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the world, he says, voice very funny and far away, loved me and lingered, until one day, it didn’t.
yoongi sits in a room that slowly fills with water. this is what depression is, his mind thinks. he tells it to shut up. he doesn’t have depression; he’s just in a room that slowly fills with water. the water right now laps at his knees when he sits cross-legged. it soaks into his underwear and his jeans. he dips a finger into it; saltwater. a saltwater room with a saltwater view for a saltwater new. or a saltwater old? how long has the room been filling? yoongi doesn’t know, but his room has white walls and it rains saltwater sometimes. it rains saltwater most times.
he will tell you in a way that you can understand. depression cannot be — put into words, so to speak. so he will explain.
imagine you have ten bars in the top right hand corner of your vision. ten little bars, they could be anything. yoongi’s look like cds. each little cd tells you how much energy you have for the day. getting out of bed takes three cds. showering takes two. you’ve just started your day and you’ve only got five cds left.
what do you do? yoongi wants to fulfil all his responsibilities today.
do your college work. that takes four cds.
go to class. eight cds.
stay at home. one cd.
yoongi stays at home.
make dinner. three cds.
wash dishes. two cds.
shower again. two cds.
brush your teeth. one cd.
do you see?
there’s not enough cds in a day, there’s not enough cds in a week. that is depression. there’s not enough cds in a month to do all the things you need to do in a day that is why it rains saltwater in yoongi’s room, that is why there’s water piling up.
depression, he says, is like a sink overflowing in your bathroom. you can’t stop it, and the mess only spreads. depression is the plumber called john who laughs at your overflowing sink and doesn’t do anything about it. instead he sits on your sofa and calls you names.
stop it john, yoongi says, tiredly.
stop it john, the man parrots back, and throws a half-eaten burrito at his head. you invited me here, didn’t you?
but some days, yoongi wakes up with additional cds. and he gets things done. he goes to college. he makes food. he meets people. he messages namjoon and tells him he’s still alive. and some days, he wakes up with less cds. those are the days getting out of bed lands him in a deficit so he does not.
today is a — yoongi looks at the rain and gauges the wind. today is an average day.
yoongi will go to class.
there is a man called namjoon who has eyes like candy apples. they shine so bright yoongi nearly blinds himself looking at him. kim namjoon is someone who — yoongi — yoongi doesn’t know. but he treasures him very, very dearly, as dearly as one can with not enough cds.
namjoon lets himself in with the key he stole from yoongi and says, “time to clean up!”
it’s not a good day today. it’s storming in yoongi’s room. namjoon looks at him without pity. “how’s the weather?” he asks.
“there’s a gale in my head,” replies yoongi.
“that’s too bad,” says namjoon. “come on now. will you get me a plastic bag?”
and namjoon is a cd player for yoongi’s cds. yoongi gets up from his bed like the heavens itself weigh him down, the burdens of every human sin on his shoulders, and fetches him the plastic bag from the inside of the cupboard. he helps namjoon put the trash into the plastic bag and namjoon throws it out before yoongi sinks to the floor and holds his head in his hands.
here is when some people will ask why.
why are you like this?
what’s bothering you?
what is hurting you?
yoongi will tell you that too. what is hurting him is himself, the very systems designed to protect him have turned against him. he wages a civil war against his own head, against his own heart, and if he should die tonight know he went a hero. that he tried his very best in a very one-sided battle. that whatever he has is not to be desired, it’s not to be romanticised and made seem desirable by people with blogs of white and black and minimalism — his own war destroys himself from the inside out. his own war has robbed him of his identity.
namjoon sits down next to him. he says, “the sun will come out tomorrow,” in a little sing-song voice. “the sun will come out tomorrow!”
yoongi wants to believe him, he really does, but he hasn’t seen the sun in a long, long time.
namjoon shrugs when he tells him this. “doesn’t matter if you haven’t seen it,” he says, seriously. “the sun is a constant. it’s going to be there.”
yoongi wants to know when because he’s tired of not having enough cds and he’s tired of not being able to pick up his own trash or do the laundry or shower and he’s so, so tired of being tired.
namjoon lets yoongi lean on him. “hyung,” he says, so softly yoongi nearly misses it. “the sun will come out tomorrow.”
the sun doesn’t come out tomorrow, but it’s a drizzle not a gale. this time yoongi does his own laundry and washes the dishes, before he retreats into his bed and sleeps the night away. his own moods are as fickle as the weather and more mercurial than the element of which it is named.
his therapist asks him, “so how do you feel?”
yoongi says, “like the sea has come to play.”
the therapist jots this down on his sterile, white notebook, but his eyes are kind and solemn. yoongi knows he’s just trying to help so he tries his best, he does. he tells him about the cds and the ache in his bones and the sorrow in his heart — and his therapist throws a little beanbag at him.
yoongi stares at the offending article.
“keep going,” says his therapist pleasantly.
“i’m never going to get better,” yoongi finishes. he sounds so wrecked. “am i?”
the therapist hums. he throws a beanbag at yoongi. “say that again.”
“i’m never—“
another beanbag.
“i—“
another beanbag.
“again,” says his therapist.
yoongi says, cautiously, “i might not be better now,” he pauses. “but i will be?”
