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Han Jisung settled against the unforgiving, unrelenting floor, sat still beneath him. How long had he been here? He glanced over at his roommate, Lee Minho, and his friend, Seo Changbin. Minho had done something absurd while Jisung’s gaze had been set towards the sky. Something funny, if Changbin’s high cackle cracking through the air was anything to go off of, though Minho was always funny to Jisung. He felt his lips raise, involuntarily.
Lee Minho, bright smiles, large antics, beauty that would make a model jealous. His teeth sat just slightly crooked, his front teeth shining through, rabbit-like. His eyes crinkled just so. He felt warm, not that Jisung could feel much of anything these days. Minho felt like, a pause in Jisung’s mind, like he should be warm. Like a warmer day in Spring, teasing Summer just so, but the flowers still sat in bloom, the gentle scent of humidity and dew still present from a cold morning. Maybe.
Seo Changbin sat beside him, his whole body thrown with laughter. Changbin often brought with him music, and passion, alongside their friend, Chan, though he seemed busy today. Sound rarely seemed to pass over to him, and so the music was welcome. Oftentimes they’d drag Minho to sing for them, and, rarely, Jisung would get a hint of his voice.
The house had been cold, so cold, for so long, Jisung is glad he moved in. Everything felt alive again, warm again. Jisung felt the warm presence of friendship, connection. He’d always had a habit of falling, falling quickly, learning, remembering, noting every detail of those around him. It’s hard not to fall so quickly, when he sees the little ways people bear their hearts, unintentionally.
Jisung watched as Minho flailed about, deep into a bit between the two, and couldn’t help but laugh. Soft, quiet. They didn’t pick up on it. Jisung didn’t like to push himself forward, to make noise, he always built relationships up in his head, much quicker than the slow climb that is bonding and friendship. The few times he reached out to people, they spooked. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there. Maybe he was projecting. Maybe it was fair. He rarely reached out after all.
He wanted to, however. He was capable of it. He’d been this thing for so long, he knew how, he’d learned slowly over the years. The pain of being unrecognized always seemed to take over before he gave it a chance these days. Their brief fear, confusion, their hesitation grazed his skin like the claws of an angry cat. He felt his mind split, tear, he knew he was only to blame. If he’d put effort into making his presence known, perhaps they’d build something, together, at the same pace. Jisung always preferred to observe though, to build castles of grand fantasies in his mind.
Cold again. His gaze had drifted upwards in the spiral. He wanted out. He’d been here too long. Changbin was laughing again, but nothing felt funny. He wasn’t supposed to be listening in. An old tenant used to berate her daughter for eavesdropping. Was that what he was doing? He shouldn’t be. He’s allowed to be here, isn’t he? It’s a bit creepy, isn’t it? His obsession? Jisung could almost see the spiral above him. Why does he care? Why does he crave it?
The dead don’t need connection. They need closure. They need to move on. He should move on, but if he knew how, certainly he’d have done it right? Or would he? He certainly knows how to reach out to the other side, and yet look how much he’s done with that. They could help him, he thinks. If he tried, if he put up with the pain, maybe he could learn who they really were. Maybe he could see past the shades he’s created in their likeness.
He looked back over, Changbin sat on his phone, texting someone while Minho’s eyes remained glued to the screen. Jisung couldn’t really see what the TV ever showed, he was much closer to the frequency tech sat on, seeing their waves more than their images. That did make them easy to tamper with, however. All he had to do was reach out to it. Changbin’s phone, Minho’s TV, anything.
For something so weightless he often felt like lead. Solid and unforgiving and immovable and heavy. So heavy. Everything is heavy. Why can’t they see him? Why can’t anybody? Why does he have to reach out?
Overwhelm, and this suffocating feeling. Burning hot, tugging tear tracks along his form. Jisung hears bright ringing. Echoing, almost. Maybe Minho’s laughter? Nothing is funny now. He’s so alone. He’s fighting and willing himself and begging himself. Just stand up. Move. Pathetic. Stop that. Worthless.
Still they remain indifferent in the face of his torment. Why shouldn’t they? How could he ever expect them not to. How could he place this pressure to notice him, to help with what he himself makes sure isn’t there. He has only himself to blame.
Tears burn against him, and he’s not sure why. He can’t give up, he wants to be seen, and to be heard, and to know them dearly. He wants to be known dearly. He wants to be important, and to matter. Maybe he wishes he mattered enough to himself to reach out. A sob pushes past his lips. A memory of silent tears flash in his mind, curled in a bed, patting himself down, comforting himself. Who’s home is this? It’s uncanny, it’s familiar, it’s terrifying, but it’s known. It’s safe, almost, but a pit in his stomach tells him otherwise.
Now though, he lets his sorrows out loud- nobody can hear them anyways. Minho rarely cries, most men that have passed through this home don’t. Jisung remembers, vaguely, the feeling, the conditioning, attempting to tame this side of him. He was never successful. He felt joy strongly, and he felt his sorrow just as much. He knows this is true, in his very core, he is his own essence after all, though lately, rather than knowing, he's certain it’s almost as if he can feel it now.
Minho and Changbin are a part a pretty decent group of friends. They come, and they go, and sometimes they stay a while. Jisung loves seeing them, all of their personalities, how they connect, and sometimes, when they’re all together, laughing and playing games, Jisung can almost feel himself breathing again. He knows he shouldn’t. It shouldn’t feel physical. It literally shouldn’t be possible. Lately, almost in defiance, it does though. Presently again, his being is beginning to settle. The edges are soothing around him. The spiral is subsiding. A storm is passing. He’s ok for now.
He glances back over, and Minho’s gaze is settled against his own. Or, it just seems that way, of course. It soothes him regardless. Minho likes to pretend with his friends that he doesn't like them. Yet he’s always there. Steady, solid. When the waters in an ocean are shifting, Minho is always Minho. Always trying to make sure they’re included, they’re feeling ok. A rock, in this ocean. Jisung wants dearly, the love he knows Minho could show. The support. He wishes those kind eyes would meet his, genuinely.
They don’t, however, so instead he sees past Jisung, literally, of course. Still, Jisung allows himself a moment to pretend. To pretend he’s seen, just for now. He could be, couldn’t he? He feels himself steady, Minho acting as his anchor, and his form relaxes fully, his tears have subsided. He can almost feel Minho’s gaze soften, inexplicably. Fond. Strange. Kind. Jisung wants his comfort. His being pulls again, but in an aching, longing way. Sharper, staccato tugs, rather than the heavy pulls, yanks, and burning sensation of pure despair, or even the void of numbness.
It’s manageable in comparison, he thinks, and it brings him to seek to steady it, rather than wallow in it. He sits up, slowly and unwillingly breaking eye contact. He might die a second time if he embraces it too long. He can see the TVs frequency, a hollow, shimmering light, light crackles and pops sound the closer he gets. His hand passes through it, bright and sharp, though he can’t bring himself to actually look over at his two roommates. He’s scared.
Their judgement, their confusion, all of their feelings are scary. He can’t control their actions, he can’t predict them. It’s overwhelming. He just wants to start small. They don’t have to like him. They could help him though. Maybe they can’t. Maybe he will simply be perceived. It’s heavy, still. Weighty and tugging and his form quivers, and yet another image, a memory, flashes in his mind. A turtle. He’d gotten too close too quickly, it had looked strange, it looked exciting, and he was rushing to see. It shot inwards, hidden away, the loneliness of its shell remaining in its place.
The static of the TV frequency seemed to cut out for a second, and a light, airy, romantic voice forces its way into his mind.
“Jisung,”