PARK SEONGHWA

(You know I'll never disappear
Now get me out of here
Just trust in me, my dear
No cure is coming you now)

Ḿ̵̨̻̺͕̇̔̓̃͂̎̐̑̅̈́̓̀̑̈́̈̽̓̅͒̐̕͝y̴̛̛̥͍̰̱͇̹͓̯̟̯̝̮̖̖̳̞͍̺̠͉͍̺͍̥͇̣̗̱̯̮͖͙̿̄̐̑̎̆̊̂ ̷̢̪̠̩̮͔̬̲̠͉̟̥̪̬̜͖̥͇́̇͋̂̍̌̔̑̾̌̾̌̒̽̐͐͆͂̑̏͂͋̈̄̽͊̄̈́͋̃̊̌̔̾̈́͑̚̕͜͝͝͠͝ͅm̴̡̡̛̖̞̺̙͖͉̙̯̪̤͙̘͎̮͓̻͔͇̬̥̦̫̞̝͖͉̼̜̹̗̻̼͈͉̥̲̩̩͎͋̑͆͂̈͊̀̂͐̒̅̈́̊́͋͗̆͐͊͌̾̈́̒͑̏́̾̓͘͘̕̕̕͜͝͝į̴̢̢̡̯͇͖͈͇̟̦̱͇̖̘̺̗̜̰͔̹̼̲͈͕̲̬̬̯̏́͐̏̂̃̓̀͒̈́̇̓̑͑͊̈́̾͛͐͘͜͠͝n̶̡̢̧̢̧̨̙̲̭͖̝̗̘̪͚̳͈̰͔̝͕͙̮̙̺̥͙̦̑̽̇̈́͛͒͛̑͌̈́͒͐́̿̚d̷̨̧͈̖̺̞̘̩̲̟̮̘̣̯͉̲̟̗̙̘̭̰̉̉̀̄͗̓̏́͊̆̄̑̄͛̿̏̃̇̑̀͐͌͆̎͛̄̄́̚̚ͅ ̶̬̥̞̔̇̏̚̚ȉ̶̛͙͖̍̃̀̊͋͗̀͊̀̇̀͋͑̉̒͆́̂̀͝͝ş̴̢̫̬̹̲̮̻͇̺̜̲̘͖̘̖͕͈͎͍͉͍̗̞̥̞͚̝̘̤̼̇̓̾̏͌͒́́̏̽͊̆́́͊͆͊̑͐̀̀̀̔̒́̀̂́͑͋͋͘͘͠͝͠ ̶̢̢̺̞̗̙̝̥̗͙̺͊͛́̔̈́̏̋̚͜m̷̛̝̟̀̈́͊̒̾̿̈́̒̐̅̿̀͑́͂͌̓̓̉͋̌̆̈́̃͗͘͝ų̵̨̛̛̛̛̺̰̺̪̰̼̻͍͚̯̩̹̣̲̥̫̱͎̖̮̖̱̗̘͍̦͉̆̀̋͒̽͂̈́́̉͑̾̔̌̀͗͋̅̔̏͑̿̿̆̋͘͝d̷̖̥͕̱̣͓̠̹͆̀̀̈́̌͛́̊̏́̊̑̚͠ḍ̵̛̭̜͚̳͌̔̀͑͊̾̿̍̈̌͌̃̄͛̌́͐̃͑̈́̊̍̃̒̅̆̑͊́͆̈́̈́̀̕̚͝͝͝͝͠ý̶̨̡̢̲͕̗̮̠̰̬̹͈͎͔͈̣̽̅̒͂͂̂͑̀͑͐͐̎̋͌̄́̔́̃́͛̀̃͘̚͝.