Vivid | Lee Minho

•Scene 6•

Your eyes cracked open to a world you knew.

Familiar air. Familiar warmth.

When you pushed yourself to sit, the result of last night's exertions rammed into you in the form of a violent cramp. Your body clearly was not designed for the chase you had put it through.

Still, it was your body. Mortal, un-cursed. The palms that you looked down at were ones that you had grown familiar with. Your breath, your heartbeat—this familiarity in itself was new to you.

You were still you, and for the very first time, you were twenty-one.

Not a day-old infant among strangers, but yourself.

You relished in that curious feeling as your feet met the cold floor. In this room that was not yours, your eyes were drawn to the tall window inviting generous sunlight, and you drifted toward it, gazing at a familiar, ever-stretching blue sky, and a bustling city that you had grown to love.

"Y/n?"

Minho's troubled voice followed the soft click of the door, and you turned your head to watch as he strode into the room. He seemed to have noticed the empty bed first, prompting a beat of momentary panic that ceased once he saw you by the window.

Carefully, he set down the tray of light breakfast that he had carried with him on a nearby table. Then, with a sigh so heartbroken, he noted aloud, "You're crying again."

"Oh."

You touched a hand to your cheek and were surprised to feel the fresh trail of tears. As though the well had not yet dried, it seemed that waking up today had moved you immensely.

Breathing a broken laugh, you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, "I'm sorry."

You did not notice Minho walking up to you then, yet his touch did not startle you when it came. His hand enclosed yours, unbothered by the wetness of tears on your skin as he assumed the task of drying your cheeks with his other.

"You needn't be," his murmured statement was resolute yet tender. He seemed to study every minuscule detail of your face before he finally asked, "How do you feel?"

At that, a myriad of colorful emotions burst out in your heart, each one louder than the other. You were grateful, and you were in disbelief, as if this were merely a dream that you might awaken from at any moment.

You felt different.

You felt like yourself.

But you were also anxious about what was to come, and beneath all of that, you were hurt. The pain you had been carrying for lifetimes would not be easy to forget, and healing from it would take a while. So, for now...

"I'm all right," you said, and you meant it. You were all right, because you had a lifetime to heal your soul's wounds, and because—

"I love you."

You might have imagined blurting out those three magnificent little words had Minho not stilled, those darling eyes of his widening ever so slightly before a beautiful laugh danced off his lips.

"But how can that be?" he rested his forehead against yours with a smile so endearing you thought it could melt the sun, "I think I love you more."

Oh, no.

He had only dried your eyes and now it seemed that you were going to cry again, silly tears of such overwhelming elation.

"Y/n," the way Minho said your name was like a prayer, his palm placed against your cheek yearningly, reverently. His whispered words were a sacred vow for your ears alone, "What I want is a life with you. Let us start over. We'll do it right this time."

You leaned into his touch as though it were the sole thing your body knew to do, the answer fluttering at the tip of your tongue before taking flight like a fledgling, hesitant yet so full of hope.

"Yes, let us do that."