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Andrew cannot sleep.
Ever since he left that place, he has been having the same nightmare, over and over again. And it's always about that horrible place—the one he refuses to think about.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees them—he sees everything that happened in the past. All those memories he wanted to leave buried always come rushing back, refusing to let go. And he's scared.
He pushes himself out of bed, with his chest feeling tight. His skin feels clammy, and he’s woken up in a cold sweat once more.
Somehow, he always has the same nightmare. He thinks about those days leading up to that fateful confrontation between the two, and the moment he had admitted he was planning to leave. His memories all seem to circle back to that, and what finally gave him the courage to move out.
“Andrew? Are you there…?”
Ivan’s voice comes from the other side of the bathroom door. He knocks once, softly—until he realises the door is unlocked. It seems like in his haste, Andrew has forgotten to lock it. But he always locks it—he doesn't know why he’s forgotten to do so this time.
Why did he forget? How could he have forgotten such an important thing?
Something feels slimy in his palms. An unnatural, unsettling feeling. He looks down.
His hands are red. Blood seeps slowly from his wounds, dripping onto the floor beneath him.
Oh, that's right. He knows why.
He’s bleeding.
Ivan pushes the door open, and hesitantly steps inside. “Are you okay? I hope you don't mind if I come in…”
Of course I’m not okay. Of course I don't want you here. But I can't tell you that, right?
Andrew shakes his head, and keeps his eyes on the ground. Ivan’s gaze follows, dropping immediately. He notices the mess on the floor, and the blood smeared across Andrew’s palms and skin.
“Oh, Andrew…” Ivan murmurs quietly, sounding almost guilty. “I’m so sorry…”
He moves quickly around the bathroom, opening drawers until he finds some clean bandages he can use. Then, he crouches down, and tries to reach for Andrew’s hands. But he pulls back instinctively, eyes full of fear. He can't trust Ivan. Not after what they’ve done to him.
“Hey,” Ivan begins, his voice soft. “I’m sorry for losing my temper earlier. I just… you have to let me help you, okay?” He forces a small smile, one meant to be reassuring—but it comes across as cold and calculating. “We wouldn’t want it to get infected, right?”
Ivan holds out the bandage, waiting.
And Andrew wants to protest. To reject his offer, and to never speak again. He wants to refuse their kindness, to pull away from it all—but he doesn't. He knows he can't. After all, he’s the one staying at their place. He can't leave—he has nowhere else to go. He can't risk angering them any further.
Andrew lets him take it.
Ivan smiles at him once more, acting as if he wasn't the one who caused this in the first place. As Ivan works, Andrew keeps his eyes on him. That red in his palms… It's the same red as the visor Ivan always wears. The exact same shade. No matter where he turns, no matter how hard he tries to escape… Ivan always seems to be there, watching him.
And he hates it.
Ivan cleans and wraps the wounds carefully, muttering soft words of reassurances under his breath. Maybe he means to comfort them, to take their mind off things. But none of that kindness seems to reach Andrew. He knows they are hollow, empty words… promises that hold no weight.
You always do this, Ivan.
“I’m sorry, Andrew…” Ivan begins, before lowering his gaze, looking at anywhere but Andrew. Andrew’s stomach twists as he listens to them say it so quickly, trying to convince him and they’ll be better. That line sounds practiced, like there's nothing genuine about his apology.
Then, Ivan continues to speak. Andrew can't help but notice how their shoulders seem to slump slightly. “I didn't mean it. It was… an accident. I would never want to hurt you.”
You know you don't believe him. You know he can’t change. You hate him. But what kind of friend does that make you, after everything he’s done for you?
You’re a terrible person, Andrew.
Andrew swallows hard. He gives them a small nod, yet keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. “I know.”