̸̡̛̟̝͍̹̮̱̯͈̈́̒͗̀͑́̾͒͐͋̋̏̾͐̎̏̿̎͊͌̋̏̉̋͆͘̕̕͝͝ͅ ̶̧̡̛̪̭̩̘̱̯͔̞͉̠̠̜̱̦̹͇͈̊͒̽̎͒̌̈̓͒̈́̽͒̾̓͆͛̀͋͌̕͠͠W̸̨̨̛͚̤̭͖͎̳̮̿̊̾͊̃͂̅͗͂̊̃̉͑͆̊͌͂̉̓̀̄̽͊͑͋̕͠͝ĥ̷̨̢̢͎̺̖̖͔̮̬̤̭̹̱̙̪̮͔̮̖͎̹͕͖̺̦͇̓̾̑͛̏͒̀͛̀͌̾͛̍͛̒͂̇̋́̾̔̐̊̈́͛͌̆́̆͂̓͒͒̎̕͝͝͝a̵̡̨͚̗̣̬͚͕͔͓̩̗͚̻̻̩̝͔͚͍̥̙̣͙̺̝̠̬̽̓͑͋̾͒̉͐̉͛́̉̎̀̐̾̈́̐̒̅͑̔̆̅͌̀̀͋̋͘̚͜͝͝͝ͅͅt̵̨̧̨̖̹̬͖̼̗̻̟͉̥͚̮̫̣̖̝̻̳͙̤͎̬͉͔̳͓̺͈͙̪͙̱̹̪̹͖͐̉͊̍̅̓̏̓̋̄̅̐̉͝ ̶̢̛̛̹̯̣͖͔̪̦͋͐̍͋̽͆̉́̔̾̾͛̄́̐͐̊̆̈́̓̂́̒͛̊͂̾͛̾̿̾̓͂̎͊͛̂̔͝͠͝d̸̨̧̨̹̺̗͔̣̪̹̤̭̯̭̯͎̻̙̳̟̎̎̉̈́́͗̑͋̅̃̈͆̓͒̐͗͘͜͝͠ͅa̵̢̨̧̢̲͍̖̞̙͈̗̘̱̰͉̖͉̘̺̱̹̜̠̙̺̘͛̍͋̈́͋̒̈́̑̆͑́̽̀͐͑̔́͐͛͗̍̚͜͜ȳ̴̢̡̛̛̭͕̰̜̥̪̹̱̤̩̤͈̙̖̦̦͖̖͉͚̱̗͖̗͕̦͚̻̝͈̟̰̋̅̇̆͑̉̈́́͂̑̓̃̓͆̽̅͊̈̈́͂͜͜͜͜͝ ̸̮̻̱̤̳̝͔̯́̇̑̌̽̈́̅̏̑͆͒̍̀̀̏͊̃͌́̽͗̊̆͋̓̌̚̚̕͠͠͝͝į̷̻͖̰̪̀͆͛̏̽̔̇̈͋̌̆͐͊͑͛̅͛͒̾̆̿̂͛̂̍̀̉̕͘͜͝͝͝ș̶̥̭̘̳͉̮̻͎̪̬̭͈̱̲̗̖̩̲̗̹̦͓͕͔̲̔̀̒̈́̑̈́́͋̄̐͋͐̒͌̽̅̆͌̿̉͛̕͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅ ̶̫̰͚̪͇̼̝̤̲̰̮͂͛̐̌͋̀̈́͑̈͒͗͆̑͠͝ͅi̵̮̲̭̒͑̌̓̒̑͑̂̅̓̇͋̀̏̍̐͑̂̌̌̓̏̅̈́̋̓̑͋̈́͊̉̾̒̕͜͝ţ̶̡̡̹̜͖̰̰̙͉͍̘͚̻̼̦͕͚̹̪̣͙̳͑̒͒̑̍͒̈́͗̓̉͐͂͊͊͂͑̆̏̌̓́́̉̕̕̚͘͜͝͝ͅ?̶̧͕̭̦̟̯̼̤̲͈͍̥̳͎̞̮͈̺̣͖͈͎̗̜͈̣̝̲͎̪̩̙͉̱̭̞͙̼̞̮̀̔̈́͜͜ͅ

