back to take it all, he finds that he’s actually proud of himself. Now, he isn’t an artist by any means, and his work is quite a few ways away from being sophisticated, but to Jihoon, it evokes that feeling of peace whenever he looks at a cherry blossom in spring, and what is peace, if not happiness? 

“Alright!” His teacher calls, breaking Jihoon out of his trance with a clap. “It’s time for everyone to show their work and explain your idea of happiness. Let’s start with Hwang Taeyeong.” 

And so, they did. One by one, each of Jihoon’s classmates came forward with their stories. Some tied their happiness to anecdotes from their respective childhoods, featuring scenes that treasured items, places, or events. Others painted more straightforward symbols, depicting their favorite game, book, or item. Regardless of whatever was shared, their teacher assured them that these were all valid symbols of happiness because no two people quantify happiness the same way. 

When Jihoon’s turn came, it was easy; he’d never been one to shy away from an opportunity to talk. 

When Junkyu’s turn came, it wasn’t as easy. His friend, never one to like drawing attention to himself, had struggled, opening and closing his mouth as he couldn’t find the appropriate words to use. What Junkyu had painted fell on the more abstract end of the scale as he had painted how the room looked from his point of view. Numerous heads tilt in confusion, not quite understanding what Junkyu wanted to convey. 

Seeing as his friend still couldn’t pick out the right words to use after a few more seconds, Jihoon jumped in. “You were happy at the moment, so you painted what was right in front of you.” He applauds. “How philosophical, Kim Junkyu!” 

Sounds of enlightenment float throughout the room as some finally understand what Junkyu had wanted to say. Even his teacher praises him for how he managed to contrive that from just the painting, owing to how close the two were. Still, all of those fade into the background when Junkyu laughs, tilting his head to the side, and smiles at Jihoon with eyes made up of all the softest, sweetest things, wordlessly affirming that yes, that was what he meant. 

And, really, perhaps it’s then that Jihoon understood what his friend meant at a more intrinsic level—the sight of Kim Junkyu smiling like that is a scene worthy of being immortalized in a painting. 

‘This,’ Jihoon thinks, mesmerized, ‘This is happiness.’ 

So, he grins back, putting all his emotions into it, confident that needn’t say anything to convey how he feels. 

Jihoon knows, with the same certainty he has in knowing that the sky is blue and the grass is green, that his best friend would understand. Even without words, he’s sure Junkyu would understand. It’s like a law of the universe. Actions have consequences; you reap what you sow; Junkyu knows Jihoon, and Jihoon knows Junkyu. 

There’s no rhyme or reason to it; it just is. 

He opens his mouth to tease the other boy, but before he could call out Junkyu’s name, he finds himself back in the clinic, staring at the circular lights above him, feeling oddly at ease. 

Jihoon hadn’t thought of that particular memory in a long time; he forgot it even happened in the first place. When he had packed Junkyu’s painting into the box, he didn’t remember what exactly occurred in that class. All he remembered was that after the class, he had asked Junkyu for the painting, trading his spring for the latter’s present. His friend readily agreed, exchanging their paintings as though his work was an afterthought. Then, they walked to their classroom together in preparation to go home since art was the last subject of the day. 

As he replays the memory in his mind, there is a fondness that emerges from his shriveled heart as he takes in the feeling of braces, the sight of acne, and the movement of awkward limbs. He and Junkyu were younger then, green in a lot of ways that mattered, yet to them, it didn’t mean much. As far as they were concerned, they had each other; that took precedence over everything else. 

“Oh? That was fast,” Intern Kim comments, turning the lights off. In a tone betraying the slightest of surprise, he notes, “Vitals are golden too. It’s practically the textbook example of what good vitals should look like.” 

This time, it’s Intern Park who approaches him and asks, “How do you feel?” 

Idly, Jihoon wonders if Kim Junkyu kept the painting of spring. 

“I had forgotten,” Jihoon says in place of an answer, feeling sentimental. He had expected the process to be one painful memory after the other, except he’d argue that the result of that memory struck him more than the recollection of their breakup. “I had forgotten that moment existed.” 

From the sides, Dr. Kim asks Intern Kim to load the next item into the scanner box. 

Without looking away from the lights, Jihoon carries on, thinking of that smile in a bittersweet light. “I knew I couldn’t remember everything, but,” he trails off, remembering how painting those cherry blossoms felt, “I didn’t expect that I’d forget one of the moments where we were both happy and that had been the prompt. Happiness.” 

A short, sharp inhale from the tall boy prompts Jihoon to turn in his direction. Intern Park Jeongwoo looks like he’s been sucker punched.

Feeling a bit guilty, he offers the intern a way out, asking, “I’m sorry, but can you get me a glass of water?” 

“Of course,” Intern Park answers, tone clipped as he goes to get water. 

From his station, Dr. Kim questions him, “Mr. Park Jihoon, do you wish to continue?” 

“After I drink the water, sir.” Wanting to solidify Jeongwoo’s alibi, he tacks on, “I feel a little parched.” 

“Intern Kim?” the doctor asks, checking on his other intern. 

“The scanner box is calibrated. We’re good to go,” Intern Kim chimed in from his spot next to the machine. 

“Intern Park?” 

“Here with the water.” Jeongwoo returns to stand beside Jihoon and hands him the cup, one nearly overflowing with water. Carefully taking it from the intern, Jihoon downs the drink in one go as well before disposing of it in the same manner as he did with the cup earlier. Once Jihoon completed the task, Jeongwoo asked, “Do you have any questions, Mr. Park?” 

“No,” he answers, calmer than before. “I think I’ve got a grip on it now.” 

“Alright.” Following a cursory glance at the rest of the professionals in the room, Intern Park declares, “You can begin counting down now.” 

“Ten,” Jihoon starts, watching as the black lines start circling the light above him, forming blobs of the void in his vision. 

Staring at the biggest blob, he breathes out, “Nine.” 

“Eight,” Jihoon announces, looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars he’s laid down on the floor, adhesive-side up. Counting them again in his mind, he double-checks. “Right. There are eight stars. There are just eight stars, but the packet,” he argues, picking the now-empty packet up, “Says that there would be ten. Have we been scammed?” 

“Didn’t Yoshi order those for you?” a voice questions, beckoning him to look towards his bed. There, Junkyu stood, wrapped in the soft glow of the sinking sun filtering in from his windows, sticking the smaller sized stars onto the ceiling in a random pattern. It’s a sight for sore eyes. “That’s what you get for having him order those for you. You know how unlucky he is with online shopping.” 

“Ey,” he playfully chides, narrowing his eyes. “You’ll make Yoshi cry if he hears you say that.” 

Laughing, Junkyu flicks the now-discarded release liner towards his direction in retaliation. “I’m just saying! If I had been the one to order those from Coupang, then we would not be having this problem right now.” 

