Jisung was sat by the couch, eyes focused as Eunwoo leaned against the coffee table, reading through some yellowed papers. They were some old letters the younger found on their attic, that probably belonged to the older owner of their house — Jisung didn't focused too much on it, though. His eyes felt heavy, chest tight; and he hated for feeling that way.

Like things were moving way too slow.

The scar was still visible between the strands of the other's hair, and he still remembers what the doctor said: Eunwoo didn't had a exactly time to recover from the amnesia. It could take days, weeks, months… years, maybe?

Jisung knew how long it has been: 3 years, 5 months and 27 days. It happen right on Eunwoo’s birthday, so how could he forget? The day of the accident is just a blur of moments— the older just remember the long hours on the hospital halls, the sound of his own footsteps against the marble floor.

It all still felt too real.

Too tangible.

Too painful.

But then, his trance was broken. Eunwoo was looking at him, a flicker of worry shining in his eyes — and then, a question: “You look sad, Jisung... what's wrong?”; it came soft, gentle, but it only seemed to made the hollow in his chest ache even more.

The silence that follow hanged in the air for a second too long, Jisung moved to take a seat on the carpet beside Eunwoo, and when he spoke up — his voice was something between a deep sigh and a heavy whisper, one that held months of bottled up feelings.

“I’m… tired, Eunwoo.”

A heartbeat later, he continues. “I miss the days we had… how you used to cling to me, kiss my neck as a way of saying goodnight, how we used to sing in the rain together…” His words were laced with affection and nostalgia, sweet memories danced across Jisung's mind as he glanced up to meet Eunwoo’s gaze — but there, he found nothing but… confusion stamped those irises. And that feels like a dagger to his heart.

Because all of that mess of sentiments, that aching love within his chest… it was one-sided. After all, Eunwoo couldn't remember anything, could them?

Slowly, he reached out, touching the younger's face as if it was fragile porcelain — scared that the ghost of a rough touch could make everything worst, somehow. “I know it isn't your fault, but… I don't know how much of this I can handle… can you understand this?”