“a little more confidence, yoongi-goon,” says his therapist, eyes smiling. “but good enough.”
yoongi writes a little journal of everything he feels. how wood is smooth beneath his palms. how jimin laughs like a coke bottle opening. how taehyung and jungkook are firecrackers. how hoseok is high noon, low-tide. seokjin is the soft caress of a breeze and namjoon — namjoon is the smell after it stops raining.
yoongi loves the people he has. he can almost pretend like he has a gazillion cds because of them. he writes, hoseok got the centre in the dance today. jungkook said he lifted more, is that good? he’s so impressive already. namjoon wrotes a song, he says. i haven’t heard it. today i learnt one new word in japanese. today the sky was orange at dusk.
he has a little more cds today. he does his assignments, and namjoon comes over with food. he says, “so what did you do today?”
and yoongi tells him, “did you see the sky? we so rarely look at the sky.”
namjoon is the colour of pale yellow, the early morning sun. yes. yoongi likes that. yoongi knows, because he can see the early morning sun through the clouds. the sun is warm on his face. the saltwater warms with it too.
namjoon holds his hand as they walk to school. he says, “your class is in 504.”
“namjoon,” says yoongi, like he’s going to say something else. “it’s warm.”
“it’s always warm after a storm, hyung,” says namjoon cheerfully. “that’s how the flowers bloom, you know?”
yoongi didn’t know. he’s not seen flowers since the winter. namjoon knows everything, he thinks. namjoon picks a flower, a little daisy, off the ground and tucks it into yoongi’s coat pocket. “everything nice blooms after it’s cold. that’s why we gotta have the cold,” and he sounds very sure. “hello, hyung. i haven’t seen you smile in a while.”
yoongi snaps his mouth shut. he says, “oh,” very quietly. then he starts to cry.
he still makes it to class. his professor looks surprised to see him there.
yoongi says, “i’ve done my homework,” and his professor says, “well that’s very brave of you.”
he likes this professor. he’s got warm eyes and a warm voice.
the bad days come like tempests and squalls that throw away the morning sun from his grasp. he hangs up the phone after yelling at namjoon and feels his throat clench so tight he falls against the wall and doesn’t cry, just stands there and wheezes for what seems like an eternity.
then there’s a knock on the door. yoongi stares at it fearfully. they’re coming for him. all the knocks on the door are coming for him because he’s awful, he’s the worst, he’s better tearing his heart out than looking at the mid-morning sun — and the door opens.
namjoon pokes his head in.
“hyung,” he says. yoongi stares at him. “how’s the weather today?”
“it’s flooding,” yoongi breathes. “it’s flooding.”
namjoon lets himself fully into the apartment. “don’t worry,” he says. “you’re strong and you’re good with words, but you’re not good enough to hurt me. i was a debate student. you should’ve seen the disses they threw me.”
yoongi is still staring at him like he’s not really here.
“you’re trying,” clarifies namjoon. “and i’m patient. now come. let’s get you into a shower.”
and namjoon washes his hair for him. yoongi doesn’t know if he’s crying or it’s the water from the shower, but namjoon’s hands are so gentle and his voice is so kind and deep.
there’s the morning sun again. maybe namjoon was right. the sun is always there, right?
yoongi cannot love namjoon the way namjoon wishes he could yet. namjoon knows this, because he never pushes. but today the sun is mid-afternoon and the saltwater has rescinded to his toes. there’s a new drainage system installed. it took months and months and so many beanbags but it’s there.
and he feels like he has to tell namjoon. so he grabs his wrist one day as they both do their work quietly. namjoon raises an eyebrow.
“namjoon,” says yoongi. “wait for me. i’ll be there.”
it’s so selfish of him to ask. it’s more selfish of him not to say what he’s referring to. namjoon just smiles so patiently, so goodly, so beautifully, yoongi wants to thank the ground and the earth and the family that made namjoon and all the stars that collapsed and died and exploded to create him. his mid-morning sun, his day star, his friend, his wonder, his answer his —
“i know you will be,” namjoon says. he laughs a little. “hey, i’ve told you i’m patient.”
yoongi nods and lets go of his wrist. he says, “thank you.”
namjoon asks, “what’s the weather today?” his eyes twinkle. he looks so proud.
“it’s clear,” he says. “i can see the sun.”
namjoon laughs, and his eyes crescent. “see?” he says. “told you it was there.”
yoongi looks down at his lap. he’s right. yoongi is his own sun. yoongi is his own sky. and yoongi is also his own saltwater and his own rain and his own four walls with the windows he can never break.
but there’s a door there now. it’s painted in the shape of his friends. he can see hoseok’s smile and seokjin’s eyes and jimin’s touch and jungkook’s laugh and taehyung’s voice. and he can see namjoon’s hand. just waiting. just waiting to be taken.
he’s scared.
depression is a man who never leaves you alone and a sink that never stops running and too little cds for too big a brain.
yoongi, today, adds on one cd to his pile. he stops trying to stop the sink and just watches it run. he opens the door for the plumber. i don’t need you, he says.
john looks at him, affronted. but i’m your cure.
yoongi looks at his hands. don't worry.
he writes in his journal that night, all the good things that happened today. i watched a funny video. i wiped the table. namjoon laughed. jungkook sent me a youtube video link and i actually watched it. it was funny. i updated my phone and i like it. i downloaded a new game. i did work. i look forward to tomorrow i look forward to tomorrow i look forward to —
i look forward to me.