The liner doesn’t even reach him, but he pretends to have been hit nonetheless. Like always, he exaggerates, pretending he’s been fatally hurt. Like always, Junkyu tosses him a look of concern, checking if he’s actually injured despite knowing better. And, like always, the action, mindless as it is, causes the butterflies in his stomach to go haywire, proving to Jihoon that he’s as good as damned for the rest of his life. 

Tickled, Jihoon teases, “You love me. You love me so much that you’re jealous, aren’t you? Never mind the fact that we both agreed that it’d be wiser to have Yoshi order it since he’d be the only one in Seoul when we went home for the break. Kim Junkyu, admit it. You love me.” 

“Well, duh?” the taller boy readily admits, pointedly avoiding eye contact as he adheres the last small star onto the ceiling. The easy admission doesn’t help with the butterflies. Then, he looks at Jihoon. Junkyu looks at Jihoon with a gaze that burns with the fire of a thousand suns, and the latter has little choice but to let himself burn. “I loved you before I realized it was love. Besides, I’m your boyfriend. You should be coming to me for stuff like that.” 

Damned. For. Life. 

“Aigoo,” the older boy ribs, pushing himself off the floor and climbing on the bed to stand next to his partner, unused stars now momentarily forgotten on the floor. “Jihoonie is sorry, ok? I didn’t mean to make you jealous, I promise.” He cups Junkyu’s cheeks with both of his hands. It feels like he’s holding the sun. “Will you forgive me if I give you a kiss?” 

In place of an answer, Junkyu pulls the shorter boy to his chest without warning, causing Jihoon to crash into the other in a rather undignified manner. The resulting force of the actions causes the two of them to fall onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, with Jihoon landing on top of the younger boy. Worried about the other bearing all his weight so suddenly, Jihoon looked up to check the other’s face for any outward sign of discomfort. 

He was, however, unprepared for how close they were to each other—they were a breath’s width away from kissing. 

Earlier, he had offered a kiss in recompense, but now, he falters, suddenly feeling shy. 

“Ya!” Jihoon exclaims, trying to pry himself off the other in an attempt to mask his sudden bout of bashfulness, “Are you okay? I’m heavy.” 

“Look at me,” Junkyu commanded as he threw an arm over Jihoon’s back, keeping him in place as he pulled the latter’s eyes towards him. There is no unease. There is no sign of distress. In spite of bearing the entirety of Jihoon’s weight, Junkyu looks like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. “Do I look like I’m complaining? Besides, you don’t seem to have that concern whenever you wrap your legs around my waist. Seems a bit silly to be concerned about that now.”

Faced with a gaze that burns, Jihoon has little choice but to melt, letting the heat overtake his body. 

With reddened cheeks, he complains, “You! What does that have to do with this?!” 

“Everything. It’s a good counter-argument, isn’t it?” Junkyu smiles, moving to nudge Jihoon’s nose with his own. “Plus, there’s no one else here. It’s just you and me. No need to be shy.” 

Blushing harder, he murmurs, burying his face into the younger boy’s neck, “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t.” Even without looking, Jihoon knew that the other was smiling; he could practically hear it. With a confident air, Junkyu states, “I know you don’t.” 

With nothing to say, Jihoon lets the conversation die, opting to snuggle further into the other as his answer. Junkyu didn’t seem too bothered by the lack of a reaction as he began drawing small circles into Jihoon’s sides. Nothing more is said; nothing more needs to be said. The both of them just lay there, impervious to the rest of the world, content as content can be. 

The sun has probably set, as evidenced by the lack of an orange hue embracing them. Outside, the night streets would probably be lit by the lampposts and traffic lights on the street, along with the artificial stars in the form of lit office windows. In this room, the stars they bought are probably already emitting a soft glow, but Jihoon can’t be bothered enough to check. Given his position, Junkyu could probably see those he stuck onto the ceiling, but Jihoon was not keen on asking him and breaking them out of this moment just yet. 

Instances like this, where Jihoon had Junkyu all to himself, were becoming rarer and rarer. University has them both in a vice grip, so Jihoon would not let this rare opportunity where he could effectively shove a middle finger at the rest of the world just pass him by.  

A beep goes off in the distance, going off thrice.

So, he savors it. He savors the way Junkyu’s heartbeat thuds steadily underneath his chest, reminding him that this is real, how he can immerse himself in the other’s scent and presence without anyone to disturb them, and how the other draws circles into his sides, each stroke underlaid with an unspoken and unspeakable devotion. He relishes it all, because he knows that once the day ends and their classes begin, he’ll be left missing Junkyu. 

He just hopes Junkyu feels the same way about this moment. 

“What’s that?” Jeongwoo asks, voice tinged with surprise.

After a while, when Jihoon thinks he could die happily like this, Junkyu speaks. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one saying that?” he grumbles. Picking his head up, he looks at the younger boy and pouts, “Between the both of us, you’re the one who falls asleep anywhere.” 

“But right now, you’re the one who looks sleepy,” the other contests as his eyes crinkle at the edges. “A sleepy puppy.” 

A weak laugh escapes him. “Well, we are under the stars. Who wouldn’t want to go to sleep?” 

“I keep forgetting you’re new,” Doyoung comments. 

“And that’s why you shouldn’t fall asleep. Not all stars are on the ceiling. We still have to stick eight on, remember?” Junkyu explains, punctuating each sentence with a poke. Jihoon playfully bats at his chest in return, prompting the other to laugh. 

Once the laughter dies down, the other boy says, tilting his head, “Then, it’s a good thing Yoshi got scammed. Like, in hindsight. If he hadn’t, then we’d have to stick ten more on.” 

A chuckle. “Well, I am. So, what does that mean?” 

“Ya!” Junkyu throws his head back, laughing again before looking back at the boy atop him, eyes twinkling. “ We got scammed. Don’t forget you paid for ten!” 

Feeling a bit cheesy, he remarks, “Ey, I already have ten. Look,” Jihoon says as he trails a finger under Junkyu’s left eye, “Here’s one.” Then, he drags the finger over Junkyu’s nose before resting it under his right eye. “And here’s the other.” 

Two eyebrows raised in surprise, but Jihoon could see the beginnings of a smile on Junkyu’s face. 

“Excuse me, who are you?” the younger boy teases. “Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” 

“It means that this item is tied to more than one memory.”

Jihoon opens his mouth to retort, but before he can, the scene stills. Then, without warning, the world around him warps. The sun outside his window sinks; the hands of the clock spin, and the dates on the calendar shift. His room, once bare-bones, is now filling itself with photos, papers, and dust, marking the rapid passage of time. 

Junkyu, whose body had been underneath him, quickly slips away from his hold and disappears into nothing, summoning a grief that lay dormant in the deepest, darkest depths of his heart. Riddled with tears and desperation, Jihoon clutches the pillow underneath him, willing it, with everything he is, to bring his lover back to him. He brings forward the memory of his scent, the sound of his heartbeat, and the feeling of Junkyu’s skin against his own and throws all of it into the void in hopes that it would meld into even an image of the bearer of his heart. 

