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Everything surrounding love had always felt like a taboo topic for him.
There are countless stories and poems written about it, so many songs sung and composed with that one emotion in mind, various plays and paintings created just to honor its existence or cruel absence.
It's the reason behind so many forms of art, the key factor that seemed to drive everyone forward.
Love appeared to be in the center of everything and yet, Yeon Sieun couldn't find it in him to acknowledge or truly believe in it.
Just like godly entities or ghosts, it was something he needed to see in order to believe, something so common that he somehow had never truly experienced.
Everyone seemed to have associated it entirely with one of the vital organs, so much so that it was deemed the universal symbol of it.
The heart, something everyone cherished in all senses, something they claimed felt incomplete without warmth, something people ironically died both from and for.
But to him, love didn't feel as precious as those mindless stories made it out to be. The songs didn't seem to move him and the art surrounding it felt performative and weird in his eyes.
So in return, the heart was just as worthless.
Everyone claimed it as the most precious organ and Sieun reckoned he agreed, but only in the literal sense.
The brain and the heart were the center of their existence and yet, he never saw anyone bask about the value of the former in such artistic ways.
He had merely heard classmates scowl while muttering my brain hurts after challenging tests, though for some reason the metaphoric tone didn't bother him as much as when he'd hear the words "You're making my heart ache." come from his mother's mouth time and time again after he repeatedly refused to offer smiles that wouldn't be genuine, after he was called odd and different by far too many teachers.
The last time Sieun had caved in and simply suggested that she gets it checked by a doctor. One's vital organs shouldn't ache unless there's something horribly wrong with them.
It unfortunately hadn't been the answer she was looking for and the specific phrase was never used in front of him again.
Still, he couldn't help but keep wondering. How could a heart ache?
And if health wasn't the issue, then why would it matter? Why would he give his attention to something that meant nothing?
So many odd phrases reached his ears, phrases surrounding such a debunkable and irrational topic.
People around him spoke about hearts of gold, about heartbreak or feeling tugs at their heartstrings.
They were metaphors, nothing to dwell too much about, so why did they bother him so much? Why were they enough to make a boy who never dared to speak want to yell about how wrong they were, how impossible it was for the heart to break, to feel any pain that's not rooted in poor health, or how foolish it was to compare it to gold, to claim it could have the same worth.
In Sieun's eyes, there appeared to be no further value for it. It kept him alive. Nothing more, nothing less.
Maybe it was childish and immature jealousy speaking. Maybe it felt so stupid to him because he himself had never managed to tug on someone's heartstrings, his heart had never been described as golden.
If he were to come up with a poetic metaphor for it, he'd say that it felt as meaningless as his existence, as monochrome and dull as the world around him and as messy and fragile as a handmade quilt sewn from scraps, with tears and loose threads all around it.
Not gold, nothing pretty or nearly close to perfect, nothing entirely stable. Just stable enough for him to keep living, for him to keep existing.
It kept fraying more and more every time his father looked at him with a scowl, every time he visited his mother and saw that condescending pitiful frown. The threads became more loose with every punch and insult thrown at him by various classmates.
Attempting to patch it up had never even crossed his mind.
Why should he care about the metaphoric state of his heart and why pity its condition if it was entirely useless to him?
It did its only job of pumping blood into his veins, the rest had never mattered.
His mind decided to keep crafting meaningless metaphors when a seemingly small obstacle appeared.
A small poke that he would've never guessed would wind up being the beginning of the end.
A boy whose features were soft and gentle, unlike the point of the needle he held, with sparkling, framed eyes full of innocence that matched the shining silver of the small object.
The needle stung at first. It entered empty, without a thread in its eye, unwillingly dug a small hole on the side of his neck and left Sieun disoriented and dizzy.
The next poke was more subtle, just an offered apology that then kept prodding him for attention.
He wanted to push it away, to stop it from entering his life again, so he opted to not acknowledge the boy further.
Until he was forced to, until the rain of kicks thrown on him were stopped by yet an other unfamiliar presence.
Sieun had noticed him long before. He couldn't not have.
An other boy with sharp and kind eyes, with a permanent soft smirk etched on his lips and an attitude as fierce and shameless as the obnoxious red colour of the string he held between his fingers.
It was as if the both of them could somehow sense and see the poor state of Sieun's heart, as if the sight of the uncared for quilt bothered them.
And Sieun found himself surprised when he didn't attempt to push them away immediately.
It was nothing but an experiment, he kept telling himself. He just wanted to prove his theory correct.
