EPHEMERAL
» ♡ «
lasting for a very short time

"So, Minho, what made you decide to start up a new treatment plan?"

Dr. Kim has greeted Minho in the same way for at least four years: kind, patient, unexpecting, but still somewhat optimistic. It isn't that Minho wants to disappoint her, but oftentimes, his cancer simply does not cooperate with his desperation to recover.

Instead of his usual offhand comment regarding his lack of hope (which, all that really entails is staring off into the vast, endless white blankness of the ceiling for long minutes on end), Minho stares Dr. Kim straight in the eyes as he makes his remark.

"I... I just want to try," Minho explains rather vaguely. Lacking substance. "You never truly know unless you try, right?"

Dr. Kim curls her mouth upwards in a small, pleased smile, before she begins rattling off the complicated docket for his new cancer treatment. Minho can scarcely imagine the joy and pride blooming within her chest like roses. Her eyes are alight with what seems to be utter fascination, but more than that, gratification that her patient isn't a lost cause entirely.

Tearing off a wisp of sugar from his lemon poppy seed bagel, Minho finds himself fidgeting with restlessness as Dr. Kim continues discussing Minho's new experimental chemotherapy regimen.

Only a handful of seconds roll by before Dr. Kim stops herself from delivering any further information and snaps her folder of papers shut.

She peers upwards at Minho expectantly and asks, "Any questions, Minho?"

Now here... This is where you pretend like you were listening the whole time.

"That sounds great," Minho responds perfunctorily, the words automatic. The room feels hazy and unfocused. Overly bright. Bright enough that he almost has to squint under the pallid fluorescent lighting.

"We do believe that your body will become accustomed to the treatment quite quickly," Dr. Kim assures Minho, even though he wasn't particularly seeking the latter reassurance. "What's most important is that your body does not reject the medication too viciously."

Minho gives an awkward, hesitant smile and nods. It is an ineloquent response on Minho's part, but truthfully, he doesn't know what to say at the moment.

Surely, he'd love to get better and reach remission and one day, live a normal life. Being stuck between the glass window and the stone wall and having absolutely no control over his life as he succumbs to sickness isn't exactly an ideal lifestyle. Still, there's no use in getting his hopes up for the inevitable setback that stubborn leukemia always brings:

Treatment. Hope. Remission. Relapse.

Like a game of Yin and Yang, or black and white pieces on a chessboard. Always fighting. Always pitted against the other. Light against the darkness. To never be unified. No matter how desperately they wish to exist as one.

Unification — recovery — is a hopeless dream.

Therefore, Minho feels the need to prepare himself to fail even if success seems unavoidable with his new treatment. It isn't even about him having hope or not. It is about what is logically inevitable: death. Rather, relapse, then death. Fate.

"Your mother's going to be pleased when she finds out," Dr. Kim remarks as Minho sinks his teeth into his bagel. "She really thinks you can beat it, you know? You can't stop fighting."

As much as the thought of being pitied irks Minho, he understands where Dr. Kim is coming from. In the presence of pessimistic patients, he supposes that the oncologist does not have much to work with. The little bits of optimism go a long way.

To Minho, treatment isn't an avenue toward recovery. It's simply a desperate way to prolong his death. He just needs to survive long enough to watch Jisung recover — to watch one more person reach remission while his body continues to wither on itself.

That is his hope. (As unhealthy as that may sound.) Dr. Kim doesn't have to know that.

"Yeah, I–I'll try not to," Minho concedes. His eyebrows pinch together. He forces a smile to his lips.

Dr. Kim flashes an upturn of lips in return.

"If it makes it easier, think about all the things you used to do before your diagnosis," Dr. Kim adds. "Think about, one day, being able to resume those things, cancer-free."

Minho presumes that Dr. Kim's words are intended to be helpful, but they do nothing to uplift Minho's attitude. If anything, her words have the opposite effect: a stark, vivid memory of the sight of an isolated stage, his lonely, fatigued stretches during morning practices, and died-out screams from 'The Wings Tour' fill his mind's eye.

