Lee Chan's least favorite activity in the whole world is running. It's not that it's bad — it's one of the easiest sports, actually — it's just boring. Everybody can run, just like everyone can sing. Not all of them can be good, but everyone with a working pair of legs is most definitely able to run.

The funny thing is, he's a runner.

No, not a runner. A sprinter. The speed kinda adds to the fun, but still, he's just running. Nothing really special about it.

If he could choose, he would choose to be a dancer. He doesn't have to be part of a famous K-pop group or anything (he only likes listening to music instead of singing), he just wants to be a professional dancer. Maybe one of those K-pop groups background dancers. Or choreographer. That would be cool, too. It would be much better than trying your very best for a really long time just to reach the other end of the track in the shortest time possible.

But even if he hates running, it's still the only thing he does the best. It's the only thing he knows how to do well. No, it's the only thing he's told to do well. He barely walked properly and just started to playfully speed up to turn up the radio when his father apparently first saw his potential.

"I think you should run."

And that's what Chan's been doing, dutiful as he's always been. Even as a baby boy he'd been obedient, doing everything to please his parents. To make them laugh. To make them proud. So he runs. He runs until he becomes the best at it — or at least tries to.

Unfortunately, he's never been told to stop. And now, when he's looking at an X-ray of his ankle, the words of his doctor ringing in his head clearly telling him that he has to, he realizes he doesn't know how.

*

It all started on this unfortunate day: the final round of the competition to find Iksan's finest sprinter. The winner would then be sent to the national team to later represent South Korea in international sport events. It was the day he had been waiting — and training — for all his life.

The boisterous sound of the spectators' screams was the only thing he could hear besides his own beating heart. The burning sun stung his tanned skin, sweats dripping down from the top of his head. He could weirdly feel the coarse track underneath the sole of his shoes, red and blindingly irritating. He didn't want to think about the fact that his head was throbbing. All he forced himself to think was that he needed to win. He needed to be on the national team. He needed to make his parents proud.

They, alongside his coach, had gotten disappointed for some time leading up to that day. His time was getting slower, they said. Chan ended every single day feeling as if he was a war soldier getting home after serving for months — tired and empty, a mere shell of a body. His only motivation to wake up everyday was because of this competition and his need to win it. He couldn't fail. He couldn't afford to.

Chan glared at the spectators, towards the specific section where his family sat. His parents were talking to his coach, who stood next to them. He looked away, not wanting to think about what they were talking about, but when he did, he caught his brother Geon looking at him, worries thick in his eyes. Chan tried to smile. He didn't know if it made Geon relieved or feel worse, so he added a nod to make it more convincing. Even that wasn't sufficient enough because Geon's expression didn't change, staring so intensely it burned hotter than the overhead sun.

Eventually Chan just averted his gaze before he became worried too. Worry was contagious, he reckoned. But he couldn't let it get into his head. He had a competition to win.

"Chan-ah, are you sure you're okay?"

Chan thanked Hansol quietly. He felt like if Hansol didn't talk to him he would combust. But he lied anyway, "I'm fine, don't worry."

Choi Hansol is, arguably, Chan's best friend. Arguable because even Chan isn't sure if he's allowed to have a friend or if he should only consider Hansol as his competitor. He's better than Chan — perhaps his foreigner genes have something to do with that (or at least that's what Chan has always told himself): he looks better, warms up to people easier, and most importantly, he runs quicker. Everything Chan lacks.

"You don't look fine," Hansol still pushed. "You look like a boiled crab."

"Thanks," Chan scoffed. "It's just so hot."

Hansol looked up. "Yeah, but I think Coach Park was too strict on you."

"He's strict towards everyone."

"And how's your leg again?"

Chan cursed. Hansol's only weakness is that he's too nonchalant to care about other people's feelings. Or his ability to pick the right time to say things is simply not good enough. Or perhaps it is, and he deliberately brought that topic up at this moment, which meant he was simply a jerk. Chan certainly didn't want to be reminded of his leg just mere five minutes before the competition started.

"Good," Chan replied shortly.

"It's not stinging?"

"It's fine."

"Still, shouldn't you be getting a rest instead of —"

"It's good," Chan insisted. He didn't know who needed to be convinced more: Hansol or himself. "I have to run today."

"Do you?"

He did. But the question made him wonder what would happen if he decided that he didn't.