Ivan lets out a shaky breath, sounding almost relieved. He places a hand on their shoulder—it’s an action spurned on by kindness rather than malice, but it doesn't come across that way at all. “You know how I get sometimes…” His grip on them tightens just a little. “But I would never want to hurt you on purpose. After all, you’re my dearest friend.” He looks up at him, eyes pleading. “You understand me, right?”
The sight nearly makes Andrew choke. “I do.”
“So… you forgive me, right?”
Forgiveness. That word… it barely means anything to him anymore. Forgiveness can be exploited, misused… an excuse used time and time again, one that he’s accepted all this while—only to be hurt once more. Andrew has forgiven Ivan so many times that it means nothing to him anymore. It’s just another facade, a false peace made to cover the crack in their relationship. It's the only way they can continue to pretend, and act like nothing was wrong, even if everything seems to be falling apart.
He always hurts you—you should leave. And yet, you stay with him. You let him hurt you. Doesn’t that make it your fault too, Andrew?
Andrew nods again, though this time he barely moves. “Yeah.”
“Thank you, Andrew…” Ivan smiles, clearly relieved. “I knew you would understand.”
He pulls Andrew into a hug.
But it feels too tight. Their arms wrap around him firmly, nearly squeezing the air out of his lungs. Andrew flinches, caught off guard by the sudden pressure. He forces himself to stay still, and keeps his hands clenched at his sides as he resists the urge to push them away.
He just has to endure it.
You’re always watching me—you seem to have eyes everywhere. You never let me be myself. You’re suffocating me, Ivan. And sometimes, you’re kind..You say you love me, you promise that you’ll always be there for me. At times, you feel warm, just like fire. But if I get too close… everything seems to burn. My skin peels off, and I can't breathe.
In the end, this cycle of abuse never stops.
“I won’t do it again,” Ivan admits quietly. “I promise.”
Andrew knows it’s a lie. They both do.
I think… I’ll move out tomorrow, he tells himself.
But it's always tomorrow, isn't it? It's a constant promise he makes to himself, one he never intends on keeping. That tomorrow will turn into the next day, and then the next, until that word will lose its meaning too. Deep down, he knows he won't leave tomorrow. He’s not sure when he’ll move out… or if he’ll ever leave.
But that thought is what keeps him going. Those words are the only reason he’s still standing.
It’s hope—a bitter, fragile one, one he knows to be untrue—but it's all he has. That idea that one day, somehow, he’ll get out of here.
And that day eventually comes. He manages to leave. But… he’s never truly free, is he?
Even now, everything seems to remind him of Ivan. Every moment, everything he sees—all brings him back to that horrible time, the one he’s tried so hard to erase. No matter how far he goes, the past follows, trailing right behind him.
He will always be haunted by them.
Stop. Stop thinking about it. You have to move on.
With that, he finally snaps out of his thoughts. He… doesn't want to think about this anymore. He wants to—no, he needs to—to find something to do so he can relax, even if it's only for a little while. He’ll do anything just to be able to quiet his mind, and calm himself down from everything.
Slowly, he gets off his bed, before heading to the living room. The first thing he does is sink onto the couch, taking a moment to finally… breathe. Then, he grabs the remote, and turns on the television, hoping to find something distracting to watch—just to help take his mind off things. He mindlessly flips through the channels without really looking through them, and in his mind, those images begin to blur together, as he searches for something—anything, really—that won't remind him of Ivan.
Then, a news channel pops up on the screen.
He stops, stunned. Around him, the world seems to spin.
It was showing footage of smoke, of various firefighters rushing to the scene. Behind it, was a burning apartment building. But that isn't what makes him pause—it’s the fact he knows this building. He’s too familiar with it.
It can't be.
The reporter explains how a fire had broken out in the apartment, and how there was one known casualty. His chest tightens, and his mind starts to race, thoughts filled with frantic worry—but he gives his arm a light pinch, trying to calm himself down. Plenty of buildings look just like that. He… has to be overthinking it. It probably wasn't Ivan’s place, right?