The two of them wordlessly worked together. One poked pathways along the torn edges and the other followed right behind him, sewing everything together, neat and careful, to contrast the previous chaos.
For the first time since he was born, Sieun felt the mess that was his heart change beautifully, not wither away, not tear or fray.
It still wasn't gold, it would never be, but it felt just a tad bit more valuable.
The sweet company and delicate treatment made him feel almost ashamed at first. And then the shame turned into acceptance as he let them drag him along with them, as they patched up parts of him that he hadn't even realised were left untreated and unhealed.
When something cruel attempted to yank them away, Sieun found himself running right behind them, followed the faint glow of the needle and the unravelling string and claimed them right back.
The feeling as he desperately ran up that hill was obnoxious and uncharted, as though his body had suddenly decided to defy the laws of life and create a new essential and vital part inside it.
It was trying to convince him that he needed those two in the same exact way he needed his brain and his heart.
Later, when everything was over, he was stuck staring at his ceiling for hours until he couldn't take it, until the thought of not going back to the hospital drove him insane.
His heart was racing as he watched the boy become speechless with his small and almost minimal act of kindness, it suddenly felt raw and exposed, as if the quilt had momentarily been lifted off and left a gust of cold air to enter.
" You've got such a warm heart.", an uncharacteristically soft voice then said to him. Simple words that contradicted the odd emotion so easily, that stunned Sieun and made him realise that it suddenly did feel warm, that the previously useless quilt was patched up enough to offer warmth.
He hadn't heard that one before, certainly not directed at him. It was so similar to the metaphors he had always disapproved of and yet, he couldn't hate it in the slightest.
The hypocrisy of it all was absurd, borderline embarrassing.
His lips tugged upwards at the realisation, more in disbelief rather than pride, and the odd reaction he received only helped it all feel more real.
A faint ache followed as he watched the boy eat, something pleasant but entirely unfamiliar. Just a sting, a blooming warmth like striking electricity.
Sieun almost panicked, almost called for a nurse to check on him, but it seemed to have vanished the moment he looked away from the other.
It came back when they met with the third boy the next day, when they ate together and merely existed with each other.
It kept coming back everytime his eyes would lock with the sharp and kind ones, everytime he'd feel his arm wrap around his shoulders as if it was the most natural thing.
His mother's words came back to him, but he quickly disregarded them, too ashamed to address his quick change of mind. He still wasn't willing to accept defeat.
Could the heart ache in a good way, or was he dying slowly? Was his body giving him a warning to run away from those two, or was it simply that emotion everyone kept talking about, the very same thing Sieun had never believed in?
He refused to accept it, to give up his theory so easily. The faint ache was caused by the sudden changes in his life. His body was struggling to adjust and in return his heart was having a bit more trouble with its basic functions.
But the ache only became stronger when he offered understanding and empathy, when the pair of framed eyes looked at him with such adoration and gratitude.
The boy had looked shocked, moved.
It was different from anything Sieun had ever felt. He felt needed, appreciated, like he had done something worthy enough to earn him a spot within such a kind heart.
Soon the small pain became far too sweet, familiar, and at some point he stopped noticing it whatsoever.
With every fight they'd walk out of, every bruise they'd gain or even every meal they'd share, he welcomed it more and more, ignored it as if it was a normal part of him.
And then the needle suddenly stopped poking etryways for the thread to pass though, then Sieun noticed how rusty and troubled it was, how the shining silver was only a decoy to hide an uglier and more pained sight.
Every cold glare dug cruel and messy holes in the fabric, every harsh word untied the end of the red string from its eye.
It was cruel to watch, to feel the progress go in reverse and the carefully weaved quilt slowly go back to its horrible and ugly state, but Sieun couldn't do anything to stop it.
He was afraid, stunned and stuck in a territory he had never explored before.
The needle was supposed to be the start of everything, but suddenly the realisation that the thread was the one people would always look at and credit for the work felt too heavy for the boy holding it.
It tried to turn on its partner, tried to cut down the red thread entirely and unweave it from both Sieun's and his own heart.
Sieun thoughtlessly stepped in between, entered the building with hope and left it with a body almost as battered as his heart.
The needle hadn't poked him again, but suddenly the previously delicate holes it had left in its path felt just as frayed and cruel as the rest of the tears had always felt like.
And Sieun almost allowed himself to cry as he slowly went back to the numb and void shell he had just recently been helped out from.
The small aches had been trying to warn him to stay away before it was too late and he selfishly hadn't.
Instead of facing it, he hid and lied. He sat down and tried to forcefully yank away the crimson string, even as it clung and kept trying to hold the pieces together.
