╰┈➤In a world where the line between life and death blurs, a girl named Kwon Dae is haunted by the tragic loss of her five childhood friends, in a devastating car crash. Three months after their funeral, Dae's nights are filled with vivid visions an...
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Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of bullying, physical abuse, and depictions of blood. Reader discretion is advised. If you are sensitive to these topics, please proceed with caution.
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Pant... pant...
"Lord... I despise you with every fiber of my being." Wooyoung proclaims, his voice a breathy whisper as he sprawls across the floor of the dance studio. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and exertion. His chest rises and falls rhythmically from the relentless intensity of our practice. I'm in no better state, mirroring his fatigue.
"Pass... pass me the inhaler." I request, my voice barely above a whisper.
With great effort, Wooyoung tries to hoist himself off the floor but fails spectacularly, collapsing back with a dramatic flair. To my surprise—and growing concern for his mental state—he resorts to slithering like a snake across the polished wood toward my bag.
"Here." he mutters, exasperation lacing his tone as he tosses the purple, metallic device toward me with a huff. In a fit of audacity, he helps himself to my water, blissfully ignoring my silent protests.
For several moments, the only sounds punctuating the air are our heavy breaths and the rhythmic ticking of the clock, a reminder of the relentless passage of time. I take quick, deep puffs from the inhaler, striving to reclaim my breath amid the chaos of exertion.
We lie on the unforgiving wooden floor, our gazes drawn to the expansive glass windows as the sun retreats, giving way to the ascent of the moon, which casts its silvery glow across the land. The chill of the night infiltrates the room, enveloping us in a serene stillness where we merely... exist.
"You haven't changed, Dae." Wooyoung remarks, his voice a low murmur. I arch an eyebrow, my breaths gradually evening out as I turn my head to regard him. Yet, he remains transfixed, his eyes drifting from the window to the ceiling above.
"What do you mean?" I inquire, curiosity piquing my interest.
"Still the stubborn perfectionist. Never giving yourself a break." With great effort, I prop myself up, casting a sidelong glance at the boy beside me.
"You're acting strangely. Why do you sound so mature all of a sudden?"
A short, melodic chuckle escapes Wooyoung's lips as he, too, sits up, the weariness evident in his posture. He ambles lazily toward the exit, opening the door before glancing back in my direction.
