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The taste of coffee lingers on Hongjoong’s tastebuds. The last cup has been too strong, but it’s the only way he manages to stay awake. His body is exhausted beyond belief, yet his heart is thudding so hard against his ribcage that Hongjoong thinks it’s going to leap out of his chest and run all the way to China.
His eyes are burning. He’s been staring at the screen non-stop for days. The book is far from finished. What was he thinking? That it would be as easy as in the movies? Ridiculous. He almost bursts out laughing at how naïve he had been.
But he doesn’t. He’s too tired for that.
Shivers run down his spine as he pulls his once-white sweater—now entirely gray and pierced with holes in several places—tighter around himself. Hongjoong fixes his gaze on a stain above his left pectoral. What could it be? His umpteenth cup of black coffee? Instant ramen? Perhaps his smudged mascara? Hongjoong doesn’t know. He shrugs. It’s not that important.
He tucks a strand of his black hair behind his ear. When was the last time he washed it? Tuesday? Yes, it was Tuesday. Which one, though? Last week? He has no idea.
He rubs his face in annoyance, then he lifts a cigarette to his mouth to calm down. The smoke billows like a white ghost in the dark of the night. Well, it’s not just coffee that he consumes mindlessly. This is his third pack this week. He used to get by on three sticks. The balcony is littered with cigarette butts and ash. The landlord’s gonna throw another fit again.
The balcony is the only redeeming quality of this apartment, seeing as the TV doesn’t work and there’s constant uncertainty around the availability of hot water. And, of course, the bakery across the street. Their pastries over there are delicious.
Just thinking about them makes Hongjoong’s stomach churn. Since his diet has been reduced to coffee and smoking recently, he contemplates whether there’s anything edible in the refrigerator. When he shuts his eyelids, he can clearly hear Seonghwa’s voice in his head pestering him about his fucked up habits.
A rueful smile tugs on Hongjoong’s lips at the thought of his not-boyfriend-but-we-kissed-twice-and-never-talked-about-it best friend of twelve years.
It’s an ironic pot meet kettle situation because Seonghwa has his own obsessive tendencies, which he can’t change no matter how many times Hongjoong reprimands him. They’re two distinct genres of self-destructive and it’s only a matter of time which of them will wither away sooner.
Hongjoong’s stomach growls again, this time louder, but he doesn’t feel like standing up and checking for food. It’s so nice out here.
Hongjoong leans against the railing, puts out his cigarette, and keeps his gaze fixed on the sky. The darkness has dropped its veil over the world. This veil is so old that it’s ripped almost everywhere. These holes are the stars through which light pours in. The sheer number of them is overwhelming. Hongjoong feels like he could count them all. For the moment, he has all the time in the world.
He holds eternity in his hands.
He settles down on the rickety chair perched on the edge of the balcony, draping an old and weathered blanket over himself. He sits like that for who knows how many hours—happy, sad, full of life, yet a little lifeless. He’s alone in the night, though he doesn’t feel lonely.
He has a companion: melancholy.
When the dots of light in the sky begin to fade, Hongjoong comes to his senses and realizes that once again he hasn’t slept at all. He straightens with a sigh, but since he’s been here for so long, he might as well wait for the sun to rise.
In the meantime, the city slowly stirs awake. A steady stream of customers begins pouring in shortly after the old man opens the bakery. Soon, the sound of cars drowns out the stillness as the streets begin bustling with people. To Hongjoong, this is the best part of the day. The rush hasn’t begun yet.
He can feel the gentle touch of dawn on his skin. The sky is a mixture of indigo merging with pinks and oranges. Hongjoong wants to capture this moment. But not with a camera. And words fall short as well. He yearns for other people to experience the same sensations that he does: reveling in the caress of the sun, squinting at the bright light, enjoying the cool morning air that pinches his cheeks, and smelling the irresistible aroma of the freshly baked pastries that make one’s mouth water. He wishes they could not only see the colorful sunrise but be the colors themselves.
Hongjoong’s limbs are so heavy that he can barely manage to drag himself to the bath. He washes his greasy, tangled hair and scrubs his whole body. The water is disgustingly gray.
His clean shirt is instantly damp, as drops of water fall from his wet hair. He has no intention of changing clothes again. His greatest desire is to get into bed, but he sits down in front of his laptop instead. He opens a new document and starts jotting down his thoughts on a blank page. There is no pressure. He just releases the words that are trapped inside.
Sometime later, he sits back, satisfied. He is finished.
This thing won’t turn into a famous book. Nobody will talk about it. It won’t make it to the list of bestsellers. It’s just a young man’s writing. Nothing more.
Before Hongjoong can actually go to sleep, he taps on the ‘x’ to exit. When a window pops up, asking for the file’s name, after a short pause, Hongjoong types in thursday blues.
And click. Saved.