*

It must've happened five seconds after the shot was fired. Chan distinctly remembers that he started to run, then tumbled like a weed tumbling across the desert. His world collapsed as he rolled uncontrollably on the track, ankles burning like hell.

The world was quiet when it happened. Chan can't remember if the crowd gasped or not (they didn't have to, of course, but it would be nice if they did because that means they cared enough about him to make some kind of sound). He just thought about how he made too much noise and disturbance and his whole body was burning from embarrassment. And pain. But mostly shame.

For a moment, everything halted. And when that happened he wished he could disappear before it went back to normal.

A moment later everything rushed again, and the only thing he thought about was that his parents would be scolding him later on.

Hansol's scream was the first thing that he heard. Chan still closed his eyes when Hansol hesitantly touched his shoulder. He didn't budge, didn't even dare to move. As if his ankle would break into two pieces if he did, as if it hadn't already happened. But he let Hansol lift him up carefully until he was standing, his only working leg trembling and the other shaking violently. He had to lean on Hansol to not fall again.

"You said it was fine," Hansol nagged.

Chan looked up to see Coach Park approaching, his expression unreadable. He was ready to be scolded, but Coach Park didn't say anything as he helped Hansol support Chan and guided them inside.

"Let's get you checked," he said.

It was the first time Chan noticed that he had been gritting his teeth and that tears had rolled down his scratched cheek. Every part of his body ached and stung. Salty sweats worsened it all, and Chan struggled to keep his mouth from squealing and his eyes from crying even more.

Things happened kinda quick afterwards. He got treated as best as he could get in the stadium, then got sent to a nearby hospital. His parents scolded him but it went over his head. And two days later he sat on a bench outside his doctor's office, the X-ray result of his ankle on his lap, pondering everything that had led to this point.

Every sacrifice he made. All the time he spent perfecting his running technique. Every single drop of sweat he shed. The arguments he threw uselessly at his parents. Geon's constant worries and Hansol's relentless questions.

It was all for nothing.

*

"It's because you never listened to me."

The light coincidentally flickers as Chan's grip on the spoon gets tighter. He really doesn't want to say anything — he knows it will only make it worse — so he tries to ignore it and continues eating. It's a little unfortunate that his father isn't the type to easily back down when he gets no response — in fact, that's how he's able to be a top level manager at the agency he works at at a relatively young age compared to other managers at his level.

It's very much unfortunate that he used to work directly with a bunch of athletes. That makes him scarier, somehow. He will know when Chan's lying.

"Torn ligament isn't something new, and lots of runners know how to treat their ankles even before such a thing even occurs in the first place."

"Appa, please stop," Geon interrupts. "Let's just eat in peace and —"

"Your hyung never learns," Appa continues. "If he would just listen to me once, he would never —"

Chan slams his spoon on the table, startling everyone on the table. He shouldn't, and he immediately regrets his action, but he couldn't care less. He's been put in the wrong, anyway. He just stirs the already murky water. "What, exactly, did you tell me to do, Appa?"

Appa glares at him. "What did you say?"

"I'd done nothing that was against your word. I've been the most obedient person I could ever be. So what, exactly, did you say to me that I didn't do?"

It's a declaration of war. Chan doesn't care. His father started it first.

Appa stares at him with a look as sharp as a laser cut — Chan would've been cut into a million pieces if that was true. "I've told you to practice carefully."

"No you didn't. You told me to practice hard."

Appa's voice also feels as sharp as a knife — Chan would've been stabbed a million times if that was also true. "Carefully, Lee Chan, I told you to practice hard and carefully."

Chan doesn't remember if his father actually said that. He might need Geon to confirm it later (funnily, Geon acts as some sort of Chan's manager, or perhaps protector, against their own father, aka their common enemy). But it's too late to back down now — that's something he has in common with his father — so Chan continues, "I don't think you said the last two words aloud."

"Don't you speak to your father like that, Chan," his mother snaps immediately. "We don't raise you to be disrespectful."

They don't, and Chan hates to disrespect them, especially Eomma, who is more supportive and loving than Appa (not much because she can be more stern than Appa sometimes, but it still matters). So he doesn't push. Instead he picks up his spoon again to eat. Not that he has any appetite after what happened. But he tries, at least so that Eomma doesn't worry more than she already does.

