Chapter Text
Jisung stares into the cardboard box, empty save the cluster of cheese crumbs in the corners.
He had not meant to do this.
Changbin (Or was it Hyunjin?) had bought them for the group to share. Out of nowhere, Jisung had the urge to stuff as many as he could into his mouth. The cheesy, grimy taste disgusted him, but he kept shoving piece after piece into his mouth impulsively until all that was left was crumbs.
How is he going to explain this? And when is he going to finish the track that still sounded so bland and awkward despite working on it for three days straight?
(That was terrible. He pressed the play button again).
He was so, so tired.
There were so many things to keep up with, so many things diverting his attention, and being the perfectionist he was, he had to make sure to give every one of them his 100%. Jisung constantly felt torn between producing, dance practices, and working out. And damn it, he had a day-long filming schedule starting at 7 am tomorrow. Or today. Or precisely two hours twenty minutes and forty seconds later.
He was stuck in a never-ending nightmare, and there was no way out.
Jisung sat frozen at his desk, breaths becoming increasingly shallow and quick. The numbness permeated through him. His heart pounded so hard he was sure it would burst out of his ribcage. His trembling hands couldn't hold still, and his vision seemed to blur with each passing second. The weight of impending doom consumed him whole in suffocating waves of black.
And Jisung was dyingdyingdyingdyingdying he was so sure that he was fucking dying.
(He actually was dying, inching closer to his death day by day. But he felt it, physically, like parts of him that once bloomed furiously fervent flowers had slowly started to wilt.)
Jisung only remembers that the track is still playing when his vision goes entirely black.
Ever since it happened, the only thing Jisung got better at was composing. From the expanding black hole in his chest grew the desperate need to channel his emotions somewhere , somewhere, someone, someone, help . And so lyrics and tunes came to him, sticky and choppy at the same time, like some sort of non-newtonian fluid. Like asphalt splaying onto the ground in an undignified puddle.
Jisung felt like he was living inside a bubble. An atom. His dorm was the nucleus, where he could stop thinking, where he was at his ground state. It had some sort of gravity he could not escape, pulling him towards his dorm, his room, his soft, comfy bed. And he was the electron, frantically scrambling in his orbital. On the days where he felt energized, when the spiking motivation excited him to a higher energy state, he was in the outer shells, perhaps spending the entire day producing in the company studio, or even heading to the mall and attempting to chitchat with the salesperson (How’s your day been? Mine? I…Ah, well I would say….Um, fine, I guess?). Then Jisung would return home exhausted, holding an overpriced cap, or a necklace on sale that he never knew he needed. Still, he was grateful how he didn’t have to mull over each and every one of his words, and wasn't trying to impress anyone. But on other days when his energy state plummeted, he couldn't even get out of bed. Even if he forced himself to get to the company and set up his producing gear, he’d just stare at his empty table for three hours and call it a day. It was as if simply being there in the outer shell had already sucked away all his energy.
Thankfully, his lack of motivation didn’t interfere with his jam-packed schedules (yet), from group practices and stage performances to puppy interviews and special MCing. All he needed was a call from his manager–a “wake-up call”, as he liked to call it, and he’d be on his way to the company.
The observation used to intrigue him, but now, deep down he knew that it was just another pathetic excuse. Just like him. Jisung was a pathetic excuse for an idol, a pathetic excuse for a human.
He needed an escape. An escape from the bubble he was so hopelessly trapped in.
Another thing he noticed was how quickly his memory deteriorated. His brain was like the surveillance camera in front of the JYP building, memories competing for space, superimposing on each other, refreshing every week. Hell, he couldn’t even remember what he ate for dinner last night.
Jisung thinks it funny how he used to think he would never reach a point where he’d be constantly fantasizing about death. About how everyone would react after he left.
It felt strangely comforting, though just a little.
He was stuck in an ugly paradox between wanting for his struggles to be noticed and desperately hiding them. The muddy, turbid air he was exhaling was a homogeneous mixture of hubris and self-deprecation. Above all, a disgusting sort of self-pity.
Jisung knows it’s not healthy. Jisung knows he needs to stop.
The second time it happens, he’s sprawled all over the floor of the practice room, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling.
It started with normal, tangential thoughts about the upcoming comeback. The choreo is pretty good, and he had got it mostly patted down. The title track is good, as expected from Chan-hyung and Changin-hyung. The album itself is fine, but his song included on the album… Shit, it's a literal disaster. It’s just another three minutes of Han fucking Jisung whining about the same things. There’s no clever wordplay, no exciting beat drop, it’s just so flat and disgusting (just like him) and why, why, why do all his songs sound the same?
Oh, how easy everything would be if he just… wasn’t.
Jisung knows he’s going down one of his most-visited rabbit holes. Or according to his former therapist, he's spiraling. He vaguely remembers reading in some book that the thing about a spiral is that it only tightens.
Tight, tight, everything was too tight. He was drowning, his lungs capsizing. The panic, the scorching warmness that roiled in his insides was all too real. Jisung wanted to puke.