It has to be.
But at that moment, the reporter reads out the address. And then comes the undeniable proof—the one he’s been dreading all this time.
His blood runs cold. His heart nearly stops.
That address… that’s Ivan’s apartment.
The casualty… It can't be Ivan. It couldn't possibly be.
He’s going to be sick.
His body reacts before his mind can fully process everything. He starts to feel nauseous, and quickly scrambles to his feet, rushing for the bathroom. He barely makes it in time, gripping the sink as he retches. But nothing comes up—instead, his body heaves uselessly, coughing up dry, painful gasps.
Eventually, he gets up, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He turns on the tap, splashing water onto his face, attempting to calm himself. He needs to pull himself together.
Hesitantly, he looks up, just to see his reflection. Whether it's from curiosity or disgust, he doesn't quite know. The mirror stares back at him.
He barely recognises himself.
His skin looks pale, and there are dark, heavy eye bags beneath his eyes. They’re also a bit red, raw from the crying he does every single night. His hair is an unbrushed mess, with strands sticking out in uneven directions. He looks… sick. And then, he sees it—the bruises around his neck. It’s the final thing that Ivan had left him, that terrible mark he had left behind.
Once, there had been a faint purple blooming around his neck. Now, it's formed into a sickly yellow, one that makes him feel disgusted to look at.
His fingers tremble as he remembers that moment, and the fear and panic that had overtaken him. In that moment, he had truly believed he was going to die. He remembers how he had begged Ivan to let go of him, even as his voice began to crack, and his vision started to blur. He had really thought that right then, that was the end for him.
He lifts his fingers up, then touches the bruised skin, picking at it absentmindedly. But a sharp, throbbing pain immediately stops him. Even now, it still hurts.
He drops his hand, before looking away from his reflection in the mirror. He can't stand to look at it anymore.
Ivan… he can't be dead. He couldn't possibly be—there’s no way he’ll be able to accept this.
His breaths come quicker. His chest begins to tighten, and before he knows it, he’s spiraling. The room feels smaller, and everything else seems to be closing in on him. The world around him goes dark.
He can’t breathe. Suddenly, he’s back there again, with their hands wrapped around him.
“I just wish you’d understand me, Andrew.”
He remembers how tight their grip was, and how they refused to let go of him. Their fingers were digging into his skin, roughly pressing onto the flesh within.
Andrew claws weakly at their wrists, voice breaking as he struggles to speak properly. “Ivan, I… I can’t breathe…!”
Around him, the world starts to tilt. His heart pounds loudly in his ears. He starts to see dark stars, dancing around him.
He chokes out the rest of his pleas, though they’re barely audible. Tears stream down his cheeks as he violently gasps for air. “Please… Ivan…”
He really thinks this is it. This is where his life ends, with the hands of someone—someone he used to call a dear friend—wrapped around his neck. He closes his eyes, readying himself for the end—but deep down, he’s scared. He doesn't want to die. Not yet. He has… so much left to do, so much left to create. He doesn't want his life to end like this. Please, if there is a god… show me some mercy. I beg of you.
And then… Ivan lets go.
He releases his grip around their neck, and frees them from his hold. Andrew instantly collapses forward, coughing violently. As air finally rushes back into his lungs, he can't help but choke on it. He gags, and his body starts to shake uncontrollably. Andrew’s grateful—yet in a way, terrified—to be alive. Even now, he’s still at their mercy. Even after barely escaping death’s door, he still has to come crawling back to Ivan. How… pathetic.
“I won’t let you forget me, Andrew…” Ivan murmurs, sounding almost resentful. Even to this day, those familiar, sickening words continue to linger in his mind. “After all… you meant everything to me, my dear friend.”
Around him, the world goes silent. Andrew finally lets himself sink to the floor, completely at a loss. It was… just another hallucination. It wasn't real.
Everything feels far too quiet. Even now, his heart still aches.