"You and Hansol are the best runners we have here," Appa continues, seemingly still trying to corner Chan even more until he regrets being born. "It's your fault that none of you is going to be part of the national team."

That is the only thing Chan regrets more than his own unfortunate life: that he dragged Hansol down with him as well. Hansol was a few feet from victory, yet he turned back when he noticed Chan falling to the ground behind him. Chan doesn't know how Hansol knew — instinct, maybe, or perhaps he had another set of eyes on the back of his head. He just wished Hansol didn't do that. He might feel better if Hansol won the competition.

Or worse. But at least Hansol didn't get his career stunted because of him.

The bibimbab Eomma made already tastes bland and unappetizing when Chan replies, "Are you done blaming me? Because I would like to finish my dinner in peace, thank you."

"You're going to therapy tomorrow," Appa ends. "Geon will take you there."

Chan nods. He's still dutiful no matter how awful Appa treats him — too much for his own good sometimes. But it would be good for him, wouldn't it? The therapy?

He leaves the dinner table five minutes later, limping, wishing the new moon will drown him with its darkness.

*

The therapist's tag reads Joshua, if Chan reads it correctly. Or Jo Shua, but it's weird, so he reckons it's the English name. Joshua's smile is too sweet for a depressing place like this.

Or perhaps it's only Chan that feels gloomy and not the whole world. Light shines through the glass wall, brightening the hallway, but sadly doesn't reach his clouded heart. Synchronous footsteps are echoing all over the place. He hates how it sounds. It reminds him how he is now unable to walk, and also unable to dance. He curses silently when the realization sinks in.

"We're going to start slowly," Joshua says, leading Chan to a room somewhere down the long hallway. The long trip would worsen his leg, if he were to walk, Joshua said, so now he just sits while Geon pushes the wheelchair. "His appointment is three times a week for now."

Geon, to whom Joshua is talking, replies, "Okay. For how long again?"

"An hour and a half. You're going to be waiting?"

"Maybe."

"Then there's a cafe on the ground floor. There are tons of books, if that's what you like. Or, you know, you can do other stuff. Are you a college student?"

"Aren't you supposed to be getting to know my brother instead of me?"

Joshua finally stops in front of a room that is near the end of the hallway. He grins while opening the door. "I believe I have plenty of time for that."

Chan is pushed into a big room, about half the size of the gym he used to go to (used to, because he can't do that anymore now). It looks as if someone combines a yoga classroom with a doctor's office — some yoga mats and other yoga stuff he doesn't recognize along with three portable beds you'd be asked to sit on when you first enter your doctor's room. The light, again, is still shining so bright through the windows it's basically blinding. There are two people already occupying the room who seem to be a patient and her therapist. They only cast a short glance at the three men entering the room before going back to their therapy session.

Joshua smiles again — his smile is somehow more annoying than the light. "Well, Lee Chan-ssi, we'll start now, if you're ready."

"Ready or not, I'd have to, don't I?"

"I'm afraid so, yeah."

Joshua's really good at small talk. Chan hates it.

"Well then, let's do this." Chan stands up and pats Geon's shoulder. "See you in an hour and a half."

"Don't be rude to him," Geon says.

Chan can't make that promise, but he nods anyway.

*

"How's therapy?"

Chan devours the cheeseburger like he hasn't eaten in five days. Well, he hasn't eaten well in five days, so that sentence is half true. It feels somehow nice to hang out with Hansol again after what happened. It feels somewhat normal. Maybe that's what increases his appetite. The normalness of things. He doesn't know if that's even a real word.

"Good," he answers while chewing. He swallows before continuing, "Also boring. He made me do weird stuff with my toes."

Hansol slurps his cola calmly. "How weird?"

"I have to write the alphabets with it. Not literally, but like, moving it to make nieun or rieul."

"Incredible. Next time we meet you'd probably be able to write a whole book with your toes."

"Very funny."

Hansol grins. He picks up some french fries from Chan's plate without permission. "That's a good idea though. Perhaps you can write."

"What for?"

"I don't know. You're basically jobless now."

Chan sighs. Again, Hansol always picks the wrong time to say something out. "You don't need to remind me of that. Besides, this isn't permanent. After all this shit is done I'll go back to running."

"And when is that exactly?"

Good god. Chan glares at Hansol. "Don't make me lose my appetite."

