You'd never really thought about your first time, not really. You figured things like that didn't happen to girls like you—that you weren't allowed to hope for that much. Even before the awful diagnosis. It was like your whole life, you'd just been waiting for confirmation that you'd die too young to ever love, or be loved.

Deep down, you still believe it. Whatever connects you and Jungkook, it definitely isn't love. It's simpler than that, just a transaction: pleasure for money. Nothing complicated, nothing new under the sun. And yet… There's this emptiness inside you, a void just waiting to be filled. You press your fingers to your chest, breathing slowly. You wonder if you'll just end up filling it with illusions. That would be terrible, even worse than never loving at all.

You curl up on your apartment floor and close your eyes, trying to relax, trying to think of nothing. Outside, it's raining. A clap of thunder rattles the windowpanes.

You stay like that for several minutes, until the strange anxiety that gripped you finally lets go. Then, you get to your feet. Your thin, pale legs are trembling slightly. Today is one of those days—the kind where you feel so weak, like you're constantly on the verge of passing out. You drag yourself to the kitchen—thankfully only a few steps away—and reach for the kettle. Your bony hand sticks out from the loose sleeve of your sweatshirt. You lean against the kitchen counter, bending over it with a gasp of pain. One of those sharp pains you should be used to by now (but never really can be) hits you—sudden, sharp, almost insulting.

You steel yourself. You know if you give in to the pain, all you'll be able to do is curl up on the floor and suffer, like a wounded animal. So you grit your teeth and shuffle over to the cabinet where you keep the tea. You grab a chamomile tea bag. As soon as the kettle starts steaming, you pour the hot water into a mug and drop the tea bag in. For a few moments, the water stays clear, crystalline, then slowly starts to turn yellow.

You go back to sit on the living room floor, leaning your back against the wall. Pulling the futon out of the closet would be way more comfortable, but even that simple movement feels impossible right now. You wrap both hands around the scalding mug, focusing on this pain—the kind that's much easier to bear than the one twisting deep inside you. The feeling of hot ceramic burning your skin, almost making it scream. You blow out a breath, close your eyes.

You wish things were different. You wish you could feel alive because of a kiss, or the melody of a song. But by some cruel twist of fate, the only thing that makes you feel alive is pain.

Even now, with your body fighting against you, you can't stop thinking about Jungkook, about the night you shared. You're not sure if you can call the memory 'good,' or even 'pleasant'... Honestly, you think it was kind of terrible. The burning sensation still lingers, a much milder reminder than what you felt in the moment. And yet... Jungkook had been undeniably beautiful right then. Seeing him lose himself like that... it hooked you on an adrenaline rush you never thought you could feel. And it’s still there inside you, bright and scorching.

You take a sip of the scalding chamomile. It burns all the way down; you can almost trace its path into your stomach. You lower your eyelids. Another sharp pain makes your legs jerk.

You don't have to feel this pain. It isn't necessary. The suppressants are in the closet, near the futon. Just three pills would make you feel better, stop the suffering—but those inhibitors dull you, too. They suppress that sharp, vital part of you, the part that lives in your mind. It's a common side effect of painkillers that strong—they make you docile, muted. And you're tired of feeling numb inside your own body. Tonight, you want to be clear-headed. Completely present. And if that means suffering...

You grip the mug tighter. A cough wracks your body, and for a second you see bright flashes behind your tightly shut eyelids. You set the mug down before you spill it, planting your palms flat on the floor. A second cough, then a third. When you wipe the back of your hand across your mouth, you see blood.

You let yourself slide completely to the floor. You're not going to die. Not from this. But if it did happen… If you were selfish, truly selfish, maybe you'd welcome it. Instead, tomorrow morning, you'll take your medicine and force yourself to live. You'll force yourself to keep going until your family can manage without you—until your presence is less of a burden than your absence would be.

You close your eyes.

Jungkook said he'd be in touch, that he'd be away for a few days. You wonder if he's on a mission, or something—you never quite figured out what he does, but judging by the marks you've seen on him, it can't be easy. Or pleasant. Or safe.

He has no idea, but if he screws up, if he makes one wrong move, he's not the only one who dies. Like a parasite tethered to its host, you'd die too. And that would set off a domino effect, destroying the lives of the people you love. The thought fills you with anger—a feeling the inhibitors usually silence completely. Anger because if you only could, if you only had the power... You don't know where the thought is going. It's just a feeling—vague, frustrated, raw. Maybe someday you'll understand the turmoil shaking you, but not today. Today you can't put a name to anything. Today you can barely think, barely breathe.

Another jolt of pain. Your eyes sting with tears.

If only you weren't so damn stubborn...

For some reason, a distant memory surfaces. Suddenly, you're a little girl again, running across the elementary school playground. Sunlight streams through the leaves, dappling the grass. A boy is chasing you, both of you laughing. You know if he tags you, you lose. You turn to stick your tongue out at him, and your foot catches on a knobby tree root sticking out of the ground. You fall hard, and the boy, unable to stop in time, tumbles right on top of you. For a second, it's almost like a movie scene—except you weren't adults, or even teenagers. You couldn't have been more than eight. You lock eyes for a moment, then he looks away and scrambles off you. He holds out a hand to help you up. Your eyes well up with tears when you see you've ruined your white tights—they're covered in grass stains. You know you're going to get yelled at for this.

"I'll say it was my fault," the boy says. "Don't cry. They can't get mad at you if I say I pushed you."

You don't remember that boy's name. It slipped out of your memory like smoke, impossible to grasp. You vaguely remember it was something like... Ilsung? Ilhoon...? But you can't be sure. You remember spending a whole summer with him. Then his parents moved away for work, and you never saw him again. You wonder if he ever remembers you. The thought makes you almost smile.

That boy's life has probably been full of girls—friends, girlfriends, whatever. Yours, though... only a few people have ever really been part of your story. Each of them has an important role. Even the newest addition, Jungkook... Absurdly, right now, his role feels more important than anyone else's. More important, even, than your own—and you're supposed to be the main character...

You let yourself drift with these thoughts. The spasms seem to ease. You even manage to finish the chamomile. You lie back down on the floor, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain drumming outside. Seoul downpours are torrential, but you love them for that very reason. They relax you. Moments like this, it almost feels like everything's okay—which is funny, because really, everything's a complete mess.

Your phone buzzes. You hear it but don't see it. You push yourself up to sit. It buzzes again and this time you glimpse the screen lighting up. Steeling yourself again, you get up and make your way to the small table near the bathroom door. It's a text from Jungkook.

Can we meet up now? it asks.

You widen your eyes. It's 11:40 PM and you haven't taken your medicine. Both excellent reasons not to leave the apartment. You decide to ignore it, pretend you're asleep. But just then, he calls.

The phone starts buzzing in your hand. Another spasm hits just then, and you almost drop the phone. The pain makes your knees buckle. The phone keeps buzzing, insistent. As soon as the pain eases, you hit the green answer icon. You hope your voice sounds normal. That he can't hear the desperate, breathless, broken undertone.

Before you can say anything, though, Jungkook speaks. "Figured you'd pick up. Give me your address, I'm already in the car. Coming to get you."

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