He doesn’t know when he started hyperventilating, but all he knows is that he couldn't stop the jagged breaths from escaping. Jisung feels like he’s purging the broken shards of his ugly self through forced contractions.
He shuts his eyes tight, but the image of the ceiling is still etched into his mind.
Defeated, he opens them again.
Staring at the red ceiling with the blinding “JYP” lights, Jisung had never felt so helpless.
“Hello?” came Seungmin’s voice from the door Jisung forgot to lock. Jisung buried his head under his arms, trying to stifle the sound of his sobs.
“Is someone in there?” the sound of footsteps ricocheted around the otherwise empty practice room, inching closer by the second.
“Um… hey.” Jisung scrambled to his feet, then, realizing that he seemed too defensive, proceeded to sit down again. “I was, uh, just about to leave.”
“Hyung, I heard you from the hallway. Did something happen?”
“I’m fine, Seungminnie. Just leave me alone.” Jisung bites back snarkily. Because how do I tell you that this very moment I just want to run to the top of this building and fling myself over the edge?
Seungmin’s eyes widened, almost comically.
Shit. He must’ve said that out loud.
Silence hung between them, and the awkwardness was almost tangible. The air was too stale to inhale, the words too murky to see through.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.” Was all Jisung could muster. How could he have burdened Seungmin, his friend and honorary younger brother, with all his internal turmoil just like that?
“Jisung.” To Jisung’s surprise, Seungmin sits down beside him, “Is there anything I could do for you?”
“Can you, like, not tell anyone about this? Like, not even Chan-hyung?¨ Jisung hugs his knees tighter. It seemed odd that despite being older, he was the broken one, but he was too tired, too desperate to care.
“Okay… But Jisung, promise me you’ll come to us if you need help.” After what seemed like forever, the younger finally replies.
“Promise.”
Jisung’s feels Seungmin’s tense shoulders relax against his, “By the way, I happened to buy an extra Americano…”
Seungmin writes Piece thinking of Jisung,
“Yah, Kim Seungmin, these lyrics are really good.” Changbin comments from the other side of the studio. “Weird… Han Jisung has been ignoring my texts since last friday. Seungmin-ah, have you noticed how Jisung’s been a bit off lately?”
“I don’t know,” Seungmin quickly responds, recalling his promise.
Changbin raises an eyebrow skeptically, which was all it took for seungmin to finally spill.
“Yesterday, I kind of heard him crying in the practice room, and he kind of accidentally admitted to being suicidal. Something about wanting to jump off the roof.” When Seungmin finished, his voice was already reduced to a whisper.
“What?” Changbin’ sounded incredulous, and immediately fumbled for this phone, “I’m calling Chan.”
“Don’t.” Before he knows it, Seungmin is grabbing Changbin’s Samsung S23.
“But he needs help. We both know that.”
Seungmin replies softly, “Yeah, I know. But knowing Chan, he’d go full mother hen mode and probably tell the company. It’s just that seeing how defensive Jisung was to me finding out, I’m not sure how he’d take everything. It might… for the lack of a better word, it might trigger him."
I think our current plan should be figuring out whether he was constantly feeling like this or was it a one-time thing. Until then, we shouldn’t tell anyone else about it.”
Changbin sighs,“I’ll try and ask him about it. From now on, wherever he is, we keep a close eye on him, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
On the plate before him was a slice of the best cheesecake Jisung had ever tasted.
At first, Jisung didn’t really have much of an appetite, thanks to the gaping hole devouring his insides… Until he forced himself to take a bite of the cheesecake Seungmin had treated him to. Creamy, cheesy and the layer of cookie at the bottom was chewy and crumbly in just the right way. Between huge bites, Jisung realized he has not had a meal for almost a day, the last being the two tangerines Chan gave him yesterday night. Through mouthfuls of delight, Jisung listens to Seungmin’s recount of his day, and joins him on the sarcastic comments towards the broken lights that kept flickering in the practice room.
Jisung does not remember the last time he felt enveloped by the warm sensation of fulfillment. It was a bright beam of light flashed upon his face after being submerged in endless darkness. It felt foreign, almost blinding. Something he didn’t deserve.
“Jisung, since when did you start having those bad thoughts?” Seungmin’s clear voice, against the rhythmic pattering of the rain against the roof.
“Um, are you talking about yesterday? Honestly, Seungminnie, it’s nothing to worry about. Just some introspection, everyone does that. You’d be better off worrying about Chan-hyung’s sleep schedule.” Jisung doesn’t know what prompts him to even answer at all, but he does so anyway. Perhaps it was the cheesecake.
Across from the table, Seungmin frowns.
Jisung thought of debut as the ladder leading to an exit from the room he had been trapped in, an escape from the thick black smoke that obscured the faces of his friends and foes. His competitors. He was beyond lucky to have escaped the choking smoke via a self-made Hellevator along with his members that he was beyond grateful for.
No longer imprisoned by a false mirage of his dreams, no longer endlessly questioning and desperately holding on.
