Chapter Text
Perhaps it’s the wine. Perhaps it’s the hour. Or, really, it’s just Yoshi’s presence, steady like the tides that coax the waves to brush against the shore. Maybe it’s Jihoon’s resolve, too, built like a castle of sand and crumpling before his friend’s silent reassurance, bleeding heart laid bare for all to see.
Nonetheless, an admission slips from his lips before he can bite his tongue, shattering the false sense of peace raised between them with a whisper, “I’ve already set an appointment. It’s tomorrow.”
A stuttered exhale betrays his companion’s shock. He expects outrage and anger, but Yoshi’s voice is remarkably gentle as he asks, “Are you serious?”
“Quite,” Jihoon says, meeting Yoshi’s eyes head-on despite not knowing what’s reflected in his own. He figures that, at this point, it doesn’t matter; none of it mattered in the end.
When he is met with no response outside of an incredulous stare, Jihoon hurriedly redirects his gaze to the window next to him, forcibly distracting himself from the hustle and bustle of the city beyond the window, soundless to the world inside the restaurant. So, he lets his mind run wild, filling the gaps with bits and bobs. The elderly couple walking down the street are playfully debating about dinner; the little girl swinging her mom’s hand with a smile on her face is recounting her misadventures in school; the dog wagging its tail at the salaryman is excited to play fetch, unknowingly taking the man’s fatigue away.
Then, his eyes land on the empty bus stop.
His imagination conjures the image of two boys sitting next to each other, knee to knee, dressed in similar uniforms. The shorter of the two, with big eyes and fringe falling just right above his eyes, badgers the taller boy next to him, chatting the latter’s ear off with nonsense. The taller boy with windswept hair laughs, covering his mouth with one hand. In his mind, the taller boy looks at him with fondness as he laughs. In his mind, it doesn’t take long before he’s giggling, too.
In his mind, it’s all so simple. Oh-so simple.
“But you’ve known him for more than half your life.” Yoshi begins, prompting Jihoon to cut his daydream short and let his friend ground him back to reality. “That’s…” He lets out a shaky breath as he puts his utensils down. “That’s a lot.”
The older boy corrects, welcoming a bittersweet tug on his cheeks, “I’ve known him for as long as I can remember, actually, so, yeah, that is a lot.” A weight settles on his chest, heavy and unwilling to move, as he echoes, “Almost everything, really.”
Yoshi shakily breathes out, somehow even more choked up about this than Jihoon is. “You’ve made your mind up, haven’t you? You wouldn’t tell me if I could still talk you out of it.”
Redirecting his attention back towards his food, Jihoon chuckles, picking up his utensils. “And who said you didn’t know me well?”
A few moments pass, and the world goes on. Jihoon cuts off a piece of his steak and puts it in his mouth; the table next to them gets their bill as the girl with longer hair takes the final bite of cake; a new group of people is ushered into a booth, looking the worse for wear and undoubtedly famished. In his imagination, the bus arrives and picks the two students up. In reality, Yoshi breaks the silence again, asking, “Will this make you happy?”
He chews, pondering. After swallowing his food, he readily admits, “It won’t make me unhappier. Making me happy, on the other hand…” Jihoon trails off, pouring a new serving of wine into his empty glass, “Who can say? If happiness is the absence of misery, then maybe I can say yes, it might make me happy.”
“ Might ?”
“Might.” He confirms, placing the bottle down and staring into the red, red, red wine. “It sucks, but,” A humorless laugh leaves his lips, “Maybe he was right? He and I… We’ve been together for so long that I couldn’t see my life without him.”
A beat passes. Curious of the other’s reaction, Jihoon takes a peek. Once he sees Yoshi carefully opening his mouth with his eyebrows knit together in concern, he knows that his friend got the wrong idea.
So, he beats him to the punch, adding, “It wasn’t like I was dependent on him to live, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant that a part of me had assumed that he’d always be there, you know? That he’d always be in my corner. The world could end, and he’d be right there, holding my hand as it happens.” A lump forms in his throat, pushing him to reach for the glass of wine as a bitter remark squeezes its way through, “But that’s bullshit, isn’t it? Because the world as I know it is ending, and he sure as hell isn’t here now .”
Before the sob manages to escape from his mouth, he drowns it with wine and a silent prayer, asking whatever higher power for his pain to be washed away with it, but alas, when he sees the world distorted through the bottom of the glass, he knows—his prayers had been all for naught.
“Jihoon,” Yoshi says, calling his attention as an uncharacteristically grave expression forms on his face. “For whatever it’s worth, I want you to know that if this is what you want to do,” The younger boy trails off, face twisting like he’s sucked on a lemon, “I’ll stand by you, but…”
Raising an eyebrow, he asks, “But what?”
Yoshi taps the table with his left hand. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, okay? I–well,” He cuts himself off, fidgeting, “Maybe I shouldn’t even have started asking; god , what was I thinking? You know what? Just fo–”
“Yoshi.” He gently calls the other boy’s name and attempts to offer a reassuring smile. If the devastated expression on the younger boy’s face is anything to go by, he severely failed. Still, he doesn’t let that dissuade him from trying. “Just ask.”