‘Junkyu. Come on, Kim Junkyu. Junkyu,’ he repeats in his mind, trying to get the void to do as he thinks, ‘Kim Junkyu. Come out. Please.’ 

When the void remains unyielding, something in him cracks further, causing him to break down into tears into the pillow beneath him. 

‘Stupid,’ he thinks humorlessly, pushing himself up until he’s sat on his bed and leaning against his wall. When he finds the calendar on his bedside table, the one detailed with all his study plans, he feels a fresh set of tears spring to his eyes. ‘Ah, Park Jihoon, you’re so stupid.’ 

All those sleepless nights, practice problems, supplementary materials—it was all for naught. Jihoon still failed his finals. Despite all his efforts, he still fell short. And it wasn’t like he didn’t try. From the start of the semester to now, all he did was try. Even if his scores on his previous tests barely reached the cut-off to pass, he didn’t let that bother him. He continued trying. He solved every equation in the workbooks, joined multiple study groups, and consulted different books, hoping he could get a better grade on his finals. Jihoon figured that if he were to try, he might as well try his damnedest. So, he did. He gave it his all, but he still failed. Now, he doesn’t even know if he’ll pass the subject. 

‘Stupid,’ he repeats, banging his head backward on the wall, closing his eyes. ‘Stupid.’ Bang. ‘Stupid.’ Bang. ‘Stupid. ’ Ban—

Something lands on his head, bouncing off it, and then falls into his lap. When he opens his eyes and looks down, he sees one of the stars previously stuck on his ceiling. It was one of the larger ones. Months passed, so its once vivid luminescence was now weak. 

“We’re the same, huh?” he whispers to the star, picking it up with a sniff. “We’re trying. We’re trying, but—” 

A sob lodges itself in his throat before he could finish the sentence. 

Tears flow down his cheeks, but Jihoon bites his lower lip, not wanting to let any sound escape. There is no one in this room but him, yet he still can’t bring himself to admit it out loud. In his head, his failure is easy to be acquainted with as he’s spent so much time dwelling on its possibility. He couldn’t unthink it even if he wanted to, so he knew that this was just his pride talking. 

His foolish pride. 

So, he settles on the next best thing. 

Clamping down harder on his lips, Jihoon counts in his head as he tries to use the pain as an anchor to stop the tears. He tastes iron, but he persists. His lips go numb, but he pushes on. It takes time, but eventually, his sobs calm down. Nonetheless, he continues counting, thinking that when he reaches some number, his tears will dry up. 

Thus, he counts. He reaches the hundreds, the mid-hundreds, and the upper hundreds. When he’s on the brink of a thousand, his count is interrupted by a series of knocks on his door. Judging by the sound of its timidness, Jihoon could already guess who stood on the other side. 

Junkyu. 

And, as if on cue, a voice filters in through the door cracks, asking, “Jihoon? Can you open the door?” 

‘Shit,’ Jihoon thinks, feeling all the suppressed emotions hurry back to the surface as his eyes cloud. 

A weak laugh escapes him.

Even like this, all his hard work is all for naught. Hearing his boyfriend’s voice is all it took to undo all his hard work, turning him into a teary-eyed mess once more. 

Not knowing what to do, he holds onto the star tighter, wordlessly offering the choice to the other as he stares at the door, wondering if Junkyu would go or stay. He tells himself not to hope; he tells himself not to hurt. But before he can examine which would soothe his hurt more, a familiar tune echoes throughout his room and his apartment door swings open, revealing Junkyu in all his hoodie and sweatpants glory. 

“If you didn’t want me here, you would have changed your password,” his friend innocently states as he enters, taking his shoes off and setting a plastic bag on the small kitchen counter. 

Too dumbfounded to let the tears fall, Jihoon watches, idle, as Junkyu stocks his shelves, pulling their favorites out of the bag, one after the other. As the plastic bag deflates, he replays the latter’s words in his head, over and over until it makes sense. And once it did, once the realization sunk in, a warmth took hold of his chest and wound itself around his limbs, growing and growing until they reached his cheeks, blossoming with a splatter of red that dusted each side. 

‘Ah,’ he thinks, watching the tall man stock his shelf, ‘He really does love me, huh?’ 

Once done stocking and rearranging his shelves, Junkyu finally turns his gaze towards him and takes his appearance in. Jihoon has no idea what he looks like, but when he sees Junkyu’s eyes suffuse with worry, he deduces that he looks terrible. Feeling exposed, Jihoon averts his eyes, looking back at the star in his hand. 

A second later, the bed shifts; Junkyu sits beside him, not saying anything. Another beat passes, and the other boy wraps a hand around his own, covering the star from view. At the action, Jihoon gathers his courage and turns to him, wanting to ask how the other knew he’d be here, but his beau beats him to the punch, saying, “Jihoon-ah, did you know that in English, the term for a group of cats is called a clowder?” 

Given the unexpected opener, Jihoon just gapes like a fish as his tears continue to free-fall. 

“It’s a bit weird, right?” Junkyu says as he turns to Jihoon, meeting his eyes with a small smile on his face. “ Clowder. It sounds too much like a kind of soup, and we shouldn’t eat cats.” His lover looks at the empty space to his upper left as if seeing a thought bubble, humming, “If you ask me, the person who coined that word should have just used meow der. Cats meow, they don’t clow.” Satisfied with his reasoning, he nods to himself. “Now, that would have made more sense, right? Or, you know, claw der because cats have really sharp claws. I should know, I have the scars to prove it.” 

Jihoon wants to reply, recognizing what his significant other is doing, but the sob lodged in his throat prevents him from doing so. 

Junkyu, undeterred by the silence, looks back at him, smile still present. “I looked up what clow means; it’s a floodgate for a water mill. I don’t even think I’ve seen one of those.” Junkyu tilts his head and chuckles lightly, “But don’t cats hate water? I, out of all people, know that, too. Almost all too well, really. Bathtimes are always a war at home. So why use clowder, right? It’s silly.” 

As he stares at Junkyu, the affection in his chest abounds, drowning out all the pain and the hate until there’s nothing left. It is then that he wonders if it’s possible to keep discovering new reasons to love someone else. 

After a second, Junkyu gently prods him, “It’s silly, isn’t it, Jihoonie?” 

Somehow finding the strength to reply, he lets out a wet laugh as he breaks eye contact, leans against his boyfriend’s shoulder as a gesture of thanks, and says, rather vapidly, “Yeah, silly.” 

His tears, once born from sadness and contempt, now stem from a mix of happiness, gratitude, and relief. That, to him, makes all the difference. So, he continues to lean against Junkyu’s shoulder, listening as the latter talks about anything and everything under the sun, chasing away the voices in his head until all he hears is Junkyu. 

He’s missed this. 

