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Once, in the middle of the night, Seungmin had stumbled upon a study done on loneliness. Lonely people, the article had said, have trouble differentiating fiction from reality. Seungmin hadn’t thought himself to be lonely, definitely not, but, Oh, reading those words made him pause. Somehow, those words had resonated in some deep, unknown cavity between his heart and lungs.
He remembers an interview from years ago. “What’s your favourite time of the day,” the woman had asked. “Tea time,” Seungmin had jokingly replied amidst groans from his exasperated members. Jeongin had called him a compulsive liar after. He’d probably been right.
Jeongin no longer remembers, but the first time they’d hung out together, just the two of them, had been after one of the worst vocal lessons of Seungmin’s life. They were still trainees, perpetually breathless, bright-eyed and hungry for an uncertain future. Seungmin had walked out of the vocal room feeling as though he was losing his grip on a life he’ll never live, clutching desperately to the ephemeral flash of a dream that only exists right before you wake.
Wordlessly, Jeongin had grabbed his hand and marched him down two flights of stairs to a battered vending machine. “Watch this, hyung,” he’d said, before kicking twice to the side of the machine. Seungmin remembers watching, in a mix of shock and mild horror, as a bottle of peach green tea tumbled down.
“You can have this,” Jeongin had handed him the drink, grinning so wide Seungmin was branded with it. He remembers that interaction so vividly–had re-lived it so many times–that each line of Jeongin’s lips and crease of his cheeks are permanently etched into Seungmin’s brain. Carved into granite, eternal, always and forever.
He’d been struck, in that moment, by the earnest confidence Jeongin possessed. The rest of them may as well have been mortals desperate for a shot at heaven, because Jeongin was born an angel. Seungmin had felt the sudden, inexplicable understanding that Jeongin was more than another parochial kid with something to prove. No, Jeongin knew every back hallway and abandoned practice room, every quiet moment forgotten amidst the dust of archaic sound equipment.
The Jeongin he’d met that day had embodied an untouchable era of Seungmin’s life so perfectly they’d intertwined to form, perhaps incorrectly, the same impression upon Seungmin’s mind. That very conflated image, inseparable from the taste of peach green tea, had become Seungmin’s favourite time.
But maybe Jeongin was wrong; after all, a lie is different from an omission of truth.
Lately, though, Seungmin has been seeing doubles. He's had years to watch those eager eyes and wide smile settle into the features of an older Jeongin, now firmer and unshakable but no less lovely. He wants so badly sometimes he thinks he can manifest a kinder existence through force of will.
Jeongin invites him on a late-night trip to the convenience store. It’s reminiscent of their trainee days, back when they’d sneak out past curfew, heart thundering with so much force Seungmin was sure he’d never die.
A panorama of his dreams superimposes over Jeongin, and he becomes lost in the unbreachable distance between the Jeongin before him and the one he imagines at the weakest version of himself. His two universes fray at the edges, distinguishable just enough for the dichotomy to be painful.
They walk to the corner store in silence. Seungmin has always loved the timelessness of this place: the narrow shelves not dissimilar from the hidden pockets Jeongin had carved from the JYPE halls, where, spectacle to none, they had indulged in treats most certainly against their diets. Beneath the artificial, fluorescent lights, Seungmin feels fiction seep into his reality.
So. Lately Seungmin’s been seeing doubles. When Jeongin walks into the convenience store before him and holds the door, Seungmin sees a version of Jeongin who’s hand falls from the door into Seungmin’s awaiting palm. The mirage confuses Seungmin enough that he pauses dumbly, hand outstretched, only to realize Jeongin’s long outpaced him.
As they wander through the shelves, he sees an alternate Jeongin, face lined with the evidence of an ordinary life. They are grocery shopping together, Jeongin is holding a bag of tomatoes. It’s the casual domesticity that breaks Seungmin: they might all dream of a peaceful life, but he’s the only one who casts Jeongin in the leading role.
When they’ve collected their snacks–strawberry Melona for Jeongin, peach green tea for Seungmin–Seungmin wordlessly nudges Jeongin aside to pay for it. And though he feels the thankful hand Jeongin leaves on his shoulder, he’s certain he also feels an appreciative press of lips upon his cheek.
And when Jeongin says “hey, that was fun” what he hears is, “I love you, let's die together.”
It blurs his vision in flashes of blue and red. It muddles his brain and blinds his sight until he’s sure of nothing. He can’t trust himself. Is there any little kindness of Jeongin’s that could not have been fabricated in some sick abyss of his mind?
Reality and fiction bleed together until all there is is a pool of blood Seungmin’s sure came from his own heart. He’s a compulsive liar, his eyes are lying to him. His mind is a jumbled mess or perhaps a broken record that only reruns the most unbearable of romantic dramas: Seungmin detests his role as the blushing girl in braids when Jeongin gets to be the charismatic star.
And yet, no matter how much he despises these delusions, how much he wishes he’d reach up and find movie theater glasses he can just remove and hand to the employee by the exit, he cherishes them just the same. There’s something evanescent about these glimpses that makes Seungmin want to hoard them–they fit perfectly within that decaying cavity hidden deep in his ribcage.
He’ll never speak of these minute dreams interspersed amongst his waking hours, never tell anyone, leave no trace of it within his diary. It would be wrong, he thinks, to share this last secret hideout he’s sure Jeongin must’ve been the guide to but abandoned sometime along the way. Or, maybe he’s scared that if he were to ground these fantasies in writing they would be tainted forever.
He would rather live forever suspended within these improbabilities, Seungmin thinks, than live without these flashes of heaven.