"Anyways, you'll need a hobby. Something to do while you're waiting. You don't seem to have any besides following your dad's order like a good soldier."

Hansol's right, but Chan doesn't want to address that just yet. He is indeed a good soldier. All his life he's been doing nothing but what his father told him — except perhaps the "practice carefully" thing Appa said he told him — so when he's not asked to do anything, he's lost. He's standing still, confused, while the world's moving quickly around him like a child losing his mother in a crowded mall.

Well, no. Appa asked him to go to therapy. He's doing something, right?

"I'm doing therapy," Chan says finally, proud of himself for having a good answer.

"And that's what you call a hobby?"

"That's something to do while I'm waiting." Chan slurps his soda, a little annoyed. "I'm also exercising daily at home. Therapist's order. I'm not exactly jobless."

"Alright, alright," Hansol says, letting his friend win. "Just consider what I said. It'd be good for you to do something else other than running."

Chan looks the other way. The diner is mostly empty — lunchtime finished long before he and Hansol entered the place. Bold red and yellow color the room, basic and somehow not too ugly. A bored employee busies herself behind the counter while the television plays the same video of the menu over and over again. Their theme music is a terrible company to their burger, but every diner has horrible music taste. Everything's normal, which is frustrating, somehow. He hates how normal everything still is when he can't follow suit.

"What about you, Hansol-ah?" Chan asks, focusing his attention back on Hansol.

"I'm tutoring, remember?"

"Yeah, but you should've won." Chan's words get stuck in his throat as the memories of the competition day resurface. He looks down, scared to say things directly. "If you didn't stop, you'd surely win. You could be part of the national team yet you didn't because you cared too much about your incompetent friend."

Hansol doesn't reply for some time. "Chan-ah, look at me."

"Never mind, just —"

"No, look at me."

Chan slowly looks up. Hansol leans forward, folding his hands in front of his chest on the table, his food already moved to the side. He looks at Chan in a way that he has never done before, and Chan can't identify what exactly those eyes are supposed to convey. It's either compassion or exasperation. Or both. Or something else completely different.

"I don't regret anything," Hansol says slowly, emphasizing every word. "Keep that in mind. I don't regret anything. At all."

Okay, Chan's the one getting exasperated, now. Hansol can't possibly be that thick. "You can't possibly say that when that's what we've been practicing for."

"Unlike you, I've been running for fun," Hansol shrugs. "I know you can't relate, but being an athlete has never been my priority. I want to be a translator."

"But still —"

"Besides, the national team won't be fun without you."

Chan's tongue got tied. He doesn't know how Hansol can say it so easily. Or decides something as big as a life-changing career choice without thinking much of it. Perhaps because Hansol is free-spirited and Chan has been taught to be exactly the opposite. And what would the term be? Chained? A bird living in a cage?

Hansol's right. Chan can't relate at all.

"Also, you're competent," Hansol says, stealing another fries from Chan's plate. "You're just a little unlucky. But, who knows, maybe you'll get something out of it."

"Yeah, maybe."

Hansol doesn't reply — either he doesn't notice the sarcasm in Chan's reply or he's done preaching. Either way, Chan doesn't push. Hansol just won't get it. No one will.

It's easy for Hansol to say that. For Chan who actually has to deal with everything? Not so much.

*

"Good job today too, Chan-ssi. At this rate you'll be running in no time."

Chan empties his water bottle. Therapy, though seems easy, is a lot more tiring than he thought it'd be. "Thank you."

"And that's not literal, in case you think it is," Joshua says cheerfully, not knowing he just blows Chan's growing hope away. "I still can't allow you to do heavy exercising for at least another couple of weeks. But let's see."

"I think I'm going to hate you for that."

"Yeah, understandable." Joshua points towards the wheelchair, still using his stupid smile. "I'll take you to your brother."

Chan rolls his eyes, but he sits on the chair anyway and rests his feet on the footrest. "Ugh, can you stop being so overly positive all the time? I'm going to hate you even more for that."

"I'm just trying to balance your bitterness, that's all. But if you prefer me to shut up, I can."

"Yes please."

"Will do, sir."

