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Once, when he was about seven or eight and needed to be always doing something with his hands, Wonwoo picked at a hangnail on his right thumb. It was a pesky little thing—not quite a nail, but not quite skin. It had been there for a day until he gave it a little tug and decided that he would rid himself of it. This is what he remembers of that: before the pull was the sharp breath he took, and even before that was the anticipation of the pain. What came after was the sting and just a little later, the lingering numbness in the root of his nail–not quite a complete sensation, but not quite an emptiness.
This is what he remembers life after Junhui by: a nagging numbness in his days and an endless song.
Do you want to learn how to play the guitar, Wonwoo?
The beginning was a quiet affair. They had met in a lecture theatre filled to the brim with students being lulled to lethargy with the droning of the professor. By chance Wonwoo had sat down next to a boy with a little bit of the sky and sunshine in his hair and, from his periphery, the healthiest nail beds on anyone he’d come across.
Wonwoo would learn, weeks after falling into a comfortable friendship, that from the prettiest fingers could come the most beautiful sounds.
On days when class notes were left strewn on tables or on floors, when the world outside the room was but a distant buzzing, Junhui would play his guitar. Sometimes he’d pluck, sometimes he’d strum, but always the sound was like gentle fingers threading through Wonwoo’s hair, stroking his scalp.
He learned to love music from Junhui. Music Junhui played, music Junhui taught him how to play. The first time he placed fingers on frets and pressed, his skin split and bled. But for the blood and the sting on his fingertips, Junhui gifted him with a warm smile and his first song. It was something simple, just three of the easiest chords to alternate with each other. D-G-D-G-D-G-A, down-down-up-up-down. Play on repeat.
He learned to love music from Junhui. The calluses on his fingers never let him forget.
You have a very pleasant timbre to your voice, Wonwoo. I think you’d make a great singer.
Wonwoo didn’t sing.
He didn’t sing until Junhui heard him humming along to the strumming on his guitar one humid summer afternoon with the windows open, curtains billowing from the warm breeze blowing in. Wonwoo remembers.
The first song Junhui made him sing from start to end was a slow tune, the words dancing to a melody filled with lamentation for a love about to be lost. It was difficult at first. Sometimes the air he took into his lungs just wasn’t enough to carry him over to the next note. But Junhui was patient through it all, walking him through techniques he thought would do Wonwoo’s voice good. Another stumble, another smile from Junhui, and for each one Wonwoo would suck in a huge breath and sing. Breathe and sing, breathe and sing, repeat.
In the middle is a time he cannot call anything other than happiness.
I’m sorry.
This is the last song that keeps playing in Wownoo’s head.
The last one Junhui taught him was an upbeat tune and for some reason, it’s what he remembers best. It starts off stilted, more rhythm than actual melody. It isn’t until the verse before the chorus that it builds up into an actual song. To accompany the lyrics is the fast, almost frenetic strumming of the guitar as he sings along. A brisk tempo carries words of an inescapable dream along to waiting ears. This is the last song that Junhui taught him and for some reason, it’s what he remembers best.
So Wonwoo sings.
In the corner of his room is the spruce guitar Junhui left. Every night he plays, pressing down callused fingertips onto steady, unchanging wood. And then he sings. The story: a lover left to be in a past that is no longer true. Or: a lover who keeps going back to days that were too happy to abandon to oblivion. Either way, Wonwoo sings.
This time, the breathing and the singing come easy. This time, however, the air isn’t enough to fill him, make him feel. But the song is the only thing he has–as he wakes, as he goes through the motions of the day, as he goes to sleep. This is the song that he loses himself in–a memory, a guiding cadence, a hurt, a happiness.
Perhaps, the song will be all that he has forever.
The end is a time that doesn’t come.