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“I think we should break up.”
Pain really is a beautiful construct, isn’t it? Especially when it’s rooted to a source that promised pleasure, peace — a significant other, perhaps, so it then becomes like witnessing a thunderstorm after months of summer, of crystal clear skies.
Minho promised he wouldn’t hurt Jisung.
“It’s not you, it’s me.”
And Jisung believed him.
“I just can’t do this anymore.”
So then, what was the building flame inside of him? The one that travelled so slowly yet intensely and burned every human essence it came across. What was the bucket of gravel in his throat and the salty ocean in his eyes? Why did his hands shake like it was the only thing they knew how to do. Why, truly, did Han Jisung physically feel his heart shrivel up and die?
“I feel so mundane, like my life is an endless routine of whatever this is.”
Whatever this is was love…or at least that was what Minho had called it those many years ago. And Jisung, he’d thought it was, too. He’d felt it, after all. It was like an out of body experience, for him, everyday was so surreal and worked tirelessly to surpass the last.
It was love when Minho had whispered sweet nothings between the sheets and kissed away his tears and Jisung experienced pleasure he’d never let himself feel before.
It was love, also, when Minho had come to his house at three in the morning because Jisung was crying and stressed and hated everything, except Minho. When Minho had held him so softly, as if he was the most prized possession in the world.
It was love when their friends had teased Minho for talking about Jisung so much and looking at him so fondly and dedicating the prettiest parts of his soul to Jisung and just Jisung, Jisung, Jisung.
“And I…I just don’t think I love you anymore, Ji.”
Really, Jisung blames himself. The signs were so blatant but he’d refused them, he wanted nothing than to believe he was misunderstanding. In hindsight, maybe if he had confronted Minho, they would have had this conversation sooner and he would have been on his road to healing but Hindsight was a bitch and…and so was Jisung. A greedy bitch who just wanted to slurp it all up until the eventual awakening.
When Minho would rush through the calls, claiming he was busy. Or when there would be a questionable noise in the background or the hickeys — those godawful hickeys that were bigger, brighter and prettier than Jisung’s; this poorly covered bruises all over Minhos skin that had Jisung’s heart squeezing.
And his eyes, too: Minho’s eyes.
They were so different and dark and no matter how much Jisung searched for that spark, the one in the beginning, he was always met with an endless abyss of brown murky blackness that he couldn’t recognise. Minho didn’t listen anymore, too. Nothing about Jisung seemed to interest him anymore, it was always just dismissive answers.
“I found someone new.”
Minho was ruthless and selfish and so brutally honest that whatever was left of Jisung’s humanity seemed to dissipate under the severity of his words. And Jisung’s throat was so dry and his body was clammy and slick with sweat. The tears escaped freely, now and he finally dragged his eyes up to meet Minho’s and he could only wonder how he could be so calm and so, so okay with leaving Jisung after five blissful years of happily ever after. He tried to find his voice.
“How long?”
A look of surprise etched Minho’s face and Jisung hated it; hated that his own boyfriend thought him so weak that he would simply let the conversation die without uttering a word. His nostrils flared.
“How long, Minho!? How long have you not loved me? How long have you felt like our relationship was a routine? And how—how long since you found someone new? How long? I deserve to know that much.”
His voice was nasally and ugly and his body felt weak but he managed to hold eye contact with the man who had destroyed his heart and he refused to look away: he wanted his pain to haunt whatever crevice of Minho that still cared about him.
“A year.”
Lee Minho had the audacity to mutter as if remorseful, as if he was truly hurt at what he was doing to Jisung. And Jisung, he hated him.
“I haven’t loved you for a year. Felt stuck for eight months and I—I found someone new five months ago.”
The air thinned and Jisung found it difficult to breathe. The weather seemed to cry with him and the sun left behind a cloak of darkness and the sky rumbled and screamed just as it’s tears began to pour. They stood in front of their porch and a raindrop caressed Jisung’s cheek softly, almost as if it knew any other way would have been the last straw for Jisung, as if it were consoling him, empathizing with him.
“I see.”
Minho stepped back and tore his gaze away from the strangled form in front of him.
“I’m sorry, Ji. I’m really sorry.”
He bowed slowly then the porch stairs were beneath his feet as he turned to go.
A wave of nausea and Jisung collapsed.
“Yeah, me too.”
And the rain intensified just like the flame of pain in his soul.