And with that, Joshua pushes Chan's wheelchair out of the room. His appointment is in the afternoon, yet after each session, the sun seems to be brighter than before. The hallway is still blindingly white and absurdly long. Through the glass wall, he could clearly see the blue sky, clouds dutifully parading across. No one passes through the hallway — this particular wing must've been the most deserted part of the hospital. All he can hear is Joshua's footsteps. He can't even hear the wheels gliding on the shiny floor.

They almost reach the end of the hallway when Chan realizes the silence is killing him more than Joshua's usual cheerfulness.

"I hate this even more," he says.

"What?" Joshua stops before the elevator door and pushes the downward arrow button.

"The silence. Please just say something."

"Okay. Hmm. Why do you run?"

"Oh god, why do I even bother."

Joshua laughs. "Right, sorry. But actually, I've seen you run before. Your technique is magnificent. You're a good runner. You're natural."

Natural, huh? Everyone with a working set of legs can run, just like everyone with a working vocal cord can sing. It comes naturally to you when you were born. Chan doesn't know if what Joshua said earlier can be considered a compliment or not. He doesn't think it can.

The elevator dings open. They enter, and Joshua pushes another button inside.

The door closes when Chan follows up, "And what does that mean?"

"Well, you know, everyone that is able to use their legs properly is most definitely able to run. But not all of them can run properly. I mean, the posture, the techniques, how you're supposed to move your hands, all of those little details. It's natural for you."

Chan shrugs. "I've been practicing for years."

"You're only perfecting it with every practice, not learning it."

That somehow makes sense. Chan nods in agreement. "You can tell all that by seeing me run how many times again?"

"Once." Joshua laughs again. "Okay, it's not exactly convincing, but I do think so."

"I was born to run, then."

"You quite literally were."

The elevator dings open again. Joshua pushes Chan through the lobby, which looks smaller than it actually is due to the amount of people in it. So many sick people. As horrible as it sounds, it makes Chan glad he's not the only one suffering in this world.

"But isn't it sad?" Chan asks. "The man who's born to run will have to give it up one day."

"You'll be running again, Chan-ssi," Joshua emphasizes.

"Still, even if I go back running, it just won't be the same. The pain will come and go, won't it? Eventually, it will be better if I drop it for good. And when that comes, what should I do?"

Joshua is rendered speechless. And even though it's something that Chan has always wanted since the first time they met, this moment doesn't exactly feel like victory.

"Sorry," he says, not sure to whom he's apologizing. "Don't mind me."

"Remind me to answer that in our next session," Joshua says. He slows down when they enter the cafe, then speeds up again towards a table where Geon sits to read. "Lee Geon-ssi, thank you for patiently waiting."

"Ah, you're done." Geon closes his book and stands up. "Thank you for today's session, Joshua-ssi. I hope my brother isn't acting like a jerk today."

"Shut up," Chan grunts.

"He's been lovely," Joshua says. Chan doesn't see Joshua's face but he bets Joshua puts on his annoying wide smile. "And he's been progressing a lot. I am positive he'll be able to run again sooner than expected."

"Good. Running stops him from turning into a grumpy old man at the age of 23, really."

Joshua laughs politely. "See you in two days, Chan-ssi. Don't forget to do your daily exercises."

It's hard to forget when it's the only thing he's been doing, but Chan nods anyway. It's not like he can do anything else, right?

*

The question echoes in his head as if someone screams into a cave and the demons there shout back.

Chan lies awake in the middle of the night, the world's quiet yet his mind's noisy. He can't shut it up no matter how hard he tries to distract himself — how exactly are you supposed to silence the voice in your own head? — and he feels like he's going to be driven into insanity. He just wants to sleep, that's all.

The question rings again; this time Joshua voices it, exactly the way he asked before. Why do you run?

Chan is almost certain the answer is a straightforward, "Because my father told me to," and Joshua would just laugh politely in response. But somehow it bothers him that it is the answer. It's the truth, and yet it feels awful. Chan hates how he just let his father decide what his life and career would be without any fight. He should at least argue first. Not that he'd win, nor had a good argument for it to matter, but at least he fought. It seemed more heroic, somehow. The answer would then be, "Because my father forced me to."

Now that he thinks about it more, it doesn't sound better.

Chan gets out of bed. He can't sleep anyway, so there's no use trying. He navigates the familiar hall all the way to the kitchen, dimly lit by the streetlights seeping through the curtain. It's relatively dark, though Appa always turns one lamp at night, so it's not hard to move around. He's careful not to make too much noise when he opens the fridge and pours the icy water into a glass.