Inside the room he thought he saw what idol life would be like through the windows: pursuing his passion was a group of like-minded people, so so many opportunities to shine on a stage.
But now as he clambers out of the trapdoor attached to the ladder he sees what they call Reality.
There is nothing in the Outside.
Nothing.
It is space. Dark, dark, outer space,
Jisung feels weightless, like he’s floating. There is nothing to ground him to the present, days whirring past in a surreal fashion. He furiously tries to grapple with the silent promises he made while training: about his passion and determination, only to find them just out of reach. Unreachable. Nothing is right, nothing in his life is right.
For countless times Jisung had visited the suicide prevention website and itched to just spill everything, just call the number (dialing the number but too afraid to press call. What if the members find out? What if his family finds out? Or worse, what if the company finds out and forces him to leave the group?) or just fill out a questionnaire (Every day. Yes. Often.), purposely leaving the contact and address lines blank.
Inhale. Exhale. Submit.
“*please fill out all requested fields”, the bold red words glare back at him.
And his mouse pointer would hover over the X deflatedly.
“In my next life, I want to…”
I want to be a spectator, I want to be invisible. His mind was screaming back, I want to disappear like I’ve never existed before
In the end, he settled on, “I want to be a jellyfish. ”
Zoning out by staring at his crumpled blue bedsheets, Jisung wanted to cry for absolutely no reason. It was illogical and absurd and overwhelming.
So instead, he chuckles dryly.
Jisung was not himself, he was anyone but himself.
Jisung wished that a car would just run over him.
Jisung knows that he would not be able to decide on a date. So he asks Minho, professional rash-decision-maker, for advice.
Me 23:15
Hyung
Help me pick a date in this year pls
Preferably when we are on break
Maybe between this and our next comeback?
Minho replies almost instantly.
Minho 23:20
April 28th
A bit early, but not too bad, Jisung muses. He’d probably have less preparation time than he thought.
The next question: How?
Ways to kill yourself, he types into the search box. He skips over the helplines and advice articles until he finds a detailed study on the success rate of different ways of suicide.
(Despite how messy his mind and his room is, Jisung wants things to be flawlessly organized. Just for this once.) He wouldn’t—couldn’t risk failing. As he was saving the screenshot the graph results to his phone, a message bubble pops onto the top of Jisung’s computer screen.
Minho 23:55
What for?
He was just about to type something stupid like getting a week’s worth of cheesecake when the suggestions pop up, and, being the clumsy inattentive pathetic excuse of a person he is, Jisung accidentally sends the screenshot.
Me 23:59
[PHOTO]
Gasping out loud, he recalls the photo as quickly as he could with trembling fingers, praying that Minho hadn’t seen the screenshot he just sent.
Minho is typing
Shit.
Jisung stares at his painstakingly bright phone screen, frozen.
After what seemed like forever, a ping breaks him out of the daze.
Minho 0:00
Where are u
Me 0:00
Relax hyung
That was a joke
Minho 0:00
Where are u
Me 0:01
Studio
Minho’s not an expert at comforting human beings, and definitely not an expert at having heart-to-hearts with best-friend-slash-soulmates. It’s not that he’s not good with words. Frankly, he just finds it incredibly awkward. What if he doesn’t do the right things and make things worse?
So when he enters the studio, Minho’s anxiety skyrockets. He almost expects to find Jisung in a mess or mid-panic attack, and is selfishly relieved when he discovers the younger simply leaning back on the couch and staring at his bright phone screen in the dark.
The first thing Minho notices is that Jisung looks incredibly hollow. Dark bags loom under his tired eyes. This was Han Jisung, who was always overflowing with energy—hyper among friends and a star on the stage. How, just how, did he become so soulless and dejected? It was as if someone unplugged him.
“Hey, hyung.” Their gazes meet, and Jisung nods, acknowledging Minho’s entry. Minho sits down on the couch, snugly fitting beside Jisung. Like a thousand times before, Jisung props his legs up on the couch and lies his head on Minho’s lap.
Though the two seldom shared silence, Minho found it calming, like softly clinking glasses of Iced Americano. He didn’t trust himself to break it.
“Hyung, do you believe in the afterlife?” Finally, Jisung looked up and asked.
Minho strokes Jisung’s messy hair gently, like he’d stroke one of his cats, “I don’t know, Jisung, I don’t know.”
“Well, I think I kind of do. It’s basically your consciousness and perception of “self” being transmitted to some other form of life. Like a jellyfish. Or a child.” Like usual, Jisung rambles on.
“Huh. That sounds interesting. Seems like you’ve been thinking a lot about these things lately.” Minho hopes that Jisung doesn’t notice the hesitation in his voice.
“I guess…” Jisung yawns groggily.
“Hey, it’ll be fine.” Minho scrolls in his photo gallery, zooming in on a picture of a blue bird perched on a log, which he took in Australia, “Look at this bird. It’s so cute, isn’t it?”
“Not as cute as Anya.” Jisung grins weakly.
And just like that, they’re back to their usual banter.
And just like that, Jisung stops thinking about death.
(For a while, at least.)