Notes

a room only lit poorly by a lone spark of a flame that was cradled by a candlestick, and the moonlight that barely seeped through the thick drapes that were white in color. alone he sat, in the middle of the room he had emptied. no bed, no furniture, no impediments. this was what he was used to. he was used to nothing but a void of black, and singularity. being abandoned was a cruel yet somewhat effective tutor. there is never escape in loneliness. it consumes you from within— it paints your inner self a starless night’s black. and if you’re not supposedly strong enough, that monster of the dark will leave a dent even your most stable of façades. soohyuk wouldn’t let that happen. he’d like to think that he bore that faux strength that everyone around was speaking of. he knew what real strength was, and this was most definitely not it.

but it wasn’t always like this. there was once a pillar of genuine strength that held him up. he fluttered his eye to a close, and embarked on his little reminisce.

there he was, a lanky, eight year boy with a canteen latched onto his improvised silk based belt, a blank expression on, clinging to the lifeless body of his mother who just drew her last breath. his silence blended with the cacophony of nature’s unchanging course; the birds sung, the river ran, the trees danced, and he kept faithful to his pledge of soundlessness– tears were not an option. he swore not to show any tears. he was stronger than this.

it can’t be, the thought echoed through the gray folds of matter in his mind. it became haunting– as if his skull had become hollow and the words bounced off in every direction, only to resound, it can’t be

in an instant, he was in an envelope in the warmth of arms so cozy that he could call it home. “it’s okay to cry, Sweetheart.” in that husk of an old woman’s voice, she uttered, and it broke him. tendrils of emotion crept up into the darkest depths of his being. he relaxed his previously tensed muscles, letting go of the cold hands of his mother.

“grandmother..” he breathed out shakily, shifting his position to come face to face with her visage, wrinkles that come with age peppering its expanse— she was still beautiful to him either way.

and his embark to the past ends there. again, he’s back in solidarity. yet, that same warmth remains. that same warmth he’s labeled as his home. “I feel ya, gran’.” he mutters, before falling back on the floor, and drifting into slumber, cradled in her warmth.
It’s been seven years since your passing, grandma. I love you, and I miss you.