Why does he run?

His throat freezes as soon as the water runs through it. His brain freezes too. The water streams through his blood vessel, giving him a sudden surge of energy and making him agitated. He perhaps should've drunk warm water instead. But he empties his glass and washes it.

Why does he run when he hates doing it?

The door is calling him. No, it's actually the quiet night outside. Chan lets his legs walk towards the door and his hands open it. The summer air's warm enough that he can stand without shivering even when he's using a thin sleeveless shirt. He inhales. Fresh air flows into his lungs.

Why does he still run when he knows it's just what his father wants and not what he actually wants?

He closes the door behind him and walks away. There's a park nearby where he likes to play basketball with Geon, and that's where he's heading to. He walks slowly, then slowly speeds up. He's already running by the time he's halfway to the park. He doesn't enter the park; instead, he runs around it. His leg is miraculously cured. He just doesn't know if he's actually cured or he simply refuses to acknowledge the pain.

If he hates running then what does he actually want to do?

He's run around the park three times now — his ankle starts to be unbearable. But he forces himself to keep going. He likes the feelings, he thinks. Maybe that's what keeps him running despite disliking it. The way he parts the wind with his movement. The cold breeze that freezes both his lungs after running for some time. Feeling as if he's flying when both of his legs are not touching the ground. How his brain doesn't think about anything other than ordering his whole body to move forward in a coordinated motion. If only he could listen to his well-curated playlist or his favorite podcast, the moment would be perfect.

But he doesn't care, because now he is free. He's free.

He's finally free.

But what should he do when he has to stop?

He falls to the ground, his ankle burning the way it burned on that cursed day. He lies on his back; panting, pleased, relieved, hurting. And most importantly freed. As if a huge burden on his shoulder is thrown far, far away. To be able to run again, to do the only thing he's capable of yet he can't do. He can't believe there could be a time when he says that he misses running, but he does. He misses running.

But when he shuts his eyes and lets himself feel the pain he is once again reminded of how broken and lost he is. How clueless and useless he's become.

What should he do now?

Chan gets up, slowly limping towards his house. There's no use to think about it now. He won't get an answer.

*

Chan looks the other way as Joshua analyzes him with arms folded in front of his chest. None of them says anything after Geon left them earlier. No one besides them two is occupying the room, so Chan starts listing all the things he notices in the room to kill the time. The beds are clean and untouched. The light is still so bright though it isn't as blinding as it used to be. Nothing produces any sound. The wheelchair he came with stands politely near the bed he's sitting on.

The room feels enormous. He feels exposed.

Chan's wrong, he knows. But he doesn't want to admit it just yet. Not until Joshua asks him, nor until he feels like he can't avoid the question. Whichever comes first.

"Chan-ssi," Joshua starts, "how much exercise did you do yesterday?"

"Five times a day for fifteen minutes each, just like what you asked me to do."

"Hm. And what else did you do?"

"The usual. I woke up..."

"Uh-huh."

"... then I ate and exercised and did other stuff..."

"Okay..."

"... and because I couldn't sleep at night I went outside and ran around the park three times."

"There you go." Joshua somehow manages to keep his tone neutral and not judgmental. "Okay, then. Your leg is too swollen to be doing exercises right now, so I'm just going to treat it, okay? I also have to ask you to stop your home exercise until it's not swelling."

Chan nods. "Then what? You're going to send me home?"

"As much as I like to do nothing for an hour and a half, I'm afraid there's something else I'd like you to do."

Joshua doesn't explain more. He leaves for a while to get medicines to treat Chan's leg.

Chan doesn't know what to do, so he busies himself by thinking about what Joshua wants him to do. If it's not exercises then what? Karaoke? Drawing? Or worse: seeing a psychologist? Okay, it might be a good idea — maybe by seeing a psychologist he can sort his jumbled feelings — but he hates it. He just wants all of this to be over as quickly as it can.

It seems that being a sprinter has made him impatient.

Luckily, Joshua comes back before Chan keeps self-diagnosing. Chan observes whatever it is that Joshua does, which is actually not much: he just puts an ointment of some sort on Chan's swollen ankle then massages it for a while. At the beginning it hurts, but the pain is much reduced when Joshua finishes.