Suddenly, a phone buzzes. It’s Junkyu’s. 

“Ah, wait,” he says as he reaches for his phone, unlocking it in front of them. 

Junkyu makes no move to hide his notifications, so Jihoon glances at them, too. When he sees the amount, he passively wonders if he should remind Junkyu to check more often. There are email notifications from his classes and professors, group chats from his groupmates and friend groups, and a private message from Kang Haein. 

Kang Haein. 

When Jihoon read the name, all he could do was inhale. Feeling his reaction, Junkyu stiffened ever so slightly, no doubt deducting the cause for why. 

They’ve argued about this person before. They’ve argued about this person repeatedly. Jihoon still does not, under any circumstance, like Kang Haein. But, as he is already beyond exhausted, he pivots and focuses on a different notification entirely, not having it in him to pick a fight. 

“What’s that? Why do you have a delivery notification?” 

Relaxing ever so slightly, Junkyu answers, “I ordered us chicken and Jjajangmyeon before I went here. I had a feeling that you hadn’t and wouldn’t eat.” 

“You know me so well,” he comments with a light laugh, feeling his tears dry up. 

Sliding the delivery notification open, Junkyu quips, “It’d be weirder if I didn’t.” 

Jihoon replies with a laugh and looks back at the star wrapped between their hands, one that’s fallen and whose light has faded over time. He supposes that really, in the end, it doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it had fallen; he could just stick it back on the wall. What mattered is that despite it all, the star still glows. 

Then, Jihoon’s doorbell rings. 

“I’ll go get our food,” Junkyu says, knocking his head against Jihoon’s forehead and untangling their hands before standing up and heading towards the door. 

While watching Junkyu, a single thought enters Jihoon’s head as he traces his fingers over the star. 

To Jihoon, the star glowed just enough. 

‘And to Junkyu, maybe I’m enough.’ He thinks with a smile, ‘Maybe, that’s enough.’ 

His best friend and lover opens the door, allowing the bright lights to come in. The lights turn brighter and brighter as he talks to the food delivery driver, and eventually the light turns off, transporting him back to the clinic. 

“Did you say something, Mr. Park?” Doyoung asks, offering a box of tissues. By reflex, he takes one, shaking off the feeling that the entire exchange felt like some déjà vu. Oddly enough, compared to earlier, there is no heaviness weighing on his chest; instead, there is a lightness; there is a warmth. 

In the end, he didn’t fail that class. Their professor had given them more projects to pull their grades up. If he chose to forget, would he forget learning to take his failures in stride? If he decided to erase his memories, would the comfort of leaning on another in his most vulnerable moments be lost to him, too? 

“It’s just you and me.”

More terrifyingly, will Jihoon lose the feeling of being loved? 

Will he, within a few hours, willingly give up the memory of holding his sun in his hands and basking in his glow?

Wiping his tears, he shakes his head, “No. I don’t…” He trails off, feeling oddly calm as he talks through the oxygen mask, “I don’t remember talking.” 

In the background, he hears the doctor and the other intern checking on his vitals and switching the items in the scanner box out. At present, they were three items down, with two more to go. Try as he might not to think or anticipate, he can’t help it. After this, it was either the film or the Chocobi snack. Numerous memories are linked to the latter, but there’s only one significant memory linked to the former. He doesn’t know which he prefers—knowing or not knowing. 

“I see,” the intern begins. “Do you feel any pain?”

“No need to be shy.”

“No,” he answers, closing his eyes and thinking of glow-in-the-dark stars. “No head pain or body pain.”

“That’s good,” Intern Kim remarks, tone satisfied. “Then, do you have any questions?” 

‘What if I’m not sure if I want to forget anymore?’ 

“No, you don’t.”

Feeling a familiar sting in the back of his eyes, Jihoon pushes the thought away, voicing out a different question. “What if the memory I think of and the actual strongest memory tied to it are one and the same?” 

“I know you don’t.”

It takes Doyoung a moment. Eventually, he answers, “The memory will just come quicker to you. Don’t fight it; that’s what usually causes migraines.” 

With the sensation of Junkyu slipping away from him mid-transition between memories fresh in his mind, he asks the other, voice barely above a whisper, “Do you think you fought against it?” Catching himself, Jihoon hurriedly tacks on, “Remembering certain memories, I mean?” 

“I’d like to think I didn’t,” he says, words enmeshed with a touch of sorrow, “but I probably did. The doctor who did my procedure made an offhand remark about needing certain medicines for me; some were pain relievers.” With a deceptive smile, Doyoung comments, “We both know Advil doesn’t work with heartaches.” 

That pulls a laugh from him. “Wouldn’t life be so much easier if it did?” 

“What kind of conversation is that?” Jeongwoo cuts in from his station, back turned to them as he closes the door to the box. 

“A polite one.” Intern Kim turns to look at his co-intern, facing away from Jihoon. There’s a tension lining the other’s shoulders, as though he was bracing himself. “But humor us, Jeongwoo. Don’t you think it’d be easier? Numbing the pain of heartache with a pill?” 

Jihoon gets the feeling that there are three conversations being had. One is known to everyone, one is known to Doyoung, and one is known to Jeongwoo. He wonders if any of them converge at any point. He supposes that maybe none do. 

Amid it, he hears Junkyu playing the piano in the back of his mind. 

“Easier, yes, but it negates the purpose of learning, doesn’t it?” A click resounds in the room. Jihoon figures it was the box’s lock. “To hurt, to learn, to be better—that’s life. That’s the pain of existing.” Jeongwoo tosses a glance towards Doyoung. “We all just look for someone who makes it worth our while.” 

“It’s silly, isn’t it, Jihoonie?” 

Somehow, Jihoon finds himself thankful for his oxygen mask. 

“Well, I’ll be,” Dr. Kim deadpanned as he typed. “I didn’t know I had aspiring philosophers instead of aspiring neurologists or neuroscientists. Intern Kim and Intern Park, to your tasks, please.” 

Cowed, the two interns promptly apologize in duet before returning to their tasks. Doyoung fiddles with the settings and wires on Jihoon’s chair while Jeongwoo returns his attention to the scanner box. 

Looking at him, the doctor asks, unfazed, “Mr. Park, do you wish to continue?” 

Wanting to get away from the tension, he readily answers, “Anytime you guys are ready, I’m ready too.” 

“Intern Park?” 

With his back turned, Jeongwoo answers, tone clipped, “All set.” 

“Intern Kim?” 

After a breath, the other intern answers softly. “Everything’s good on this end, too.” 

The doctor hums and adds nothing else, proceeding to type something from where he’s perched. Nothing could be heard except for the clicks and clacks of the key and the mouse. After reviewing whatever the screen reflected, the doctor clicks on a key with an air of finality, satisfied with what he’s seen. 

Without looking up from his screen, Dr. Kim commands, “Mr. Park, begin counting down for me.” 