He hasn't danced properly in four years. Not ever since he received his diagnosis and had to quit dancing backup for BTS. The BTS. And even after four years, it never fails to stir a violent, turbulent ache to form a tight, cluttered ball in his chest. It is an invisible weight, but suffocating nonetheless, and he despises it.

It's no use. I'm no good anymore. Returning to dance is...useless.

BTS Backup Dancer PASSES OUT On Stage. Live Footage From 'The Wings Tour' Shows.

Video Footage From a Fan at 'The Wings Tour' Shows Backup Dancer FAINTING During 'Not Today' — "It was terrifying."

So, Does This Affect Performance? BTS Releases a Video Statement After a Dancer Passes Out on Stage.

"It hurts to even think about," Minho answers sullenly, staring off into the blank distance. "I don't think I can ever dance again."

On the cusp of a sepulchral silence, Dr. Kim offers a nod, slowly, and says nothing further.

How do you even comprehend four years spent training to be an elite level, globally recognized dancer, all for what? Everything to come to a crashing end just as suddenly? What was the point of his decade-and-a-half of childhood of practicing 40 hours every week, eating tasteless steamed dumplings and rice gruel — just on the off chance that he might be somebody? Under the impression that dance is everything and means everything, so he had to do everything to make sure he was the absolute best?

Everything culminates into failure when your average lifespan is sliced by fractions due to cancer. When your parents begin fighting again because your chronic illness is "just too much" to handle.

"Never say never, Minho," Dr. Kim quips as she scribbles down a note into her planner. "You still have a long life to live, you know?"

With a lighthearted shrug and a laugh, Minho gives a conciliatory reply: "Right."

"Would you like a tissue, Minho?" Dr. Kim asks, referring to the singular tear rolling down Minho's cheek and dampening the corner of his mouth. "I apologize. I underestimated how painful it may be to reflect on your past. I know how much dance meant to you."

Dumbfounded, and slightly jarred by his own teetering emotions, Minho hastily sweeps the tear off of his face, stuffing his face with the remainder of his bagel to seem less pathetic.

"N–No," he declines, only once there's nothing left to chew. "I'm fine, just, um, it's fine. It's... It's okay, I guess."

Dr. Kim offers a perplexed, yet concerned look as her hands rest against the edge of the desk. "Alright then. Call me if there are any questions, Minho, okay?"

"Okay."

A handful of seconds slip away before he rises from his seat.

He steps out of the office and leans himself against the wall, resting his cheek against the white painted plaster wall. It feels cold against his skin, but only a balm to the heat of anxiousness that warms his insides. He inhales deeply and presses his eyes shut. A hand lifts to brush against his eyelid, fingers drifting across the warm skin just to force the sudden sense of emptiness from his head.

Static. Quiet. And then—

"Minho?"

Minho whirls his head to the right: to see Jisung encased within a blue hospital gown, propped up by his crutch. The sunlight filters through the towering windows on the left side of the corridor and catches Jisung's eyes: stars contained within stormy irises, boundless and brilliant like the midnight sky.

"Wha— What are you doing here, Jisung?"

"To get better?" A pause, and then a nervous swallow. "I told you I'd try..."

It only takes two heartbeats before Minho uncharacteristically springs at Jisung in an embrace — Jisung latching onto Minho without hesitation while Minho lets his nose sink into the warm skin and bone of Jisung's shoulder. Jisung pulls back slowly, lips twisted into a tentative smile. There's a hint of pink visible in his cheeks: a subtle blush.

"If that's going to happen every time, then maybe treatment's a good thing," Jisung murmurs in good-nature as he releases a breathy chuckle. "Almost worth going bald for. Almost."

"You're doing chemo?" Minho asks.

Jisung nods, mouth pressed tightly into a thin line. "Yeah, and a...resection? I dunno', it's some surgery to...get rid of the tumor."

