thirty seven.

2.7K 214 168
                                    

(Jimin POV)

___

I opened my inbox, clicking on an email from a university.

It addressed me by my name, with the following word, congratulations.

With a long paragraph of being accepted to the program and an furtherance to accept the offer as quickly as possible, was another short one too.

We offer our condolences, it read, in the passing away of your friend. Counselling and other services are always there to help you get through this hard time.

That hard time was two months ago, when my Mum had to type out my application for me, because I couldn't face my keyboard, not sure what I'd end up writing. So I'd said a few sentences here and there, and she'd typed it out for me, holding back her tears.

 And I'm sure it wasn't easy, I'm sure. I know.

My phone rang, lighting up the screen. 

"Did you get an offer?" Asked Taehyung.

"Yeah, and listen to this, 'we offer our condolences in the passing away of your friend'." I laughed, reading it aloud.

"Do you want me to come over?" He asked, and I shook my head. 

"It's fine, I'll talk to you later," and I hung up, not waiting for his reply. 

I clicked on another tab, pulling up the website to where my stories remained. There were five of them, some completed, others not. 

But all of them were marked with a comment from him at some point, and I didn't have the heart to remove them.

With a breath, I selected all of them, and clicked the 'delete' button.

Readers would wonder where they all went, but it didn't matter, because I was tired of making up stories, writing what I wished would happen in mine, but only preventing myself from living it.

The ending no longer mattered, the subjectivity of meaning itself no longer mattered, whether it was sad or happy or real or fake no longer mattered.

Because those were the stories that I was hiding behind, making up possibilities, trying out different endings in them so I could perhaps fit one in mine.

But they were all sad, it was the truth, and I didn't want to hide behind the label of 'subjectivity' anymore. Sadness wasn't beautiful or poetic, it was just sadness, raw and aching. And trying to describe it all the time only prevented me from moving on from it.

I unlocked my phone, going into the the voicemail box.

"So whenever you get time, please give me a call back. Thanks." 

I hung up again, dialling his number. It rang, rang, rang. 

Instead of his voice greeting me to leave a voicemail, like how many others did, came the automated sound of an artificial voice. He never really did find the courage to record his voice, told me he felt nervous speaking on the phone.

But nervousness isn't what I heard in his voice, it was home, and if there were shapes to his voice, it would be rectangular and triangular prisms for it felt like a house built just for me.

But I wanted him in it, so he could rearrange the furniture and paint the walls to blue and orange because those colours were complementary, just like him and I. 

And I wanted to replace the word love in every dictionary in the world with his name, because his name was love, not merely a synonym of it, but love itself. And I'd make sure that nobody would ever try defining it, nobody, for no word was enough to describe him, except the word him or him himself, because him was love and love was him.

I went back to the voicemail box, opening it up again.

"I'll see you soon."

"Really? You promise?"

"I have to."

"Me too, I promise it."

"We're not over, okay?"

"Okay," I nodded.

"I love you, okay?"

"Okay," I continued to nod.

 "And I-"

"What? Say it."

"You know what I mean."

"I know you."

"You always do."

"And that means everything."

___

the end.

___


notifications.Where stories live. Discover now