Taking a deep breath, he says aloud as the black lines begin to appear, swirling into each other until they form blobs, “Ten.” 

As his lips form the shape of the syllables of the next number, he suddenly feels his nerves skyrocket at the thought of what he was about to do. 

Earlier that week, he had confided in Hyunsuk, telling him he planned on confessing to his best friend. Jihoon had said that he needed to confess lest he explode from the sheer magnitude of butterflies that rushed to life whenever the other sent a smile in his direction. He had, after all, no interest in becoming a garden despite his last name. Hyunsuk had laughed, like he always did, and said that if the younger boy found it hard, then some liquid courage might help, legal drinking age be damned. 

Jihoon, none the wiser, had taken the advice to heart and had somehow convinced his best friend to rope his older brother in it to buy them alcohol. All things considered, Jihoon had expected Junkyu’s older brother to refuse, but to his surprise, the older brother had agreed and bought them eleven bottles of beer. So, he took that as a sign to push through with his confession. 

Now, they are in Junkyu’s room on the first weekend of summer vacation, watching a movie whose title Jihoon had blurted out without thinking when his best friend asked him what he wanted to watch. As the film progressed, the two went through trays of take-out, bags of chips, and not-so-legally-acquired bottles of beer. Of the eleven, Jihoon had downed nine. 

Park Jihoon, who found out he was lightweight courtesy of his biological older brother, had drunk nine bottles of beer with nothing to show for it. There was no buzz. There was no sudden bout of bravery. Instead, he feels his nerves like never before, rushing to his fingertips with a zing as his heart goes boom, boom, boom. 

Boom, boom, boom, his heart goes as they sit elbow to elbow and knee to knee, as though the word ‘space’ didn’t exist in their vocabulary. 

The logical part of him says that the lack of space is due to two reasons. The first is that they were watching the movie via Junkyu’s desktop monitor, which barely passed the requirement of being large enough for the subtitles to be comfortably readable. The second is that the two of them sat on Junkyu’s twin-sized bed; when they were kids, it was comfortable; now that they are teens, not so much. So, logically, he knows that he shouldn’t read into how Junkyu’s knees would brush against his or how the other would lean into his space ever so slightly. 

His heart, however, tells him there is no harm in hoping. 

A scream pulls his attention away from his thoughts, urging him to pay attention to what’s currently happening in the film. 

Onscreen, he sees the main character, Hodaka, running. He’s running on train tracks despite the calls for him not to. He runs and runs and runs with all that he is as his mind conjures up memories of Hina, the sunshine girl. Jihoon knows that Hodaka isn’t even sure where Hina is, but nonetheless, the boy runs. Around him, the people tell him it’s dangerous but most just watch. 

Jihoon wonders if Hodaka mesmerizes those characters, because he knows he is. How many can say that they ran towards the person that gave them a reason to think that the world wasn’t so cruel? Towards the person that gave them a space to be and to belong? 

Most importantly, Jihoon wonders if the other characters somehow envy Hodaka for doing so, because he knows he does. 

Stealing a glance at Junkyu, Jihoon wonders if he could bring himself to do the same as his heart goes boom, boom, boom. 

“Ya, don’t think I don’t see you looking at me,” Junkyu says offhandedly and without tearing his eyes away from the screen. It takes everything in Jihoon not to flinch. “You suggested this movie, but you’re not even watching it. I thought you wanted to watch this.” 

‘Because I want to run to you,’ he thinks. 

“I just wanted to see your reactions,” he reasons, redirecting his attention back to the movie. “I told you, right? I’ve seen this before. In the cinemas, even.” 

“It’s bad to lie, you know?” Turning to him with a badly contained smile, his best friend teases, “The way you’re reacting makes it seem like it’s your first time. You keep fidgeting and gasping.” 

A smile tugs on his lips, but the older boy makes a show of acting affronted, saying, “Ey, now you’re spouting off baseless accusations while not paying attention to the movie! Ha! Pot, meet kettle!” 

He gets a pillow to the face as a result. 

Jihoon ends up with the giggles. He doesn’t need to peek to know that Junkyu has a smile on his face, too. 

When Jihoon’s giggling settles down, Hodaka finds himself surrounded and held at gunpoint while wielding a gun himself. The shaking of his hands betrayed his naïveté, but his eyes burned bright. In Hodaka’s eyes shone the determination and desperation of someone willing to do anything to see their love for even one last time. Come hell or high water, it didn’t matter—Hodaka would still run towards Hina. 

It’s foolhardy. It’s reckless. It’s beautiful. 

It’s all those three in a way that only the youth can afford to be. 

Boom, boom, boom, his heart sings, pushing him to gulp his nerves down and open his mouth. 

“Jun–” 

“Woah, everything’s happening so fast,” Junkyu comments, unknowingly cutting him off. “We’re close to the climax, aren’t we? This feels like the climax. You’ve watched this before, right? Give me a hint,” he says as he turns to Jihoon. When he sees the older boy’s mouth hanging open, Junkyu’s eyebrows knit together. “Were you saying something? Did I talk over you?” 

He figures he’ll just blame his flush on the alcohol; it didn’t give him courage, so he might as well use it as an excuse if the other asks. The least it can do is offer a way out. 

Forcing out a laugh, Jihoon shifts gears. “Ha. Ha ha. No. I’m… I’m just amazed that you can tell. Are you sure you haven’t seen this before? You seem to know it’s the climax.” 

“Now you’re accusing me? Not very fair of you,” Junkyu ribs back, eyes twinkling. 

Crossing his arms over one another, he quips, “Using my own tricks against me? How low of you.” 

Junkyu laughs. “Ah, you’re so annoying.”  

“If I’m so annoying, then pay attention to the movie!” 

“I’m trying!”

“Try harder!” 

Junkyu snorted and that was that.  

And so, the two redirected their attention to the monitor, now displaying an expanse of gray. The looming sound of thunder rolls in, accompanied by a howl-like cry as the clouds around Hodaka twist and move, forming what seems to be a giant dragon-like cloud. Not wasting a second, one eats him, prompting a school of fish-shaped water spirits to come at him and push him down until he’s ejected from the belly of the beast and is reacquainted with an endless blue sky. 

With awe in his voice, Junkyu asks, “What was that?” 

“Who knows?” 

A twinkling sound echoes.

Then, Hodaka screams Hina’s name against the sky, hoping for a reply. He yells and yells and yells, and, as though her name leads him to her, eventually spots the unconscious girl lying atop a floating sky island, being swarmed by the sky fish. He yells again, and by some stroke of luck, his voice reaches her, causing the fish to disperse and stirring her awake from her deep slumber. 

When she wakes and sees Hodaka floating mid-air, a mixture of emotions is reflected on her face—shock, disbelief, and hope all rolled into one expression. It tugs at Jihoon’s heart. Who knows how many times he expressed the same thing? 