In lieu of words, Minho offers Jisung a small, encouraging smile, clutching Jisung's hand in his own. The tiny quirk of Jisung's lips that mirrors Minho's in response is utterly endearing. Minho, like a moth flying aimlessly toward a warm light, can't help but beam.

At this angle, even the lighting of the window and the fluorescent overhead fixtures seem to highlight Jisung in an entirely new way — golden hues caress the supple slopes and valleys of his cheekbones and jawline. His eyes are glimmering brilliantly within a certain sort of shadow, dark curls falling over his forehead, framing the pale expanse of skin. The small, faint twitch of his upper lip; the tip of the nose; the crevices between his brow — Minho commits it all to memory.

"...And so, I guess I'm the most scared of going bald," Jisung continues rambling, snapping Minho out of a momentary reverie. "People are gonna' be shitty about it."

Minho chuckles. "There are great things about being bald. You can change your hairstyle any time you want."

Jisung blinks dumbfoundedly. "With no hair?"

"With wigs, dummy," Minho remarks, ruffling Jisung's hair. "I think you'd suit, hm...blue?"

Minho watches as the corners of Jisung's lips curl upwards into the tiniest of smiles. Like the dawn peeking out from the horizon during a sunrise, awash with the dim, subdued glow of beauty.

"Y'know, I actually dyed my hair blue once..."

Roommate Vulnerability Assignment: Day Fourteen.

Illness shatters the illusion we have crafted of control. We realize that life's script isn't ours to edit. We can't erase pain or rewrite our DNA. Instead, we surrender to the narrative, finding strength in vulnerability. We choose to heal by telling our story. We choose to grow by equipping ourselves with the mental armor that pushes us to keep fighting.

Q: How did your diagnosis come to be? What about your old life do you miss? Can you ever see yourself returning back to what once was?

Two weeks into Star Lost, and Minho was starting to think it wasn't as grueling as it initially seemed on paper. In fact, he had even been toying with the possibility that the program wouldn't be terrible, especially since the weather has been favorable and Jisung has been a wonderful companion.

But here he is, re-evaluating his opinion on the program as he commits the fine-printed text on a familiar yellow paper to memory. Today's assignment: explain your diagnosis' origins, mope over what life once was, and unrealistically hope that life can return to normal post remission.

Minho stares up at the ceiling, his head filling up with images that may not even exist — and yet seem all too real nonetheless: the blinding glare of stadium lights and deafening cheers from 20,000 stadium seats; the stage engulfed in an intimidating darkness; the sensation of his body moving to music; the elusive dream of global recognition; and then the end. The crash. Darkness. Curtains fall. Articles are posted — sensationalized. Minho gets diagnosed with cancer.

It hurts to reminisce — because his dreams and aspirations are just that: dreams. Shapeless and intangible. Allusions that attempt to seduce his mind with what may never exist; if they ever even did exist.

Uncertainty breeds insecurity and insecurity feeds discontentment: thoughts of life before diagnosis would torment Minho often. Overthinking too many 'what-ifs', instead of moving on with his life. Basking in lament over lost opportunities and the inevitability of change — the change wherein the world will forget about him, and it is very likely that Minho will never be good enough to dance again.

"Um, Minho?"

(The voice arrives on cue.)

Minho gazes at Jisung from where he lays curled up on the bed.

"I think we should start the assignment," Jisung continues matter-of-factly.

"Oh, yeah." Minho sits up straight, rolling his shoulder backwards to ease the stiffness. "Let's start. You first."

"Okay. Um..." Jisung exhales a tiny breath, gazing away timidly, his dark strands brushing against his temples. "I remember this vividly because I got diagnosed...recently."

His nervousness isn't inexplicable: it's a scary experience to grapple with the idea of forever changes. Never going back. Jisung shifts in his spot, clearing his throat. After a full thirty seconds of reluctant coughing, he turns to Minho.

