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Jisung’s breath catches in his throat, and suddenly he’s nineteen again.
The room hasn’t changed since then, not really. Minho’s repainted the walls a shade of beige, successfully covering the lilac wallpaper that Jisung loves. The picture of the two of them that used to be propped up on the mantelpiece - a selfie of them grinning at the camera with snow in their hair and love in their eyes from a couple of years back – had been replaced with a more basic picture of Minho on his graduation day. Yeah, the room hasn’t changed, and when Jisung thinks about it, he realises he hasn’t changed either.
6 years later, and Jisung is still nineteen. He’s nineteen, and Minho is pulling him through the park, giggling uncontrollably as they rush through piles of snow with red cheeks, cold hands and full hearts. He’s nineteen and Minho is playing with his fingers as they lie in bed, legs tangled together as they murmur tired love confessions and fight to keep awake just so they can look at each other a little longer. He’s nineteen, and he’s swinging his legs childishly on the countertop and watching Minho cook, whining for a taste of the food.
He’s nineteen and Minho is crying into his hands desperately and begging Jisung not to leave him. He’s nineteen and he’s walking out the door, wanting nothing more but to cradle Minho in his arms before he catches himself and remembers that Minho isn’t his; not anymore. He’s nineteen and he’s scrolling through Kakao and he finds Minho’s chat right at the bottom of the page, and when he clicks on it the last message was sent months ago and reads “Jisung, come pick your stuff up from mine. I’m not going to be home, don’t worry.”
Yang Jeongin knocks on the door gently before opening it, and Jisung’s not nineteen anymore. He’s twenty five, a policeman with wrinkles and sad eyes, and he misses Minho even though it’s been a while. Jeongin clears his throat and Jisung looks up to meet his eyes. He looks tired, and sad, and a jolt of fear runs through Jisung before he even opens his mouth.
“Boss? I- uh,” his voice is thick with unshed tears and the look in his eyes has changed to pity. “Lee Minho. Dead. He’s dead, hyung.”
There’s a roar in Jisung’s ears and an ache in his heart. The acrid taste of bile rises in his throat. He turns and retches, right above the picture of Minho on the mantelpiece. His hand had accidently brushed the picture, and now Minho is looking right at him, eyes bright as his smile, one hand cocked on his hip and the other tilting his graduation cap. Jisung feels even more sick, and before he realises it the glass covering Minho’s picture is wet with his tears.
There’s a hand rubbing circles onto his back. Jisung figures it’s meant to be helping, but instead it feels heavy, weighing him down. He shrugs it off and turns to look at Jeongin, who looks like he might cry too.
Jisung can’t find it in himself to care.
“H-hyung,” Jeongin stutters.
“Leave,” Jisung responds lowly.
“Hyung, let me stay and helped you. I know you-“
“I said leave,” Jisung all but yells. “Leave! Go away before I do something we’ll both regret, okay? Leave me alone and don’t come back!”
Jeongin leaves. Jisung crumbles.
Outside, he can hear Jeongin murmuring something to their fellow officers. He doubted that any of them had been expecting a dead body when they got a call of an irritated neighbour filing a noise complaint, but he knows that they know he’s hurting the most. It doesn’t really matter.
Nothing matters. Minho’s gone.
Jisung wishes he was nineteen. He wishes he was nineteen and could take back the careless break up. He wishes he was nineteen, and Minho was with him right now, rubbing comforting circles onto his back like Jeongin had tried to do. He wished he was nineteen and he was happy and in love.
He wishes and he keeps wishing.
The world keeps spinning. Time keeps ticking. Jisung’s not nineteen.
And Minho is gone.