He calls her, and she does the same, getting up to rush to him despite the sky fish trying to stop their union from happening. This time, it’s her who runs. Hina runs to him while reaching out for him, trying to grasp his hand in hers but failing. Eventually, the two reach the edge of the sky island. Seeing that, Hodaka lets out a desperate plea, asking Hina to jump. 

And she does, no questions asked. 

“She’s kind of like you,” Junkyu states in a volume barely above a whisper, like he couldn’t believe it either. 

Jihoon wasn’t sure if it was something he should have heard. He knows he should glance at his friend to check and knows that if Junkyu was looking at him, then it was something that the latter spoke into existence on purpose. But, his heart is suddenly lodged in his throat. 

Boom, boom, boom, his heart thumps, trying to instill in him a courage that the alcohol failed to provide. 

Swallowing his nerves, he asks, trying to appear nonchalant, “What do you mean?” 

“Remember when I asked you to run away with me?” 

“Don’t let go of my hands.” 

Boom. 

Boom. 

Boom. 

“Okay.”

“How can I forget?” 

Onscreen, the two fall. Hina and Hodaka fall headfirst through the heavens, but neither seem to mind. They were together; they held onto each other. To them, that’s all that mattered. 

“You went along with it, too.” A fond note in his voice prompts Jihoon to look at him. “We had just turned thirteen with only enough money in our pockets for the bus and ice cream, but when I asked,” he pauses and laughs, eyes holding a faraway look as though recalling the memory. “You held my hand without hesitating and asked where I wanted to go.” 

“That was the first time I thought that I belonged; that I belonged somewhere; that I belonged with you. You held onto my hand and declared that you’d follow me anywhere.” Junkyu turns to look at him with a softness Jihoon doesn’t usually see. “To this day, it’s one of the memories I cherish the most.” 

At Junkyu’s declaration, an unexplainable warmth settles in his abdomen, leaving him breathless. In the background, the two characters call each other’s name once more. 

“And to this day, you’re still the person I cherish the most.” 

His vision blurs as the warmth continues to spread. 

With a hand to his cheek, Junkyu asks, “Jihoon-ah, can you forgive me?” 

Shakily, he asks, “What for?”

  “Hina, let’s go home!” 

“You made me promise to stay by your side forever as your best friend.” 

“But if I do, the weather will—”

“Are you breaking it?” 

“It’s okay.” 

“Only because I’ve become greedier. I… I want more.”  

“That’s enough! Hina, you’re not a Sunshine Girl anymore.” 

Thunder and lightning simultaneously strike in his film, illuminating the room as it did with Hina’s face. Jihoon knows that it’s impossible to actually be struck by it at this moment, but he feels the same sweet shock coursing through his veins. It doesn’t feel real, but oh, it is. 

Boom, boom, boom, his heart screams, telling him that it isn’t wrong to want, too. 

He smiles despite the rain falling on his cheeks. 

Junkyu wastes no second in returning it. 

“Who cares if we don’t see the sunshine again? I want you more than any blue sky. ” 

“Jihoon, can I kiss you?” 

“The weather…” 

Unable to say anything, Jihoon just closes his eyes and nods, prompting the other to close the distance between them until it ceases to exist—until he’s consumed entirely by Junkyu. 

“Can stay crazy!”

And when their lips touch, his heart goes haywire, telling him that yes, this is what feels to become infinite. 

Then, in a second, the blinding lights shine on his face, pulling from the memory without warning. The scent of antiseptic hits his nose, immediately erasing any trace of Junkyu that lingered on him, and he’s helpless, unable to do anything to prevent it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from feeling hoodwinked by the phantom sensation of a kiss that now seems unreal. 

In a blink, the lights are turned off and he hears the hustle and bustle taking place in the room. 

“Considering the state of your vitals, this is the calmest you’ve been,” a deep voice notes. Jihoon recognizes it as Intern Park’s. “But, looking at your face, I wonder if that’s the case. Was it a good memory?” 

“It was al–”

“It’s bad to lie, you know?”

Suddenly, Jihoon feels a bit sick. 

They hadn’t known anything back then. They were young. Younger. Greener. More selfish. More honest. Jihoon was clumsy where Junkyu had been sure, but even then, they were happier, too.

And it bothers him that he doesn’t want to forget that. 

That he doesn’t want to forget anything. 

“It was a good movie,” he offers as consolation, not finding it in himself to lie. Not this time. Not with this memory. 

Was it a good memory? Truth be told, it was almost too good of a memory, really. If it were possible, he’d ask them to replay that memory again and again (and again and again) so he could pore over every detail, every movement made, every look exchanged, and every syllable spoken until he could run that memory forwards and backward, over and over until it comes undone—until he, himself comes undone. 

It’s good in one sense. 

It’s poisonous in another.

“Ah,” the intern replies, sounding out of depth because of the unexpected response. Fidgeting, he stutters, “I-I see.” 

Then, before either of them could formulate something to say, the other intern swoops in with an easy laugh, pulling their attention towards him. To Jihoon, it’s evident that the other hadn’t thought much before acting, intervening as though it was second nature to compensate where the other faltered. Curious, he throws a glance towards the taller intern. 

“No wonder the cover looked familiar,” Doyoung comments, adjusting Jihoon’s seat with a press of a button. “I remember seeing posters of it around.” 

A look at Intern Park is all it takes to confirm that, yes, even this is akin to the ghost of a piano piece that the shorter intern does not and cannot recall ever learning. As it is, ‘desolation’ would be too underwhelming to describe how the former’s face looks while gazing at Doyoung, but he understands it. At some point, words fail to capture how grieving someone who still lives feels like; they exist, but just not in your world; they exist, yet you know, with the sharp sting of reality, that you cannot coexist. Not anymore. Not like before.

“Jihoon-ah, can you forgive me?” 

Feeling chastised by the echo of Junkyu’s voice, Jihoon forcibly looks away, giving the other intern his attention. Curiouser, he asks, “Did you watch it?” 

That gives Doyoung pause. For a moment, it was like no one dared to breathe. 

A beat later, he answers, looking down at the wires. “Maybe? I can’t recall for sure, but something feels familiar about it.” 

Somehow, Jihoon can’t bring himself to throw a cursory peek at the taller intern. Something tells him it would be like looking into a mirror, and he can’t deal with that right now. Even hearing Doyoung say that fills him with trepidation that burrows into his heart and winds itself around his being. 

Would Jihoon, like the intern, be haunted by the shadows of familiarity? Would he visit certain places, see certain things, hear certain songs, and know that they meant the world to him at one point but not know why? Would Jihoon be able to stay away and live knowing that he can’t know? Could he? Could he look at the mirror and be content with the thought that there has been a version of him that he doesn’t know? 

A voice cuts into the silence. 

“Do all three of you need a break?” The doctor speaks, making Jihoon look at him from where he stands at a distance. Dr. Kim’s eyes possessed a knowing gleam as he observed them all, pausing in his typing. “We can take five. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“I’ll load the last item,” Intern Park states, turning around, tone neutral. 

