Jiyong sat in the dark, the glow of the city outside mocking him, neon lights flickering like the heartbeat he couldn’t feel anymore. His hand trembled around the glass of whiskey he hadn't even touched. The ice had melted. He didn’t remember when he poured it. He didn’t remember much these days.

His phone lay on the table, your name sitting at the top of his messages, untouched.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

That was it. The last thing you said. Not "I hate you," not "Don’t call me." Just that. Like you already knew he wouldn’t. Like you had already accepted the way he self-destructed.

Jiyong let out a hollow laugh, one that didn’t sound like him. His own voice felt foreign now.

"제발 단 한 번이라도 너를 볼 수 있다면..." (Just once, if I could see you again...)

His throat tightened. His vision blurred. He pressed his fist against his lips, trying to hold himself together, but what was the point?

"내 모든 걸 다 잃어도 괜찮아." (Even if I lose everything, it's okay...)

But it wasn’t. Because he already had.

The silence clawed at him. He couldn’t take it.

Jiyong grabbed his phone, opening your chat, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I’m sorry? Too small. I miss you? Too selfish. Come back? Too late.

His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, and then—he slammed his phone down so hard it skidded across the table.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to go back. He wanted to rip himself open and show you—Look. Look at what you left. Do you see what I am without you?

But you wouldn’t. Because you weren’t here anymore.

And whose fault was that?

Jiyong exhaled shakily and wiped his face, realizing too late that he was crying. He shoved his hands into his pockets, gripping his keys so hard they left indents in his skin. His body felt heavy, like his bones had turned to stone, but he moved.

Out the door. Down the stairs. Into the cold.

He was going to fix this. Even if he had to pull a Taeyang for it and release music played in every cafe in South Korea.

Then came Untitled, 2014.