just pretend.

1.

“Minho”, the therapist's voice cut through the fog of his thoughts, snapping him back to reality. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he first sat down, or how long it had been since she had asked him how he was feeling before he began to drift away. Spacing out had become his refuge, his way of coping whenever anyone tried to pry into what had happened or asked him to share his feelings. He had long since stopped trying to explain that he didn’t want to talk about what he had endured. He definitely didn’t want to revisit the horrific memory of finding his parents in their living room, their bodies drenched in blood, lying lifeless with their throats slit, still holding each other in their final moments. The mere thought of it was enough to make him nauseous, enough to trigger yet another panic attack. So he had learned to retreat into his mind, to zone out until his hour with the therapist was up. “We’ve been seeing each other for weeks now”, she continued, her tone patient but firm, “and unlike others, you haven’t made any progress yet. You’re not forced to tell me what happened or how you’re feeling, but why won’t you tell me what made you destroy the car?” Her question lingered in the air, and Minho watched as she crossed her legs, waiting for his response. He felt his heart begin to race, his palms growing clammy as he struggled to suppress the wave of sadness and nausea that washed over him. His leg started bouncing nervously, a physical manifestation of the anxiety that was clawing its way to the surface. “Because they killed my parents.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and immediately, he regretted it. His heart pounded in his chest, the reality of those words sending his mind into overdrive. “Why do you think that?”, she asked, her voice calm and measured, as if she were trying not to startle a frightened animal. He could feel the judgment, the disbelief that everyone seemed to carry when he spoke about what he knew. They all thought he was in denial, that he couldn’t accept the idea of his parents committing suicide, or that perhaps a random intruder had been responsible. But Minho knew better. He had spent countless hours researching, piecing together the evidence, until the night someone broke into his home and took everything he had collected, erasing his proof and leaving him with nothing but his convictions. Minho stared at the floor, his leg still shaking. He knew they thought he was losing his grip on reality, that grief had twisted his mind. But he knew what he saw, what he felt deep in his gut. And as he sat there, fighting to maintain his composure, he realized that no one would ever truly understand the depth of the darkness that now consumed him.

“They left a mark behind their ears”, Minho whispered, his voice barely audible as he stared down at his trembling hands. The words felt heavy, almost suffocating as he finally let them slip out. “A mark? What kind of mark?”, the therapist pressed gently, but Minho shook his head, a clear sign that he didn’t want to get into it any further. The conversation was already too much. He could feel the walls closing in on him, the room suddenly too small, too oppressive. “Are we done, doctor? Can I go back to my room?”, he asked abruptly, pushing himself out of the chair. He couldn’t sit there for another second, couldn’t bear the questions or her concerned gaze. She leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. “You can go”, she said with a nod, her voice still calm and steady. But just as his hand reached for the door handle, she added, “But you should know that if we’re not making any progress, you’re going to be in this facility for longer than you would like.” Minho froze for a moment, her words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. He swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in his throat, before pressing down on the handle and stepping out of the room. The door clicked shut behind him, but her warning lingered in his mind, feeding into the storm of thoughts that had been swirling inside him for months. His head was spinning, the weight of everything pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe. He just wanted to take his medicine, to escape into the numbing oblivion of sleep where he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to remember. It was the only respite he had from the chaos that had become his life. He barely remembered what had happened after Jisung got off his chest; everything was just a blur of blackness, an empty void where time seemed to disappear. The police had come to the hospital, bombarding him with questions while he was cuffed to the bed, fighting off panic attacks as they drilled into him, trying to make sense of something that even he couldn’t fully understand.  Jisung’s parents had made a deal. No charges would be filed against him as long as he agreed to stay in a mental hospital for a few weeks to get the help they all believed he needed. The memory of that conversation sent a chill down his spine. He had agreed, not because he wanted to, but because he felt like he had no other choice. But now, standing in the sterile hallway, he wondered if he would ever truly be free from this place, or from the memories that haunted him.