"I started feeling a lot of pain during practice. I don't know if you know, but I'm an, um, idol, so we dance a lot," Jisung explains, averting his gaze. "We all thought that I had just pulled a muscle or something...so I tried to push through it."

"Oh." Minho gnaws at his lower lip; unable to figure out where it's appropriate to respond. "And then..?"

"The pain became really, really bad. I felt sharp, stabbing pain down the entire side of my leg. Even worse than I imagined. When I first went to the hospital, I was really scared. They had me do a bunch of tests." Jisung reaches up to run a hand through his hair, puffing a soft sigh as he shifts in his seat.

"I'll never forget the doctors telling me I had cancer. Honestly, it felt like they were saying I was gonna' die," Jisung admits with a self-deprecating giggle. "I was in the middle of a huge scandal, so I already felt like I was... Dying."

Another pause, and Jisung shakes his head a bit.

"Yeah, so. That's it, I guess." Jisung sighs, swiping a finger at his waterline. "This is really hard. Ugh."

Jisung runs another hand through his hair and tries to smile, just to show he's dealing with this, but it falls limp at his lips.

"Yeah, I get it," Minho replies softly.

And yet he cannot stop a jolt of sorrowful nostalgia when he sees the bright, hopeful stars that used to once occupy Jisung's irises abated to smoldering flames that are desperately trying to survive the onslaught of a rainstorm.

"I...don't think I can return to being an idol." Jisung frowns. "I loved it too...y'know singing, dancing, rapping — the whole shebang. In a way, it's all I've known 'cause I was a trainee since I was thirteen. Ah, but no one ever knows how long cancer recovery can take. I don't want to hold my group back."

Minho isn't quite sure what he is feeling: he knows pity is a horrible emotion. He also has an inkling that Jisung would not appreciate being pitied — Minho sure as hell wouldn't — but the other part of him that's sensitive, empathetic, and thoughtful can't help but mourn the tinges of sadness that tug at Jisung's expression. Like falling off of a cliff and the sheer drop ignites a discomfited dread in your stomach as you await collision; the plummeting of a rollercoaster as you plummet down the hill and you're left with only the thrill of anticipation as it catapults towards an unclear end. Except it hurts ten times more.

"I–I don't wanna' cry so, this is probably my last bit." Jisung smiles through the tears pooling at his eyes and the red staining his nose. "Listening to the music we sang and wrote together, kinda' helps. Sometimes, I can imagine I'm right there with them, laughing in the studio, cancer-free."

A couple of strangled giggles filter past Jisung's lips. A few scattered tears clump his eyelashes together before spilling down his cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake.

"Fuck," Jisung bites his lower lip. "Sorry. Kind of a wreck right now. I–It's your turn anyway, so. You should go."

Rigid, numb, and unable to conjure words on the spot. Minho lifts up the piece of paper he'd almost crushed to a pulp into a better reading angle and scans the words scribbled below:

Q: How did your diagnosis come to be?

There was no epiphany. Only despair over how cruel life can be. How the world is so big that it doesn't care about his individual dreams and aspirations. It won't stop moving just to keep him with it.

Minho recounts the blur of rushing to the ER, the chaos of the emergency room, the uncertainty of not knowing what was to come — and being ripped right off the path to chasing his dreams.

The rest just kind of slips out: chronic visits to the hospital, treatments of all sorts — for reasons relating to the fear of cancer spreading further; the sudden fall of his weight, his energy, his strength; his already ailing body slowly deteriorating and deteriorating; and having to be isolated from the outside world because of his state. His entire life since childhood, just spent dreaming of being a professional dancer. Spent doing what he thought was the most important thing in the world — just for it to all be futile. In a blink of an eye, like watching a sandcastle disintegrate.

"...I've had cancer for nearly half a decade," Minho states in a bland monotone. Despite all the years he's spent mulling over and running through the same situation in his head, it still feels like a fresh wound reopening. "The memory of passing out onstage... It'll haunt me forever."

