Your life ends when Yeonjun's does.
It happens out of the blue, like a meteorite crash landing onto your life, decimating everything in its wake. It happens in split seconds; one wrong move; the mistake of pushing himself too far; a hit on the head that splits his skull wide open; a second too late; a wailing ambulance; a surging defibrillator; an incessant heart monitor; shouting, screaming, sobbing; three last words, and then he's gone.
Five hours. That's how long it takes for Yeonjun to die.
You had been there. You saw him burst through the double doors of the emergency room, blood oozing from his head, drifting in and out of consciousness, barely clinging to life on that god-forsaken gurney. You saw tubes, needles, sutures, monitors, drips, fluids of all kind inserted into his body, doctors and nurses desperate to keep him alive. If this were anyone else, you would have been fine. You're studying to be a nurse after all. These things should be second nature to you. But the moment you see Yeonjun lying on that gurney, life slaps you so hard in the face you have whiplash.
You drop to the floor, wailing and screaming, breaths coming out so harshly your chest constricts and contorts in an attempt to let air in. You hear none of your cries. All you hear is Yeonjun's laboured breathing, the beeping machines, doctors yelling at other doctors as they hasten to save your love's life, the scramble of your fellow nurses as they pluck you from the floor and try their best to hush your shrieking.
The last time you talk to Yeonjun is seconds before they rush him into surgery. You tried your best to keep your composure as you looked at him against the gurney, a great gash in his head, his skull still gaping and open, complexion paler than the white pillow below him, eyes tired and unfocused, breathing laboured, voice barely audible. It takes you all of a few seconds before you burst out into tears.
Yeonjun hears you and despite his great exhaustion takes your trembling hand in his and smiles at you behind the oxygen mask. Your sobs render you speechless and you wonder how hard it must be for Yeonjun. To be conscious when there is a hole in his head, to have to deal with you when he can barely stay alive.
"I love you," is what he manages to say, voice muffled by the oxygen mask, eyes smiling tiredly at you. Your heart breaks a million times and you can barely let out an, "I love you too, Yeonjun," before the senior nurses are swarming you and shoving you out of the way, snatching Yeonjun's hand from yours as they whisk him off to surgery.
The next time you see Yeonjun, he is dead.
You unleash all hell, screaming, crying, yelling, sobbing— so loud other patients and people in the hospital look at you with pity. Because how unfortunate is it for a perfectly healthy, nineteen year old boy to die after he faints from overexertion? How unlucky does he have to be for there to be a floor light right where his head lands, a critical happenstance that just so happens to be the reason why the boy is dead?
If the love of your life leaves, what would you do? Would you cry? Scream? Die? Your answer is all three. Yeonjun, the light of your life, the one person who grounded you, who was like a lighthouse that guided you, dies in five hours. And so do you.
-
When you stumble across the small cafe, your first question is: why would the owners establish this here?
The sign reads: Magic Island Cafe. And it sits in between towering skyscrapers that completely conceal its existence. The petite cafe has sage green doors and a small sign that tells people its name. Plants in pots on the floor and pots that hang from hooks shroud the entrance and the windows of the cafe. You suppose its unusual location is intentional; so that people can only find the cafe if they are truly looking for it, or if they are truly paying attention to their surroundings.