After a few moments, he eventually forces himself to move—he knows he can't stay here forever. He pushes his palms against the floor, and attempts to get to his feet. His movements are unsteady, and his legs feel weak. His stomach churns with disgust—partly directed at himself, and the memories he won't let go of. It just… it all felt real. Too real, for it to just be another hallucination.
He knows he can't go on like this forever. But as of right now… all he needs is rest.
Andrew drags himself back to bed, before lying down. He’s hoping to ease his mind just a little, before the news of the inevitable reaches him. He pulls the blanket up, covering himself completely. He’s not cold at all—he just doesn't want to feel… seen. He stares up at the ceiling, his gaze unfocused, just waiting—waiting for what he knows is coming next. He wants to pretend he isn't afraid—that he doesn't see their eyes everywhere, watching him. He doesn't want to think about them, even though he knows he must.
He just has to pretend everything will be alright. And when the morning comes, all those worries will fade away—that one day, he’ll be able to move past this, and heal. It just takes time… more time than he expected.
Everything will be okay. It has to be. They couldn't possibly be dead.
He didn't get any sleep that night. And when the morning comes… the truth follows.
Ivan is gone.
He was the only casualty in the fire. Some people called it fortunate—no one else was badly injured, especially since it had been so large. It could have been worse, they had claimed. But Andrew wasn't sure if he would call any of this lucky—even though Ivan was gone, he didn't feel the least bit… free.
Then, Ivan’s mother reaches out to him. He didn't expect it, but he should have known—Ivan didn't have many friends. Andrew might have been the only one… not that they were friends. Not anymore. But he really doesn't know—he doesn't know what they are.
The message that comes is brief. It specifies a few details about the funeral, and nothing more. Andrew feels a little guilty—losing a husband, then a son must be a lot. Two tragedies, and now, she was all alone…
He should feel bad. And he does.
Honestly? He doesn't want to go to the funeral. He doesn't want to go anywhere near Ivan, and all those reminders of him, and their past together. But he tells himself it's only right he does so. It's… respectful. And he’s not doing this for Ivan. He’ll do it for his mother. And maybe… for himself.
Maybe it’ll give him closure, and he’ll finally be able to rest. If he goes, the nightmares might stop. He had to know if Ivan was truly gone—in his heart, he knows he just has to go.
And so, he gathers the courage to leave. It takes a while to get there, but he eventually reaches it. And when he does, he instantly regrets it. The place looks empty, almost abandoned—inside, there's only a small handful of people, mostly unfamiliar faces. The only one he recognises is Ivan’s mother—she’s sitting in the corner, weeping quietly. The other unfamiliar figures linger nearby, with blank, lost expressions on their faces. Relatives, perhaps. People who came out of pity. They don't look like friends.
At the entrance, Andrew can't help but hesitate. As he steps inside, he stiffens, feeling tense from all the memories beginning to surface in his mind.
He doesn't know what brought him here. He doesn't know why he came, even after everything Ivan did to him. Him claiming he was trying to do the right thing? Unbelievable. Ivan didn't deserve this kindness—and Andrew wasn't supposed to feel… guilty.
But he did, and he couldn't deny it. Maybe it's because he found out the truth… Ivan didn't die in the fire—he had taken his own life.
Initially, he had believed it to be a terrible accident. But he soon found out the truth—the fire may have been intentional, and it started in Ivan’s apartment. The investigation was still ongoing, but there were no other casualties. But that's not the worst part—the worst part was when they found his body at the bottom of the building. Lying there, insides splattered across the pavement, a dead man on the ground. And that person…
It was Ivan—he had jumped. Andrew thinks he knows why.
He’s already beginning to feel sick again. He should leave… he clearly doesn't belong here. But before he can retreat, Ivan’s mother sees him—and it leaves Andrew with no choice but to stay. Her eyes widen briefly, and she’s clearly in shock. Perhaps she didn't expect him to show up. She stands up quickly, then walks up to him, a relieved expression on her face. He must be the only familiar face here.