To Jihoon, nothing was amiss. In another time, he might have even called the man callous. Intern Kim, on the other hand, evinced an appearance of concern as his eyes trail after the taller boy’s back. 

“Mr. Park?” The doctor asks, forcing Jihoon to look at him. Something in the doctor’s gaze pins him into place as though it cautions him against digging further. 

He gulps. “Yes?” 

“Are you okay with proceeding to the last memory?”

“Yes.” 

Maintaining eye contact, the doctor explains, “A word of caution. At this point, you have an idea of what the last item is, so if memories come rushing at you, try not to fight it. It’ll feel like a battery of memories without giving you any room to breathe, but just let it happen. Usually, the order goes from the most recent memory involving it to the core memory it’s tied to. Intern Kim explained earlier that this causes headaches for some patients. You might experience those as well. However, if we notice your vitals spiking alarmingly, we will pull you out of the memory. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” he answers, practically chasing the word out as he feels a sudden downswing at the bottom of his stomach. 

With a nod, Dr. Kim turns back to his computer screen. “Intern Park? How’s our scanner box?” 

A click echoes in the room. “Last item’s loaded. It’s all systems go.” 

“Intern Kim, turn the lights on and proceed to your station, please.” 

Nodding, the shorter intern pulls away from Jihoon’s side as he flips a switch, “Yes, doctor.” 

“Mr. Park,” the doctor begins as Jihoon stares at the blinding lights again, “Begin counting down for me.” 

“Ten,” Jihoon counts, handing Junkyu the papers he’s photocopied. “You asked for ten copies, right?” Coughing into his sleeve so as to not expose the other students, he comments, “You’re lucky my printer was working.” 

The taller boy’s brows knit together as he grabs the stack of papers. “Your printer? Why didn’t you use the one at the library? I said I would pay you.” 

“It’s fine,” he answers as he waves his now free hand, sniffing. “I was at my apartment anyway.” 

“Don’t you have class?” Before Jihoon could answer, Junkyu pieces everything together. “You got worse, didn’t you?” The exasperation in his tone causes a few curious stares to look their way. “Aigoo, Jihoon-ah, this is why I told you to take your vitamins. Look, you got sick.” 

He rolls his eyes in response, trying not to let the stares get to him. “What are you, my mom? I know, geez. I already took anti-allergy meds.” 

“Still, you should have told me you were sick. I wouldn’t have bothered you then.” 

Feeling oddly defeated, he answers, “But I’m your boyfriend, right? I should be able to do this much.” 

Junkyu opens his mouth to reply, but before he could, a new voice chimes in. 

“Kim Junkyu, there you are! Hurry up! We’ll be late for our next class!” Kang Haein says as he jogs up to the couple. Then, without even sparing Jihoon a glance, he hands Junkyu a familiar green hexagonal box. “I even got you your favorite snack so you can’t complain of being hungry.” 

An ugly feeling roars in his chest. 

“Ah, thanks,” Junkyu murmurs as he uses his other hand to take the snack, throwing a look towards Jihoon’s way. 

Following Junkyu’s stare, Haein turns his attention towards Jihoon, and an unreadable look flashes on his face. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t really notice you there, Jihoonie, but don’t worry! We’re not really about to be that late. I was really just messing with him.” Making a show of checking his watch, he adds on, “Really, you two can take your time.” 

‘Bullshit,’ he thinks, feeling a new headache come on. Part of him wants to snap at the other boy and say he has no right to call him by a nickname, but he holds himself back and smiles. Judging by Junkyu’s wince, it wasn’t a pleasant one. 

“Jihoon was just on his way back to his apartment,” Junkyu answered in his stead. “He has allergies, so he should be getting some rest.” 

Haein shakes his head as he clicks his tongue. “And you asked him for a favor? Some kind of boyfriend you are. You should have just told me. That way, we wouldn’t have disturbed a sick person.” 

Sick or not, Jihoon can clock a patronizing tone. “No worries, it’s really not that bad. Junkyu’s just being a worrywart, but since he and I both know that worrying won’t do him any good, I’ll be heading back.” Sending a look towards Junkyu, he adds, “You better buy me soup after.” 

Softly tapping his head with the stack of photocopies, Junkyu chuckles. “I’ll buy an entire pot’s worth.” 

Jihoon opens his mouth to reply, but then the scene shifts; the colors mesh together, bleeding into each other until it blends into one endless black void. Before he can collect himself, his environment bursts into color, filling the space with shapes and lines until it all looks familiar as he lifts up two large bottles from a grocery store shelf. 

After placing the two large pump bottles in the cart, Jihoon strikes another item off their grocery list, humming to the melody of The First Snow as it plays overhead. There were a few more days until Christmas, but Junkyu’s mom had given them their gift early—a grocery run on her. Initially, Auntie had been apprehensive about it, but when she saw how the two college students looked at her like she was a godsend, she smiled, relieved. Jihoon nearly cried truth be told. 

“Alright. That’s your shampoo and conditioner,” Jihoon says, turning around, expecting his boyfriend to be pushing their cart, but he was nowhere to be found. 

Confused, he hurriedly checked his phone in case the other had sent a message, but there were no new notifications. Frowning, he opens his contacts and scrolls until he lands on Junkyu’s, presses it, and waits for the call to connect. The other’s phone rang, but there was no answer. 

As he debates the pros and cons of looking for Junkyu among the aisles, a voice calls out, “Jihoon-ah, look at what I found!” 

Turning around, he spots his boyfriend peeking from behind two boxes of chocobi, smiling as wide as he can. 

Laughing, he pushes the cart to meet Junkyu halfway before going to help him by taking one box. “What’s this? I don’t think this is what your mom had in mind when she said she’d pay for our groceries. That is like three months’ worth of chocobi.” 

As Junkyu squats and places the box on the rack below the cart, he shares, “Food is food, isn’t it?” Standing up, he grabs the box Jihoon took and crouches again, trying to get the two boxes to fit on the rack. “When we get married, I’ll still buy chocobi, and you can’t stop me.” 

It takes Jihoon a few seconds to process the statement, but when he does, he feels his face go aflame and his heart go crazy. Holding back a smile, he leans against the cart. “Even when you’re old and gray and diabetic with shitty eyesight?” 

Laughing, Junkyu looks at him and narrows his eyes playfully. “Who says I’ll be diabetic? I won’t be! I’ll be healthy and live a long, long life. You have no choice but to live that out with me.” 

“Notice how you didn’t deny having shitty eyesight.” 

He sees Junkyu open his mouth, no doubt to fire off a wisecrack against him, but the scene morphs again. Instead of looking down at Junkyu, Jihoon looks at the boy across from him. Junkyu sits on the seat in front of Jihoon’s desk and taps away on his phone, playing yet another rhythm game during their lunchtime. The two high schoolers had already eaten their lunches and were now munching on chocobi.