"Does it still hurt?" Joshua asks.

Chan shakes his head. "No, thank you."

"Good. Now, please go sit in the wheelchair."

Chan does exactly that. He doesn't question it even when Joshua pushes the wheelchair out of the room. They pass the long hallway again, but this time Joshua doesn't stop in front of the elevator. He keeps walking until they reach an open glass door that leads to a park of some sort — it's just an open space with some potted plants and benches, really. But the atmosphere is nice. Chan breathes in the fresh air as Joshua parks him in between a big plant and a bench.

"We're going to spend an hour and a half here?" Chan asks. "To do what?"

"Just talking," Joshua answers while sitting on the bench next to him. "Why did you run?"

Chan realizes now that Joshua wants him to face his problems. And as much as it might help him, he doesn't want to. He just wants to run away from it, which is ironic because he can't run. He can't fucking run, both literally, because his leg doesn't function like it's supposed to, and figuratively, because his emotions will forever be inside him and stay no matter how long he ignores them. This must be the worst joke the universe has ever made.

"Because you asked me the same question the last time we met," Chan answers honestly.

"Ah." Joshua nods. "I actually also have been thinking about your question, though I didn't run around a park at night because of it."

"You don't need to make fun of me."

"Stop being funny, then."

"I'm going to actually hate you."

Joshua laughs. "But it does keep me awake at night, trying to think of an answer that might help you."

Chan tilts his head. "Why are you doing this, though? You're my physical therapist. You barely know me, and this is only the third time we've met."

"Because a lot of my patients are people like you." Joshua's smile slowly dies down, and he stares somewhere far. "The people I help have to stop chasing their dreams because of their injuries. Athletes that can't lift their arms or walk without a cane. Drivers who lost their legs. Even ordinary people forced to cancel every plan they have made for their future because they can't function the way they're supposed to. I've seen enough, you know."

When Chan thinks about it, Joshua must've seen a lot. He must've had to deal with patients far more annoying than him, who possibly throws tantrum and doesn't cooperate. People who are desperate and lost and disappointed with life. People who are angry and let it control their whole action. People like him. Chan, however, beats himself up more than the people around him. The people that Joshua has to deal with might direct their anger toward other people.

"And what I've learned," Joshua continues, "is that when one door closes, you have to find another to open."

"I thought it was 'when one door closes, another opens.'"

"No door is going to be magically opened for you like that. You have to find it and open it yourself."

Chan nods. "Makes sense."

"You ask what you should do when you have to stop running. I've seen that exact question be asked and answered multiple times, and I realize that the person who has the answer to that particular question is always the one who asks it in the first place."

"And that would be me?"

"Yes. You're the one who can answer that."

"But I don't know what I should do with my life. I can't do anything other than running. I'm not good at anything else. The only thing I want to do besides running is dancing, and I can't do that either. What's my option, then?"

"That's the beauty of it, Chan-ssi." Joshua turns to face Chan with an understanding smile. "You get to decide, and that means you can choose to do whatever you want. The possibility is endless."

"It's not endless. Whatever I choose shouldn't make my legs work hard."

"Well, yeah, that's the only barrier you have."

Or is it? The more Chan thinks about it, the more barriers he can think of. His father's approval is the biggest. Appa's too hard to impress, and he seems to want to control everything about his life, which apparently includes the life of his children. Chan is also very clueless about what he likes enough to want to do it for the rest of his life. He doesn't understand how having to make this kind of decision can be beautiful.

"It's not, actually," Chan finally says. "My parents would want to decide for me."

"It's still entirely your decision to go along with what they want you to do or to pick something else."

Chan grunts. What Joshua just said is true, and he knows it, but he still hates to be reminded of his choice to be too obedient for his own good. "Not to mention that it'd be messy. They're already blaming me for everything that has happened. God knows what they'd do if I did something against their wishes. And also, I don't fucking know what I want to do."

"I'm not saying it's going to be easy. I'm also not saying that you have to figure it now. I'm just saying that it's something that you can do."

"None of this is beautiful. You can only say it because you don't have to do it."

Joshua ponders about it for a second. "Yeah, you're right. I don't have to go through what you have. But like I said, I've seen people go through it and succeed. I'm certain that if you do need to stop running, you'll find another door to open, and you'll open it and walk through it confidently."

"When," Chan corrects, "not if."