Seonghwa has ten missed calls from his mother, twelve from his father, a few from his grandparents, and countless messages from worried friends. He can't bring himself to call back.

Everything is surface level with them. Plastic smiles and plastic teeth. They don't care that their insides are decaying with the weight of unsolvable problems.

Their indifference is eating away at him; corroding his insides. Yet they do care about him, in a way. They do. They support him, but do they love him?

Maybe they did, once, when he was younger.

Seonghwa wished they would care more about him, and less about his achievements. Whenever they throw parties, all they talk about are his grades, his valedictorian speech, the compliments his professors give him...

It's all about what he does, not about who he is.

Because Seonghwa feels as if he's made for something more than a normal life. He's not made for a boring 9 to 5 office job. He's made for excitement and adventure, drama and frenzy — risk and reward and all that.

Fake happiness is the worst sadness, and Seonghwa is pretending to be okay. He's trying so hard to be content with what he has, with his life, and with what he's doing with it. But he's not. His life has no direction and he's not fucking okay. He's never been further from it.

He's gotten used to being alone. But now he's bearing the burden of Atlas, and it weighs heavy on his shoulders.

He wonders how long he can go on like this; constantly switching between going batshit crazy ripping out his fingernails, and overflowing with hopelessness — malfunctioning — wishing he would sink into the floor.

There is always that little voice in the back of his head telling him: "just once more, and then I'll quit." But if he doesn't bend, he'll break. Maybe he's broken already.

The truth is: Seonghwa is scared. He hates this feeling — this feeling of not belonging in his own skin, trapped in a skeletal prison with no escape save death.

Because she ripped his heart out like ripping off a band-aid. But band-aids don't make you bleed. Band-aids wounds stop hurting after a while. So why doesn't the pain go away?

He's bleeding red emotions all over the carpet — passion — thick and dense, and irrepressible like a cardinal sin.

Seonghwa has to accept that she was only meant to be a part of his heart, never his life, but it doesn't make it easier. She's gone, probably forever. And she's not coming back.

He picks up her pink lipstick from the dresser, uncaps it, stares at it for a solid five minutes before chucking it across the room, hearing it shatter against the wall. There's a pink stain on the wallpaper now, and if he squints it faintly resembles the shape of her lips.

He wants to call her. He wants to call her so fucking bad. But he doesn't. Seonghwa calls him instead. He calls Yunho.

"How are you?" Yunho always picks up after two rings. Always.

"Exhausted," Seonghwa reveals honestly, and it's true.

"Do you need to call your dad? Your mom? Is it that bad again, I can ask—"

"No," he interrupts quickly. He doesn't want Yunho to see him like this: pale and ghastly. "I just want to be alone, I think. Maybe I'll go out, take a walk... I don't know. I wanted to hear your voice."

"What do you need, Seonghwa?"

Valium, Xanax, Librium, anything, really. "Can't you fix it?" He says instead.

"Fix what?" Yunho queries gently, like placating a spooked animal. He's always been kind, and it only makes it hurt more.

"Fix me. I hate feeling this way." That's an understatement.

"Nobody can fix you, Seonghwa, because you're not broken. You're not an object. You have to help yourself."

"Do you hate me?" He asks weakly. Yunho doesn't get the chance to answer before Seonghwa continues: "I kind of hate me, too. Sometimes."

"I don't hate you, I never could — but — I have to go. And, Seonghwa, would you please not call for a few days? Just a couple. I'm swamped with work, and... I'm sorry, but I... I— I can't take care of you anymore. I have my own life, too, you know. I'm so sorry—"

"Oh, okay," Seonghwa answers dumbly, barely above a whisper. He ends the call. Rationally, he knows Yunho doesn't mean anything by it. He's just busy. Emotionally, though, his mind tells him that Yunho must despise him now.

Staring at the wall to his right, stripped bare from the band-posters he used to have, then at the stolen bike leaning against the wall to his left.

He thinks of the boy with the soft brown curls who gave him a sweet kiss on the cheek before disappearing into a run-down apartment block.

Seonghwa desperately wants to see him again.

When he looked into Yeosang's eyes he saw ignorant hope and hopeless yearning for pleasure and for satisfaction.

He wore his heart on his sleeve, every emotion portrayed right in front of Seonghwa's eyes like ripe red apples ready for harvest, if only people bothered to look.

Yeosang has her eyes. Maybe that's why he can't stop thinking about him. Their faces blur together in a visceral mix of torment and envy. Seonghwa's brain is disintegrating.

He feels utterly insane now, and he laughs into the sickly green corners of his bedroom, banging his head against the walls, stumbling out the door with a grin.

The world has melted into a discolored soup of madness and Seonghwa doesn't know what to do with himself.

Symmetrical mandala shapes zigzag across his vision like birds of prey. They circle his head, waiting to strike, plunging down in pools of neon swirls. His vision swims and his head pounds.

He's so fucked. That makes him dangerous.

Seonghwa is compressing in on himself with every step, collapsing like a house of cards, fading away like a newspaper in the rain. Maybe it would be better to disappear.

Dizzy.

Sardonic.

Warped.

Twisted.

Distorted.

He doesn't see the car coming.

━
A/N: Yunho. I love him. I haven't updated since October but shhhhh we don't talk about that.