Bored, Jihoon tosses up a piece of chocobi and catches it with his mouth. As he chews, he announces, “I’m going to learn pilates.” 

Without taking his eyes off his game, Junkyu hums, “That’s nice.” 

Raising an eyebrow, he tests whether Junkyu is listening to him. Placing another biscuit in his mouth, he says, “I figured I could use the exercise, you know?” 

The gamer just hums as Jihoon chews, tapping away in rapid succession. 

Smiling, Jihoon reaches for more biscuits. “I have to look cute when I confess to Hyunsuk hyung, after all.” 

Junkyu drops his phone onto the desk and lets out a cuss as Jihoon laughs. 

“What did you say?!” The other exclaims in disbelief as he exits the game, eyes wide, “You like Hyunsuk— Choi Hyunsuk ?” 

Feeling oddly defensive, he crosses his arms over his chest with a laugh, “And what’s so wrong if I did? He’s not unattractive! He’s kind, always smiling, good at soccer, cute, and loves fashion!”

Blinking, Junkyu questions, “Is that your ideal type or something?”

Giggling, he places another piece in his mouth. “Nah. I was just messing with you. I didn’t know if you were actually listening.” 

“Ey,” the other boy grumbles as he pulls the chocobi box towards him. “That’s it. I’m revoking your chocobi privileges. You made me lose a round.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but the scene changes again, pulling the colors away until everything is uniformly black. When he exhales, it is only then that he realizes that this is what the doctor and Intern Kim had meant when they described how the last item would evoke a battery of memories. 

Three memories had gone by in the blink of an eye without even giving him room to pause, and it is only now that he realizes that of those three, he had forgotten the last two even happened. Gripped with a sudden bout of agony, he turns around, trying to look for any trace of those memories despite knowing that there wouldn’t be any. 

Anguished, Jihoon screams, “Please! Just let me relive those one more time!” With tears springing to his eyes, he begs, “Just one more time! Junkyu, please!” 

“Shouldn’t we pull him out now, doc?” Intern Park asks.

“Jihoon-ah!” 

Hearing a familiar voice, he spins around as his tears fall, looking for its source. 

“Not yet.” The doctor answers. “That spike still falls under normal.” 

“Jihoon-ah, look!”  

He spins again and a childish giggle echoes in the space. 

“Silly, don’t look at me , look at this!” 

Suddenly, the world around him explodes in color and extends upwards, making everything around him appear taller. Confused, he tries to turn his head but is terrified by the discovery that he cannot control his body as it forces him to look down at the bowl of ice cream his friend had extended towards him. In the bowl, a small plastic spoon shoved into a scoop of mint chocolate-flavored ice cream with chocobi sprinkled on its surface. 

Without hesitation, he takes the bowl and asks, “Did you make me this?” 

Jihoon looks up at his friend just in time to see the other boy nod. “I wanted to make it taste better for you! I thought hard about it.” 

Smiling, he takes the plastic spoon and scoops up a bite. “Have you tasted it?” 

Junkyu shakes his head. “I didn’t. I missed your tenth birthday party because I was sick, so I wanted you to be the first to taste this.” 

“It’s not your fault for being sick!” He says in defense of his friend to his friend as he shoves the spoon into his mouth. 

It’s the most delicious thing he’s tasted in his ten years of living. 

When he tells his friend so, Junkyu smiles so brightly that Jihoon picks up his ice cream-eating pace lest it melts from the other’s smile. After he swallows, he opens his mouth to get his friend to swear not to tell that to his own mom, but the scene pauses. 

Unlike the previous memories, the scene transforms slowly as though taking its time, painstakingly building up the next memory line by line. When Jihoon turns to look where Junkyu once stood, his friend is, once again, gone. He looks down at his hands, to see if the ice cream bowl was still there, but it, too, is nowhere to be seen. 

Then, just as the memory finishes outlining what Jihoon recognizes to be his childhood bedroom and just as it dawns on him that this is the memory he’s longed to remember, he hears his mom call out for him as he flicks through his latest copy of One Piece.

“Jihoon! Come down! Eomma wants you to meet someone!” 

“Ok!” He replies as he runs down the hall, rushing past his parents’ and brother’s room. 

“Ya!” His mom yells again. “What did I say about running?! I can hear you run, Park Jihoon!” 

Cackling, he screams back as he heads down the stairs one step at a time, exceedingly slowly, “I’m sorry!” 

When he jumps onto the last step much to the frustration of his mom, his eyes land on another woman who looks about the same age as his own mom. Pouting, he cries out with all the dramatics he could muster, “But this is someone your age, eomma! We can’t bond over neighborhood gossip—you say that’s bad!” 

The guest laughs as Jihoon’s mother pinches the bridge of her own nose. Despite feeling somehow proud of himself, Jihoon braces for a scolding. However, that soon proves to be unneeded as his mom’s friend lets out a laugh and reaches behind her. 

“See, Junkyu, Jihoonie here couldn’t see you because you were hiding.” 

Then, a boy who looks about his age with the coolest hair steps out from behind his mom’s guest, holding a green box, not daring to meet Jihoon’s eyes. 

Unable to help himself, he steps forward as he asks, pointing at the box, “What’s that?” 

Even without checking, Jihoon knew that both the adults were, as his brother would put it, holding their breaths. His hyung says that’s when adults suddenly go quiet around them, and both his mom and her guest did suddenly go quiet. The other boy seems to feel that too, because he inhales and prepares himself to meet Jihoon’s eyes. 

When their eyes did meet, Jihoon couldn’t help but think that the other boy looked like a koala, hair and all. 

“It’s my favorite snack,” the other boy answers, suddenly pushing the box into Jihoon’s arms. Jihoon thinks that this is like one of those peace offerings his dad would give his mom. “Wanna share?” 

Jihoon tilts his head, “But you just gave it to me?” 

The boy’s ears turn red. “We can still share!” 

Feeling a bit mischievous, Jihoon teases, “I don’t know your name though? Eomma says you shouldn’t take candy from strangers.”

The other boy pouts. “My mom already said my name and,” he trails off, looking back at the ground, “That’s not candy. It’s biscuits.” 

And oh, Jihoon feels his mom’s glare on him. Shuffling the box onto one hand, he extends the other, introducing himself, “I’m Park Jihoon. I’ve never had this snack before, so I hope it’s yummy.” 

The boy shyly peeks at him as he shakes the extended hand. “I’m Kim Junkyu.” With a bit more confidence, Junkyu meets Jihoon’s eyes and declares, “It’s the yummiest!” 

Kim Junkyu. 

“Kim Junkyu,” he says, testing the name out on his tongue. Jihoon decides that he likes it. So, with a bright smile, he greets the other once more. “It’s nice to meet you, Kim Junkyu!” 

“Wait!”