“Andrew, I didn't expect to see you here… Thank you for coming.”
Andrew nods, unable to find his voice. He lets her continue.
“You were… a dear friend to Ivan.”
Andrew’s stomach twists violently. He can't bear to tell her the truth. He simply nods over and over again in agreement, even though he feels like he’s going to throw up. She says a few more words of appreciation, before finally leaving him alone, so she could attend to other matters. And when she does, he feels grateful—he had grown tired of nodding, and trying to hold himself together. He doesn't trust himself to say anything more, and he wants to leave—he already was planning to. In the end, he's starting to regret coming here at all.
How do you feel bad for someone you should despise?
He doesn’t know.
All he knows is that something inside him knows this is wrong—but no matter how hard he tries, he can't shake the feeling that he shouldn't be here.
And yet, here he was, attending Ivan’s funeral. He still needs to pay his respects.
With that, Andrew pulls out the lone flower he had picked up earlier—a single, white chrysanthemum. His fingers tighten around the stem, his knuckles whitening as his grip hardens around it. For a moment, he doesn't realise how much pressure he’s putting on it—that is, until the stem nearly bends, and threatens to snap into two.
Fuck.
For Ivan, this death must have been a mercy. An ending that let him wash away his sins, and scrub himself clean—it had been the thing that allowed the world to forget what a horrible person he had truly become. After all, who could hold such terrible thoughts of hatred while watching him be lowered into a wooden casket, sealed away in the deepest parts of the earth, never to be seen again? To some, death may seem cruel, and heartless.
But the living, the ones the dead leave behind—are the worst of them all. They soothe themselves, and absolve their guilt with all those comforting lies—they continue on with the hope that the dead will finally rest in peace. They tell themselves that everything is gone now, that there is nothing that remains, and that the dead can no longer do any wrong.
But Andrew can't understand that sentiment… not at all.
Ivan… Why can’t I hate you? Why can’t I despise you?
Honestly… You’re a horrible person, Ivan. You don't deserve any of this. You hurt me, over and over again—and left those scars on my mind, ones I can never forget.
Why can’t I just be glad that you’re dead?
His chest starts to tighten, and he takes in a slow breath, trying to calm himself down. He loosens his grip on the flower—he didn't realise how close he was to almost breaking the stem entirely. He has to stay composed—he can’t possibly fall apart here, right in front of everyone.
He steps forward, one foot at a time, walking toward the casket. It’s closed.
A strange sense of deja vu settles over him. He remembers something Ivan had once told him—about his own father's death, and how he had seen it up close. How, at his funeral a long time ago, they had left the casket open by accident. And Ivan had seen what was inside—he had to witness that tragedy that the others had tried so hard to hide. Those burn marks, and the damage the fire had left to his father’s body. The way death had taken him, and turned him into someone unrecognisable.
Andrew swallows hard.
He doesn’t want to imagine what Ivan looks like now—and he knows he doesn't need to. The image of Ivan’s face is already burned into his mind—he always had that same, sickening smile plastered on his face, one that never quite reached his eyes. His gaze was always cold and distant—they shone with a kind of love that was never gentle, never warm towards Andrew. And they always had that look on their face—one he never truly understood, one that felt… off. It seemed like Ivan was studying him—deciding what they could take from them, what they could use to get out of him. They saw him, but never understood him, or loved him for who he was.
Andrew takes another step forward, until he’s standing directly in front of the casket. He doesn't say anything, because there's nothing left to say. He simply places the chrysanthemum on the top, and stares into the wood.
This is your legacy, Ivan. This is what you will leave behind.
You ended your life, and you undid the very thing your father fought so hard against. There's something ironic about it… it’s almost bittersweet, in a way. But Andrew can't bring himself to feel sorry for him. Ivan did terrible things—things that Andrew can never forget, no matter how much time passes. Those memories will forever be burned in his mind.