"Okay," Joshua plays along. "When."

"But thank you. I'll think about it."

"I'll take you to your brother, then."

"I thought you didn't want to spend an hour and a half doing nothing."

"Yeah, I'll take it back." Joshua gets up anyway and positions himself behind Chan. "I could probably use some sleep. I was awake all night, you know."

"Stop making fun of me!"

"I'm not! But alright, alright. Please just remember to rest until your ankle stops swelling, okay?"

Chan nods, a little annoyed, like a little kid who's upset because his mom keeps telling him to do something he's already about to do. But he says nothing, even until he gets home.

He doesn't want to admit it just yet, but Joshua's got a lot of good points.

*

"No offense, but it sounds like utter bullshit."

Chan just laughs at Hansol's comment. It's good to hang with Hansol, because his chill personality will always make Chan laugh so hard. Either Hansol has a talent to be a comedian or Chan just finds him comical. While throwing his stress ball at the wall he answers, "I know, right? This shit's messy."

Hansol nods. From the chair he's playing with Chan's walking cane, hitting it slowly against the bed. "But, you know, besides that beauty of choosing bullshit, he said some good shit."

Chan throws his stress ball once more before squeezing it as hard as he can. "Yeah, that's true. It's been messing with my head since yesterday."

"Which part?"

"Everything, I guess." Chan then stares blankly at the ceiling. He tries to hit the ceiling with his stress ball but he doesn't throw it hard enough. He can't really think about anything right now, just letting the faint music fill his head. "I just think he's right."

"Of course he is. You were being funny when you ran around the park."

Chan aims the ball at Hansol's head. He successfully throws it, getting a grumpy scream in response. "I hate you."

"I'm just stating facts." Hansol, now standing while holding Chan's cane like a racket, shrugs. "I mean, you did this to yourself, idiot. If anything, it only worsens your ankle and makes the chance of your full recovery slimmer."

Chan is about to counter when he realizes the ugly truth in Hansol's words. He acted like he was so sure he wouldn't run again, as if he could take a peek into the future. He can't, of course, and he's just being as pessimistic as he always is. Or dramatic as hell. Sometimes he can't tell the difference.

"It happened," he says, defeated. "And I half wanted to do it, anyways. Quit running, you know."

Hansol gives an understanding nod. He sits on the bed next to Chan and leans against the wall as well. "If that's what you want. And then what? What are you going to do now?"

"That's the thing — I still don't know." Chan sighs. "I guess my dad will tell me to use my degree and join the company he's working at."

"And be an agent, huh? Not bad, you can be my agent."

"As if."

"I know you love me enough to do that."

Chan rolls his eyes. "I don't want to become an agent, thank you. There are so many sports-related jobs out there better than that."

"Such as?"

"I don't know... maybe the radio guy who does live reports of soccer games? He's kinda cool."

"Sports journalist, then?" Hansol thinks about it for a while. "I mean, you like to listen to podcasts when you're practicing, right? It might actually suit you."

"Podcast, huh?"

Something in Chan's brain clicks and suddenly everything falls into place. Podcasts. That could be his escape. His hobby, if you will. Something to do while he's recovering; something to do if he eventually has to give up running entirely. He indeed likes to listen to podcasts or music when he runs — he finds it comforting to listen to someone's voice when he exercises. Maybe he will find making one for others as comforting.

"Hansol-ah, you're a fucking genius."

Later that night, Chan stays up all night, but this time, he's not running around the park.

*

Chan lies on his back, listening to the recording attentively. He's not sure if he likes how his voice sounds, but so far he's satisfied.

He will upload the pilot episode of his podcast later in the evening.

Joshua told him to find another door and open it, and Hansol suggested he make a podcast. Chan did both. In a way, he doesn't change at all, still dutiful as he's always been. But this time, as he knows it's what he actually chooses to do instead of being told to do, it's becoming his most favorite activity in the whole world.

Joshua's right, after all. There's beauty in being able to choose whatever he wants to do. A sense of freedom he's been longing to have.

Who knows how long he'll be doing it. Maybe he'll stop when his father gives him another order to do. Maybe he'll do it forever. But for now, he will just do it. Until he figures everything out, until he understands himself, until he's good at dealing with his emotions.

Whatever happens, he will keep trying until it doesn't hurt him anymore.