1.2 | Anemoia

12|twelve

In March, JaeHwan dreamed of cars and pedestrian street crossings, traffic signals and a cute boy in a green hoodie. The boy’s head bashed on grey concrete, cracked in a way that split his skull in half and let all the precious things contained in his mind flood the ground and seep into nothingness. 

Those nights, he dreamt about that look in the boy’s cerulean eyes. Helplessness, breathlessness, the slow loss of fight. He held that body into his arms, as if he were to melt that boy and freeze him back up, right as he was before. Whole again. 

But in the middle of that dream, hands would tear that body away from JaeHwan’s arms and crack him in half, splitting his head from his neck and letting all of him bleed mercilessly. Yet, in his own fantastical realm, JaeHwan thought it could all be fixed. He could just rewind time back and give himself a chance, a second attempt to fight harder and think of all the possibilities he could have taken advantage of in that moment. He would allow himself a few happy glimpses of the boy’s smile and all the things that he could have done… before it all came crashing down to the very instant. 

No matter how hard JaeHwan strained, how many paths he chose, how many replays of that disjointed fabric of time. He would take down the guy directly behind him and run forward, or he could have pulled out the gun in those suit-clad men’s belts and shot Jeha down. He could stop himself from going down the path of destruction if he rewinded time a little bit more, never let go of the boy’s hand, but all those reconstructions, ultimately, led him down to that exact same instant. 

His heartbreak wasn’t silent, like how they claimed in literature. There was no solitary void or shaking of arms or trembling of lips or that pure sense of dejection that pierced his heart, no. 

When his heart broke, the world around him burned. Screamed. Cracked. 

It tore him apart from the inside— that look in those cerulean eyes. He had been calling for Jaehwan, then, eleven years ago, all the time. With his hoarse, broken voice. 

The nights faded into cruel mornings. 

For when JaeHwan woke up, his dream had already become a reality. 

❢◥ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◆ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ◤❢

The topmost floor of HS Hotel in Cheongdamdong reeked of wealth. Money flowed in through their pipes and ventilators, solidifying in the stalactites and marbles, in glass chandeliers and fur carpets. In those rosewood tables with scents of perfume vanish and blush curtains, those that looked like sagging clouds over theatrical windows, laden with silver stars. Upon closer look, the stars turned out to be four petal flowers. 

JaeHwan had one hand in his pocket and the other swinging beside him as he walked across the lounge hall, straight to the heir of that magnificent building. 

"Hwan. Long time no see, man." SeokWoo didn't rise up from his cozy noire chair to greet his friend. Before him, on the circular table, lay open a bottle of fancy ghost black sauvignon blanc, a bowl of intricately cut fruits and a two tier tray of somethings JaeHwan cared not about. 

The three chairs around SeokWoo remained empty, and JaeHwan moved to occupy the one nearest to the glass wall. 

"We talked this morning," He said, remembering SeokWoo whining over his investors. "So. Why am I here?" 

"Jungwon called." 

To that, JaeHwan scoffed. "And where is he?" 

"Probably posing before paparazzi down below. Who knows?" SeokWoo took a sip of dark wine, resting the wet rim of glass against his lips as if he were some mysterious lord – no, he was not even close to some fallen old noble – Park SeokWoo was broke, or so JaeHwan liked to think.