“Why?” Yoshi asks, shooting off a single question, one almost whispered yet cuts across the expanse between them with the straightforward urgency of a bullet from a gun.
Having little choice but to bite it before it pierces through his resolve, Jihoon answers, “I was left with the choice of either having holes in my head or a hole through my heart. Both would kill me, but the choice is easy.”
In a split-second, he lets his gaze wander to that same bus stop and grants himself the luxury of filling in the blanks of his heartbreak one last time, immortalizing a memory that was never real in the first place. In a blink, the bus stop is, again, empty, breaking his heart for one more time. And that, Jihoon supposes, is what causes a bleeding, gaping hole in his heart to persist.
“I’d rather die without the memories.”
Judging by how Yoshi stares at him afterward, a somber truth becomes clear—neither he nor Jihoon can tell where the metaphorical line ends.
For a while, he had thought tomorrow would never come. For a second, while he was in bed, staring at the stars glued to his ceiling, the same ones that lost their glow long ago, he had wished tomorrow would never come. For a heartbeat, his eyes trailed the dusty, star-shaped outline in the center of the random splatter of stars and wondered how it would feel to simply think it had fallen.
But, of course, tomorrow came without much preamble or grace, arriving with streaks of light filtering through Jihoon’s curtains. Its brightness, while mellow, was an adversary to even the most stubborn of eyelids, reminding him that no wishes, hopes, or bottles of wine would keep the hands of time at bay, for it is, after all, the cruel commissary of fate.
Now, it is the dreaded tomorrow, and Jihoon is sitting alone in a sterile-smelling waiting room that’s overwhelmingly gray, with a box filled with nearly two decades of memories on his lap, signing his heart away on the dotted line in exchange for some semblance of sanity.
Park Jihoon , his handwriting read, its black ink a sharp contrast against the form’s stark white. All things considered, he should consider it done, but the tip of the pen still rests on the final letter, seemingly unwilling to pull away from the paper.
‘Park Jihoon,’ He scolds himself, seeing his chest rapidly rise and fall to the sound of a ticking clock, bringing to mind how he took his time leaving his apartment, checking every nook and cranny for anything he could have possibly forgotten, how he chose an unfamiliar route and had hoped to get lost between the winding streets of Seoul, and how he stared at the institution’s doors for a good five minutes before gaining the courage to push them open, ‘Why are you getting cold feet now?’
“Mr. Park Jihoon?” A new voice calls out, dragging his attention to the door. There, a young boy dressed in dark blue scrubs stands beneath the doorway, clipboard clutched to his chest. Taking his attention as confirmation, the boy introduces himself with a polite smile. “Hi, I’m Kim Doyoung, an intern here at HappiNext, Inc. I’ll just be briefing you through the procedure, given that you’ve already signed the forms.”
Setting the form aside, he nods. “Ah, yes, it’s already signed.”
“Alright.” The intern says, flipping his clipboard over to show Jihoon an infographic. “So, we’re already at the second stage of the MemoWipe, meaning that you’ve already submitted the necessary documents that clear you to undergo this procedure. I assume that you’ve also read the consent form and the waivers,” Doyoung says as he glances at the forms Jihoon’s placed to the side, “So I’ll make this brief. Given the recent strides in the study of human memory, our new MemoWipe technology, unlike older technology, makes it so that you can back out at any point in between memories. However, since you will be reliving these memories, keep in mind that should a particular memory prove to be too much, we have an in-house psychologist and a psychiatrist on standby at all times. Should you wish to back out, please note that the downpayment for the procedure is non-refun…”
Jihoon nods, hearing the words enter one ear and out the next despite training his eyes on the other boy. His eyes tell him that the intern is speaking with actual, coherent words, but all he can preoccupy himself with is the thought that this is happening. Jihoon is here, waiting for his turn to forget. Yesterday, he was at peace with the idea; now, he doesn’t know what to feel.
Glancing at the box, Doyoung nods, “...The items we’ve requested you to bring will be the memory triggers for these events, leading us to the strongest memories of the person you associate those with, like how all rivers lead to the ocean.” If the intern notices him clutching the box slightly tighter, he shows no indication of it, proceeding with a courteous air, “Do you have any questions before we proceed to the next stage?”
With his fingers finding the fabric of the hoodie’s sleeve hanging from the box, he nearly vomits his words out, asking, “Does it hurt?”
Heeding his words, the intern’s professional facade cracks ever so slightly, allowing Jihoon a small peek at the human beneath the set of scrubs. With a soft smile, Doyoung answers, “In terms of physical pain, it’s about as painful as falling asleep. However, the emotional and mental pain it brings… Well, everyone’s threshold is different. I’ve seen some remain stoic all throughout; I’ve seen some break down completely at the first memory.”
Then, the intern’s eyes are unseeing, staring straight through Jihoon and seeing someone else. “Personally, the only thing I felt after my procedure was a lightness I couldn’t and still can’t describe. It almost felt anticlimactic, really.”
