Work Text:
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the harsh sun in changbin’s eyes pulls him out of sleep, the dagger of golden light piercing through the crack in the curtains and shattering his fragile dreams. in a better time, it might’ve been warm and poetic. right now, it was a painfully sharp start to a day already jagged around the edges.
changbin drags himself out of bed, ignoring the untouched other side, and stretches his stiff limbs, as if simply reaching for the ceiling could do anything for the heavy ache in his bones.
‘you should really clean up a bit, wash your sheets.’ his mother had said when she visited the week before. he hadn’t answered her then. he still didn’t have an answer. it’s hard to explain that you can’t wash your sheets because they smell like someone else and if you wash the sheets you feel like you’re washing them away.
like they were already washed away.
forcefully shoving down the emotions he knew were coming—no time for that now—changbin continues the same morning routine that gets him through every morning. every morning for the past two months, one week, and three days.
head to the bathroom. use the toilet, brush his teeth, don’t look too hard in the mirror, splash some water on his face so maybe he won’t look undead, ignore how long his roots have grown.
back to the bedroom. their bedroom. get dressed; put on those dumb nice pants he had to buy for this job, pick up the same shirt he wore two days ago and pretend it’s okay to wear it again, grab two socks out of the clean hamper. put his phone in his pocket.
stop by the bathroom on his way to the kitchen. run his hands through his hair to make it presentable. ignore his roots again.
he’ll have to dye them himself this time.
grab a granola bar out of the box on the counter and only eat half of it. ignore his mom’s voice saying he should eat more. ignore the way his clothes keep getting looser. ignore that they always worried about his eating. they aren’t here anymore, anyways.
that’s the problem.
sitting down on the worn couch, changbin pulls out his phone, ignoring every notification in favor of calling his voicemail.
“you have no new messages, and one saved message. to listen to your saved message, press 3.”
he obliges, hands shaking like they always do. anticipation and anxiety can do that to a person. but thank the gods for voicemail.
“saved message. tuesday, august 4th. 8:53 am.” he holds his breath. “hi baby!” he can’t breathe. “i know you’re still asleep, but i thought about how great sushi would be tonight and wanted to ask before i forgot! do you want sushi?” they never ate that sushi.
“text me when you check this to say yes! anyways i have to run up the stairs bc the elevator is broken. i’ll see you tonight!”
“ have a good day at work ! “
the message cuts off right there, just like it always does. he always hopes there will be more. another sentence in hyunjin’s voice that he can commit to memory. just a few more words, however mundane, that he can lock up in his soul.
there’s never any more. just “have a good day at work!” as if any day could be good after the sun was no longer in the sky. not changbin’s sun anyways. the ball of gas only raged and burned his skin. his sun, hyunjin, they had always outshone that ball of gas. hyunjin didn’t burn his skin, they kissed it, left warmth but not fire in their wake.
it was always so cold now, no matter how high he turned the heating.
his final warning alarm rings through the hollow apartment, saying ‘leave right now or you’ll never catch the train,’ and he stands up to slide on his shoes and grab h–their coat. it’s too big on him and much too long but he’ll continue wearing it until it’s no longer fit to be called a coat. he steps out, locking the door behind him, and heads for the station.
the walk is cold, and every couple he passes makes him want to turn around and go back home. or maybe scream. or run up to them and warn them to never let go of each other. he feels like this every morning on this street. maybe he should walk the long route tomorrow.
but today, the short route gets him to the station and on the train. changbin stands between actual functioning adults and reminds himself that he’s supposed to be that way too. he used to be. he can’t be.
as if reading his mind, a small older lady smiles at him, eyes wrinkling in the corners, and gives him a very resolute nod. one that says ‘you can be.’ and, maybe he can be. maybe he will be again. maybe he’ll be functional one day. maybe he’ll actually have a good day at work.
not today. but maybe one day.