But as he stands there, staring at the casket, hearing Ivan’s mother sob quietly somewhere behind him, a sense of pity settles in.
It's not for Ivan. No, it's for all of this.
The hatred he feels for Ivan dissipates, just a little. He knows he should hate Ivan—he had every reason to. And now… now, Ivan can never hurt him again. He should be glad he’s dead—he doesn't have to live in fear any longer. He’s finally free from their grasp.
So why does everything feel so wrong?
He can't stand being here anymore. It feels suffocating—every breath he takes seems to burn his throat. He turns away from the casket, unable to endure staying here for another second. He needs to go right now.
And so, Andrew leaves—he knows he can't remain there for any longer.
He doesn't say anything to anyone—he simply turns and walks out. He doesn't even look back to check on things, or say goodbye to Ivan’s mother—he just can't possibly bring himself to. The threat he once made—about releasing the evidence of everything that had happened between the two, and finally coming clean—it feels distant now, almost unreal. It lingers at the back of his mind—and now, he doesn't know what to do with it anymore.
It's only when he knows he’s far, far away that he stops.
Andrew just stands there for a moment, lost, staring at nothing. Then, his legs finally give out, and he lowers himself onto the edge of the pavement. His shoulders slump forward, exhausted. Before all of this, he had a plan. At least, he thought he did—he wanted to have a fresh start, and make a new life for himself. He was certain of the future… of what he wanted to work towards. He wanted to get better, and to heal from everything. But now…
Now, he doesn't know what comes next. Ivan is gone, lost to the world—leaving Andrew all alone, to pick up the pieces he left behind.
You didn't even apologize. You just… died. Do you really think that's right, Ivan? Is this the only way you know how to fix things…? By ruining them?
He clenches his jaw, his anger and grief twisting together.
I… I don't know what you were thinking. I don't know what could have possibly driven you to do this. You… You didn't fix anything—you made it worse. I could never understand you, Ivan, and I hope I never will. And all these questions I have, all this apologies I’m owed… I’ll never get to hear the answer from you. I’ll never know why you did it, why you decided to hurt me like this—or why you decided to end your life. All I know is that you’re gone, and you’re never coming back.
Shouldn’t I be glad you’re dead, Ivan?
Now, you can't hurt me anymore. I’m finally free from your grasp. You did so many horrible things to me—you ruined my life. I can never hope to love you again, and never dare to forgive you again. Not after what you’ve done—all of those scars you left me, it is the only proof of your sin. This abuse is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I will be forced to remember you, no matter how hard I try not to. I hate you, Ivan. I truly do.
But even if I truly did hate you, Ivan…
That doesn't mean I wanted you to die. No, I didn't want any of this. I just wanted to move on…
“Goddamn it,” he mutters under his breath. His voice begins to break, and the tears threaten to spill down his cheeks.
Was it really too much to ask? Was it a crime for him to wish to be free?
Deep down, he just wanted to escape from everything. But now, he feels more trapped than ever—haunted by his past memories, and robbed of any real sense of closure. All he ever wanted was to move forward from this, and never think about Ivan again. And maybe, if they had lived, he could have continued this foolish dream—a hope that someday, Ivan might learn from all of this. That he could have changed, become a better person, and turned over a new leaf. And maybe, Andrew too, could have learned to let it go. To forget the past, and move on as well.
But now that Ivan is dead…
How is he supposed to move on? How is he meant to get better? How could he ever possibly dream of being free?
I guess you were right about one thing, Ivan.
As much as I wish I could move on, I can’t. No matter how hard I try, I can never forget you. And I hate that. I should hate you, Ivan… and yet, I don't.
I… I can't bring myself to hate you, Ivan.
Andrew buries his face in his hands. The tears flow freely now, and a quiet, desperate sob escapes his throat.
But god... I wish I could.