Breathless at the revelation, his words tumble out, “You’ve had it done?”
Blinking, the intern smiles, putting his mask back on. “Yep. So, if anything, you can take me as proof of the entire team’s capabilities—I’m doing just fine. Any more questions?”
Unable to think of anything else to ask when faced with that admission, Jihoon shakes his head, focusing on the feel of the cloth beneath his fingers to calm himself down.
“If that’s all, we’ll proceed to the next room. Let me know if you have more questions, and I’ll do my best to answer them. You can leave the signed forms here. Someone will be coming to collect them.” Nodding, the intern partially turns around and gestures for Jihoon to follow him.
And so, he does. Jihoon places the forms on the small table beside his chair and carries the box to his chest. Despite how heavy his steps feel and how he feels like he’s close to vomiting, he does.
The hall they enter is an extension of the waiting room, sterile and dyed in shades of gray, except for the glowing red lights above some of the doors. Jihoon strains his hearing, hoping to pick up any noise that clues him into how painful the process would be, but he hears nothing except for their footfalls and the intern’s voice.
“The procedure will take at least thirty minutes and can last for hours, as you’ll be immersed and pulled out from each memory. All things considered, it’s a lengthy procedure, hence why some rooms,” Doyoung explains as he gestures to the red bulbs above all the two doors they’ve passed, giving the gray halls some much-needed color, albeit ominous, “Are occupied for hours on end and why we only take a handful of appointments per day. However, since you chose our latest appointment today, rest assured you can take your time.”
Stopping in front of a door marked by a silver plaque displaying the number 5, the intern turns to look at him as he places a hand on its handle. In that second, Jihoon sees something resembling the same vulnerability he feels, and he almost feels guilty for taking comfort in it. Doyoung opens his mouth; for a second, nothing comes out, and he shuts it, seemingly thinking better of it, knitting his eyebrows together and looking to the side, letting the hum of the air vents fill the silence.
Maybe it’s the nerves. Maybe it’s the hesitation. Maybe it’s neither of those, and it’s how the intern looks so small that something pushes Jihoon to ask, in a voice colored with hesitation, “Is something wrong?”
The intern meets his eyes at his words, revealing a desolation whose profoundness rivals his own. Jihoon doesn’t know what Doyoung sees reflected in his eyes, but it’s apparently enough for the latter to steel himself.
“This process… it’s usually compared to amnesia, but there’s a slight difference. When a person is afflicted with amnesia, there’s always a chance of regaining memories lost. With this process, those memories are lost forever. A similar thing with those two is how the body remembers. You asked me if it hurt, right?” Doyoung takes a deep breath before continuing. “I play the piano. I’ve played it ever since I was a kid. I’ve studied and played plenty of pieces, but nothing haunts me more than the song I don’t recall ever learning.”
Suddenly, a memory plays—Kim Junkyu is laughing as he sits in front of an electronic keyboard, messing around yet managing to play coherently enough to provide Jihoon an accompaniment as the latter sings and screams into a microphone while looking at the lyrics on his phone. He doesn’t remember all the particulars of that day, but he remembers how his friend had approached him, excited about liking a new song that Jihoon hadn’t heard of. Junkyu said he learned to play it on the keyboard and asked if Jihoon wanted to hear. Long story short, Jihoon had added a new song to his karaoke repertoire that day.
Their stories aren’t entirely similar, yet Jihoon reckons their heartache is cut from the same cloth.
“Once all memories have been reviewed, I’ll be asking you if you want to proceed with the memory deletion thrice before we actually go through with it.” There is no smile on the intern’s face. Jihoon finds this version much more preferable; there is nothing polite about impending pain. “Are you ready to start the process?”
Part of Jihoon knows that the beginning of the end will be afoot when he steps into that room. This will be the last time all the articles inside this cardboard box will mean anything to him. This will be the last time he can cling to the sleeve of this hoodie for comfort. This will be the last time he can look back at the years of his life and see Kim Junkyu intertwined with it.
He says, “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
‘Which isn’t actually that ready at all,’ he thinks.
Doyoung smiles and wordlessly opens the door, stepping through it. From where he stands, Jihoon hears the intern greet the other people inside the room. Jihoon makes out the sound of three different voices greeting the intern back amid the machine beeps and keyboard clacking. The air emanating from the room is colder, making him wish he could put the hoodie on.
Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and holds it.
Jihoon pretends he doesn’t see Junkyu’s smile burned into the back of his eyelids, doesn’t hear Junkyu’s voice calling for him, exasperated yet fond, doesn’t smell the notes of Junkyu’s perfume that used to surround him on nights when sleep evaded him, doesn’t feel the touch of Junkyu’s hand on the small of his back, guiding him through the crowd, and doesn’t taste the ghost of that Junkyu’s lips against his, giving him a home he could call his own.
Junkyu. Junkyu. Junkyu.
Eventually, he opens his eyes and transfixes his gaze onto the chair in the middle of the room.
Borrowing grief from the future, Jihoon exhales, tightens his hold on the box one last time, and steps through the door, closing it behind him.
Outside, the light above the door turns red.