Two

2 Weeks Later

He woke up, throat raw and face hurting. It was just like every morning for the past two weeks. Had it been two weeks? He wasn't even sure of the day of the week any longer. He noted the blinds were drawn, filtering out the sun that he didn't want to see. It shouldn't be sunny when he was feeling this way. His legs were folded under him, curled into as tight as ball as possible in order to shrink from the world. He remembered that as some point, recently, he tried to talk himself into moving to the bed. He couldn't lay in that bed, it smelled too much like him, the soft sheets reminding him of what his touch felt like, and how he'd never feel it again.

The phone rang, taunting him. He forgot to turn it off last night before passing out on the chair in the living room. It didn't matter who was calling. There was only one person he wanted to hear from, and he knew he couldn't. The light from the TV grabbed his attention, and he realized the video he was watching last night must be playing on repeat. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to look away, seeing himself smiling, hanging with friends... and of course, being with him. Hugging him. Watching him. Dancing with him. That was the point of this video. He made it for them, about them.

They both looked so happy. And somewhere in his mind he knew it should make him content that he had happy moments, that THEY had happy moments. But happy moments wouldn't stop the tears from falling again tonight, like they did every night, crying himself to sleep only to wake up with a sore throat.

After unraveling his legs, he pushed himself up and walked stiffly to the kitchen, trying to remember the last time he ate. Was it yesterday? Judging by how stuck the food was on the dirty plates in the sink, it had been a couple of days. His phone rang again, and this time he reached for it and turned it off, not bothering to look at who was calling.

He made his way to the bathroom, and after finishing his business, he couldn't help but stare at himself in the mirror. His face was much thinner, eyes sunken, dark circles stretching down further than ever before. He barely had enough energy to hold himself up by leaning into the edge of the sink. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but the doorbell shook him from his staring contest with himself. He stood still, holding his breath as if the person outside his place could hear him breath and know he was home.

He assumed the person would leave something and then move on, but then the pounding on the door started, not letting up.

He stumbled to the door, slinging it open while leaning on it, wishing he had enough energy to yell at whoever was attempting to contact him.

"Jimin! What the hell! I've been trying to reach you for days. I had to drive all the way here since you wouldn't answer my calls." The man said loudly, pushing his way into the house.

Jimin fell into his arms, drained from two weeks of grief. The man carried Jimin further into the house, sitting him down on the couch, keeping a hand on his shoulder because he could tell that Jimin was woozy.

He looked around. "Jesus, it's a mess in here. And you stink." Then carried on in a softer tone. "And when is the last time you ate?"

Jimin slowly leaned to the side; no strength left to hold himself up. "Sleep, baby," the man said while stroking his hair, "I'll be here when you wake up."

Jimin's last conscious thought was, "did he call me baby?" before he drifted into a restful, dreamless sleep.