Junho told Siwoo that he must only believe in God because he’s afraid of death. Now, there was nothing Siwoo wanted more than to die, and there was nothing he feared more than himself.

As he stood frozen in the middle of the church, staring at Junho’s tear- and blood-streaked face pleading before him, he had no idea what to say. It was as if his rage-filled, drunkenly furious mind had sobered in an instant, and the realization that struck him in that moment tore down all the walls around him like a hurricane. He wanted to scream. To cry out, to sob, to flail, to fall to his knees before Junho and beg for forgiveness, or just to stab himself in the heart with one of the gilded picture frames – but he did nothing. His legs were locked to the ground, his mouth fell silent, and he stood there, motionless, watching as Junho slowly let go of his legs, then stood up straight, his infinitely terrified, confused, and sorrowful eyes locking onto his.

Then, Junho left.

He said nothing, just walked out of the church doors, leaving Siwoo behind in the now-darkened building, with the evening lights and his even darker thoughts.

That night, Siwoo couldn’t sleep. Lying in bed, he stared at the white ceiling of his room, trying to put the whirlwind of his mind into words.

“God,” he whispered. The word felt bitter in his mouth, suddenly ringing with unbearable sorrow. He clenched his teeth. “God, I…”

No. He couldn’t say it; it hurt. It hurt terribly. He turned his gaze away from the ceiling, feeling his tears scorch his face, especially where Junho’s scratches marked his skin. Clenching his jaw, he dug his nails into the wound. He sobbed, tore his hair, bit his lips until they bled, but no physical pain could soften the war raging in his head.

“My God,” he finally whimpered, pressing his face into his pillow, sobbing silently. He heard the soft jazz melodies filtering up from downstairs, the easy conversation of his parents, who had only returned home a few days ago. His sobs grew heavier. "My God, I hit an angel in your holy house,” he choked out, burying his face deeper into the blanket. He wanted to suffocate. “Please, kill me. Kill me, now! What’s taking so long?!” With a groan, he rolled onto his back, his arms splayed helplessly on the soft mattress. His entire being screamed: Here I am, defenceless, you can kill me now; I want to die.

For a while, he lay there in silence, his mind dulling. When his violent storm of emotions finally eased a little, an unbearable, gaping emptiness settled in his chest. It was as if the infinite darkness of the space tried to force itself into Siwoo's ears.

He sat up, rubbing his tear-streaked eyes with a sigh. Through the window beside his bed, the grey full moon stared back at him, as if the entire sky, with all its stars, pitied him.

“Junho,” he began, still addressing his words to the Lord. “Junho meant you no harm. He doesn’t believe in you, but please, believe me when I say he is a wonderful person. You believe me, don’t you?”

A bitter laugh tore from his lips as he realized the absurdity of his words. Shaking his head, he muttered:

“I always thought I could accept other people’s views, since I myself don’t know the truth about anything. But it seems I was wrong.” He sighed again, lifting his sorrowful gaze to the pitying moon. “My God, if you truly exist, and you are not just something my desperate mind wishes to believe in, please, don’t forgive me. Punish me however you want, but Junho… Junho doesn’t deserve to suffer. Maybe it sounded like it, but he didn’t do anything against you... Did he?”

Doubt crept into his voice. Suddenly, he was uncertain about everything. But then, swallowing hard, he clenched his fists and continued:

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It doesn’t matter at all. He did nothing, but I committed something terrible. I won’t forgive you, God, if you punish him for it… You are the one responsible for all of this, why are you even talking to me…?!”

He fell silent. He closed his eyes and tried to quiet his raging mind.

“But you’re not even talking to me, are you?” he whispered. “It’s just me talking.”

Again, he fell into silence. In that moment, he truly felt like he was only talking to himself, that no one in the entire world could hear him. He didn’t know if that was actually the case (if he was really just speaking into the void) or if God had simply chosen to ignore him because of his actions– both possibilities terrified him. And at the same time, he realized how incredibly selfish he was being. The only thing he should be thinking about was Junho’s pleading voice, his face twisted in pain, and those beautiful eyes – eyes that he himself had filled with fear.

He forced himself to think of those images, punishing himself over and over again. He had hurt the most beautiful, wonderful person in the world – the one he loved more than anything, the one who could make him tremble with pleasure just by looking at him.

How was that possible?

And more importantly:

How was Siwoo supposed to face himself after this?

Torn apart, trembling, he cried himself to sleep that night. And the next night. And the one after that.

For three days, he wandered his house like a ghost, his chest alternating between an aching emptiness and the crushing weight of self-loathing.

He wanted to die. Yes, no need to repeat it – he truly believed he wanted to die.

“My dearest son,” his mother sighed as she sat beside him on Sunday afternoon. “I know you’re sad that your sister won’t be home for Christmas this year, but that’s no reason to sink into yourself like this! Now, come on, smile for me!” She hugged him playfully, affectionately.

Siwoo knew she was joking. He knew she didn’t really mean what she said, that she likely sensed there was something deeper weighing on him.

He tried to force a smile, but he felt it must have looked more terrifying than even remotely genuine.

He stared at the bright yellow armrest of the couch they were sitting on and at the lavishly decorated Christmas tree in the middle of the living room. He thought to himself that he didn’t deserve to see such cheerful, vibrant colours.

“I invited the Jung family over for lunch” his mother said then. “I haven’t seen Yujin in ages, and you said you’ve become friends with her son. Maybe he can cheer you up!” She patted his shoulder and rushed back to the kitchen to continue her cooking.

Siwoo sighed.

He loved his parents, he truly did, and he respected them, but he was well aware that they had raised him and his sister with as much care as they had negligence. Work had always come first for them, and only sometimes – when they remembered – did they embrace their children or scold them a little. But that was the extent of their parenting; they never put in the effort to build a deeper bond.

Usually, Siwoo would share his deeper thoughts with his sister, but she was thousands of miles away, having started university in the UK, where she had fought hard to get into a prestigious school. (And of course, her boyfriend was there, the one she was planning to spend Christmas with this year.)

A loud chime from the front door broke Siwoo from his thoughts.

He rolled his eyes. As lonely as he felt, he had no desire to see anyone, not even Hyunshik, and especially not his family.

What was his mother even thinking…?

“Sweetheart, please open the door!” his mother called out from the kitchen. There was urgency and panic in her voice. “Ah, I didn’t expect them to arrive so early...”

"It's two in the afternoon. They’re actually late," Siwoo muttered under his breath, knowing full well that his mother was far from a master of time management, and whenever she started something, it inevitably ended in a flurry of activity.

With a sigh and another eye roll, he opened the front door.