"Are you the cure to my depression?"
A girl, usually sad, fragile and always scared about the outcomes of her life.
A boy, who seems very optimistic and positive but is broken from inside.
Somehow, they cross paths and something immediately clicks b...
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*Hana's POV*
(Warning: mentions of self harm, might be triggering for some readers. Please read at your own risk. <***> marks the beginning and end)
When I returned to my room after bidding goodbye to Jungkook, I could still feel his presence inside my personal space, his sweet perfume still hanging in the air like an invisible cloud. It felt so good, like he was still there with me.
I walked over to my bed and took my medicines. Pulling the curtains apart, I squatted down to look at my pots and placed the new bonsai tree my mother just gave me. She told me it was a gift, and I didn't know what made her gift me something like that. I didn't mind though, since it was cute.
***Still gazing down at my older pots, I removed one, the old blood spots making my guts wrench. It disgusted me now. I pulled the sleeve of my sweatshirt up and turned my wrist around, looking for the old scars. They were mostly gone, only some faint lines left.
I pursed my lips and stood up, deciding to clean the sill. I went to my bathroom and picked a cloth. Dipping it in detergent liquid, I came back to the window and removed all the four pots, placing them on the carpet. I bit my lip and swiped the cloth over the surface. The stains were stubborn, not coming off easily. Still, I rubbed it harder, a part of it finally blurring away as I smiled.
It feels so good... letting go of an old habit. Not even in a million years I would have thought that I could get rid of this. And here I am, cleaning the mess that I used to enjoy.
It wasn't that I never tried to remove these stains before. I had tried, a month ago. When my aunt was coming, I thought of it too. I wondered how ashamed my parents would feel if others would get to know that their daughter used to do this kind of stuff.
But I couldn't get to clean this. I always kept it as a reminder. At first, when I was so used to this, I would clean this place only to make it dirty again. And later, I stopped it because I thought it was useless. I liked to see it. I enjoyed seeing the liquid escaping my skin every time I sliced open a new part of my arm, or my leg. I would sit here for hours watching as the blood would flow out in a rush at first, dripping down in large blobs, even flowing over the sill sometimes. Then it would become slower, sometimes staining my sleeves or my dresses.
I remembered how I would cry, not because it hurt my body, but how it hurt my soul. I would immediately wash my clothes if I ever noticed a speck of blood. Then I used to wear large sized clothes, and my parents wouldn't even ask why did I wear such dresses in a hot weather.
