Farewell

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Skip- Pouter ♬♪

In the dimly lit hospital room, his gaze fixates on Yuna through the small window.

Once vibrant and full of life, her face has now lost its color, drained by the relentless grip of her illness. Yuna's slender form lies motionless on the sterile hospital bed, a stark contrast to the vitality she once exuded.

For two agonizing days, he's been a constant presence by her side, tirelessly caring for her. He's delicately combed her hair, soothing her pain with aching tenderness, and whispered words of comfort as if she can still hear him.

As he watches her, his heart shatters in slow motion, each shard a painful reminder of the fleeting nature of life. His fingers press against the cold glass, desperate to bridge the gap between them, to touch her one last time. But there's an impenetrable barrier, a cruel boundary that separates their worlds. Tears fall, tracing trails down his cheeks as he battles to keep his composure, a dam on the brink of collapse.

Suddenly, the somber silence is ruptured by the intrusion of a doctor, a messenger of doom.

"We need to talk," the words hang heavy in the air.

A reluctant journey leads him to the doctor's office, a space of sterile professionalism that seems worlds away from the chaos in his heart. The doctor offers a drink, a gesture so mechanical it's almost surreal. Then comes the question, a wrecking ball to his fragile sanity,

"Did you know about her condition?" Confusion gives way to realization, and the truth hits him like a tidal wave, drowning him in a sea of despair.

"Brain tumor, stage 4," the doctor's voice is a distant echo, as if spoken from another realm. "Chances of success, minimal. It's too late now." The words are daggers, each one piercing his soul with relentless precision. He's engulfed in a tsunami of emotions, a storm of sorrow and regret that threatens to consume him whole. The room closes in, the walls suffocating him, the air heavy with unshed tears.

In the dim corridor, the weight of the doctor's revelation bears down on Sunghoon like a vice grip, squeezing the air from his lungs.

Panic takes hold with an iron grip, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as if each inhale is a desperate plea for respite. His chest tightens, constricted by an invisible force that threatens to crush him. The walls seem to close in, suffocating him, mirroring the suffocating grip of his own thoughts.

His mind becomes a chaotic battlefield, a frenzied clash of memories, fears, and regrets. The memories of his father's losing battle with a similar foe swirl ominously, casting long shadows across his thoughts.

The specter of helplessness he felt during those days grips him anew, amplifying the agony of the present moment. He's trapped in a whirlwind of emotions, unable to distinguish one from the other, his heart pounding a relentless rhythm that reverberates in his ears.

Sunghoon's vision blurs, the world around him a haze of blurred shapes and muted colors. Tears stream down his face, a river of anguish that refuses to be dammed. He clutches at his chest, as if physically holding onto the fragments of his crumbling sanity.

Every breath is a battle, wrested from the jaws of the panic that threatens to engulf him whole. His body trembles, an outward manifestation of the tempest raging within.

His legs, once pillars of strength, now betray him, the ground rushing up to meet him as he crumples in a heap. His fingers claw at the cold linoleum, the sensation grounding him in the midst of the emotional maelstrom. He's trapped in a nightmare of his own making, a relentless cycle of self-blame and regret that feeds the panic like oxygen to a flame.

The cries that escape his lips are primal, raw, and unfiltered. A symphony of anguish reverberates down the corridor, a mournful lament that echoes the depth of his pain. Nurses rush to his side, their hands gentle yet firm, trying to guide him through the storm. His body trembles under their touch, his vulnerability laid bare for all to see.

In the midst of the chaos, a needle pierces his skin, injecting a tranquilizer that lulls the intensity of his panic. The tidal wave that once threatened to consume him begins to ebb, leaving him adrift in a sea of emotional exhaustion. His breaths come slower, steadier, the edges of his panic softening like a receding storm.

As the tranquilizer takes effect, his surroundings blur further, the lines between reality and the abyss of his panic beginning to blur. He's left with fragments of emotions, aching and poignant, and a sense of isolation that lingers long after the panic subsides.

Sunghoon lies on the floor, a shattered vessel, bearing the scars of a battle fought not just in the hospital corridor, but within the recesses of his own soul.

In the hushed interval between sleep's retreat and the harsh intrusion of reality, he stirs. The sound that greets his awakening is not of birdsong or gentle whispers, but rather a sound of sobbing and desperate cries. He is drawn to this dismal chorus, a moth to the flame of agony that engulfs the room.

Stepping out of the room, he enters a scene that seems plucked from life's darkest pages. There, sprawled on the cold floor, is Yuna's mother, a shattered vessel of despair.

Her words, a desperate and futile plea, cascade into the air like forgotten prayers. And nearby, the faces of yuna's family etched with shock, their features a canvas of dread, painted in the hues of a reality they had fervently hoped to evade.

In this sorrow, a truth unfurls like a black banner in the wind—he knows what has transpired without the need for explaining.

Yuna, his love, has succumbed to a fate she did not deserve. The weight of this revelation descends upon him like a shroud, encasing his being in an impenetrable darkness.

The realization is a silent thunderclap, a stark understanding that forever alters the landscape of his existence. Laughter and tender moments are swept away, replaced by the cruel symphony of despair that reverberates through his very core. The tapestry of their dreams has been unravelled by the inexorable hands of fate.

Amidst this maelstrom of emotions, he stands as a solitary figure, paralyzed by the enormity of the loss. His voice, once capable of warmth and mirth, remains imprisoned within his throat, a silent wail of a heart torn asunder.

Transfixed, he glides towards the window of Yuna's chamber, his gaze a vessel of tear-stricken sorrow. Through this pane, he witnesses the final chapter of a love story cut short—the goodbye draped in the guise of a white shroud, a dance of farewell performed in the somber theater of life's closing act. Desperation swells within him, a tempestuous tide that crashes against the fortress of his resolve.

From his very depths rises a lamentation, a plea that echoes through the sterile corridors, a voice shredded by the weight of his grief.

"Let me say goodbye one last time,"

his words fill the air, his words a requiem sung to the void. But the air remains indifferent, and the partition of glass remains unyielding.

Yet, a presence emerges from the shadows,Yuna's grandfather. Wrinkled hands extend in solace, a gesture laden with empathy, a reflection of shared sorrow. In this embrace, a frayed connection forms, bridging the chasm between the living and the departed. A mournful dance, an elegy for a love too tenderly nurtured, unfolds in the embrace of this profound and silent communion.

Author's note:
I acc thought of writing her death like « i want to eat your pancreas » but i like my ideas more lmao