He then found himself staring right back at the sharp and kind eyes, felt the other trying to gently hand him the other end of the string that suddenly looked far too close to its end, suspiciously short.
He saw anger, he saw regret and sorrow and when the door shut again, he saw the poor excuse of his heart being entirely wrapped and held together by the fading thread. It no longer felt warm, or carefully weaved in. It was unstable, apologetic and desperate as it tried to cover every exposed and frayed part.
For the rest of the night Sieun didn't understand why, didn't know why it suddenly felt weird to feel empty, or why the warmth he had grown to yearn for felt suffocating.
He didn't pay attention to it when he woke up. He only acknowledged it when the call arrived, only noticed the cruel absence when the cursed words were uttered by a trembling voice.
For every rushed step he took towards the hospital, pieces of the quilt frayed more and more, previously sewn together holes unravelled open once again and the loose ends snagged at every corner, every person that passed by him.
By the time he reached the room, his heart was just as ugly and worthless as it used to be.
It was odd. His heart was back to its original state and yet, it suddenly felt wrong.
Maybe it was the new paths the needle had left behind, or the lack of the intense dap of colour.
The frayed string snaked entirely away from him, it slithered under the closed door of the hospital room even as he tried to snatch its end and take it back.
It left nothing but agony, left him feeling raw and lonely in ways he hadn't known were possible.
It hurts, Sieun caught himself admitting the moment his eyes locked on the unmoving figure on the bed.
It was worse than any physical pain he had experienced, achingly close to what he assumed drowning felt like.
For a moment he was convinced he was truly dying, fading away, like all the pain he had avoided his entire life had suddenly gathered at the center of his chest and was threatening to make him explode.
The pain followed him to school, it made the throbbing of his bruised knuckles and the scratchiness of his sore throat feel minimal and insignificant.
The boy holding the rusty and bent needle looked just as void as himself, just as regretful and pained.
Maybe the only reason why Sieun couldn't give into his rage and break him was because he seemed to be broken enough already.
Maybe he pitied the shredded and ruined mess that was the boy's heart, the familiarity of a mirrored life that had never received enough love.
Even after he broke the other people responsible, he couldn't bear to look at the blood on his hands. The crimson felt too familiar, too dear and simultaneously bitter.
Love was suffocating, he realised as he went back to the hospital and locked his gaze on the gentle expression of the boy he couldn't seem to let go of.
He suddenly hated the poems and songs even more, wished the paintings dedicated to it would burn to the ground.
This was the world's most precious emotion? This was how it was supposed to feel like by the end of it all?
It truly felt as though his heart was breaking apart, as though the various scraps were seperating entirely and leaving him with gaps he knew he'd never be able to fill back up.
Perhaps it was fate punishing him, showing him that the phrases he had been so keen on dismissing were rooted in truth.
His eyes stung with tears, his lungs ached from the effort of his dry heaving and his chest was left in raw agony.
And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the ache vanished. It left nothing but a cold numbness behind it, a shadow of a person who seemed eager to keep running away from the sun.
The moment he moved away, the second he entered his new school and wasn't met with an arm around his shoulder and two warm smiles, everything stopped.
He had gone back to square one, but suddenly instead of indifference he had grief hovering over his head.
It was too ironic, as if the universe had only wanted to prove him wrong for a few moments before letting him return to the dooming mindset he had proudly carried for his entire life.
It wanted to make him feel stupid for claiming that he had felt such pain, for betraying his firm belief and daring to act like a human worthy of experiencing the most precious emotion.
He didn't let it shame him, not entirely at least. The warmth had been just as real as the agony, he was sure of it. He had felt it all so deeply, so pure and genuinely.
His initial mindset had only been half right, after all.
The heart could ache in all ways possible, but he felt no less bitter about it than before.
His previous indifference and dislike turned into hatred, a grudge he knew he'd be holding onto until his heart would eventually stop beating.
The very same thing that was responsible for his life punished him when all he had wanted was to learn how to appreciate it more, to learn how to live.
So in his eyes, there was no further value for it anymore and he doubted there ever will be again.
It so easily went from gentle flutters and lovely aches to numbness, to nothing.
It took the carefully healed quilt and just watched it get destroyed all over again, it didn't even try to hold onto it.
A betrayal worse than death, something he would never forgive neither himself or his heart for.
The quilt no longer kept him warm. It was just a subtle weight on his chest, useless and battered.
The so called most precious organ that had birthed the majority of this world's art was there to merely keep him alive. Nothing more, nothing less.
It was there in his chest, but he didn't feel it, it kept pumping blood, but he didn't know nor care how well.