BTS and BigHit Release a Statement Following Incident Regarding a Backup Dancer — "We sincerely apologize for any concern this may have caused."

BTS' "The Wings Tour" Scheduled for a Momentary Break Post Collapse Incident — "We will be back and better than ever!" says Leader, RM

"The Wings Tour" to Resume with HALF its Dancers Amid Leukemia Scare

"Growing up...I wanted to be an idol," Minho continues, his voice fractured. "I love singing. I–I was actually going to the JYPE open audition later that summer. But, I got diagnosed with cancer."

What was once a dream is now buried under an avalanche of heartache. An elusive light at the end of a dark, dimly lit tunnel, just out of his reach.

"My parents split, I–I was really sick, I ruined BTS' tour," Minho lists off, unable to restrain the tears any longer as he hides his face behind his hands. "It was all my fault."

Jisung pries apart Minho's hands, having hobbled over to Minho's side of the room somewhere during his breakdown. He's crying too.

"Minho. Come on. It isn't. You— You didn't ask for cancer!"

Minho chokes on the sobs that bubble up in his throat, and the more he tries to suppress them, the more it makes his body quiver from his tears spilling out. The ache of a thousand needles in his heart — a little less painful than the ones inflicted by chemo, but perhaps equally devastating nonetheless.

The loss of dreams, of passions — of something so pure and uncontaminated within him that could have sparked a glow of promise into his tumultuous future, like the first star appearing in the night sky. That little spark that brings a smile to his face, that gives a reason to do more and see more and be more; that could have made him feel so much alive even on days when everything inside him seemed broken and dead. That was snuffed out just like the most meager candlewick, barely ignited, while it was still trying so hard to feed its life off of what little remains of its decaying wax.

All gone in a mere second — a brief disturbance in space time.

Jisung's voice can be heard from several feet underwater, pulling him, tugging him to the surface.

"Minho, hey, look at me," Jisung insists, pressing their foreheads together. "This is not your fault. It's not. A–And when you recover, you'll be the best singer ever. Promise."

Minho can feel Jisung's voice so close and yet so far: muffled in the unintelligible hum of ventilation. Unknowingly, Minho can feel his mind crumbling back into the broken and exhausted, dying man he's been for the past years he's spent in pain. A reminder that he can't have the life he used to imagine.

"Your diagnosis doesn't define you." Jisung pulls back, cups Minho's face in his hands. "You don't even know how amazing you are."

Minho knows how pathetic and undignified he must look to Jisung: blotchy cheeks, a snotty nose, drooping eyes, a trembling mouth. All matted down with artificial fibers. A hairless, dying man desperately clinging onto the tiny string of humanity left in him.

But then he feels the soft brush of the backs of Jisung's calloused, yet scarily delicate fingers slowly, soothingly, tenderly stroking along the moistened contours of his face.

"Minho, you are the strongest person I know."

Another sob, another heave, and another waterfall worth of tears. This time, though, it's not quite like his heart is in pieces — it's more like what little was left of it is starting to mend itself back together; slowly, painstakingly so.

Maybe things do, in fact, get better; starting with a small spark relit in his chest that gives him hope.

"I'm sorry, fuck...for crying and everything," Minho says once he's finally caught up to his breath.

Jisung's mouth splits into a smile — perfect, white teeth, eyes crinkled into miniature crescent moons. Minho commits the exact shape and size of Jisung's smile into memory.

He whispers: "Don't be."

Author's Note.

Thank you for reading Chapter Five! I really couldn't wait to post this one, since I love this chapter so much! <3 When I initially wrote it, I wanted them to kiss so bad, lol😭 But I had to restrain myself in the name of "slow burn"! I hope you guys are enjoying this short fic as much as I'm enjoying writing it.❤️

Please don't be silent, and let me know all your thoughts about this so far! 💭

Q: At this point, are you suspicious of Jisung's cancer? Why or why not?

Leave comments 💬 and votes ⭐️ if you enjoyed!

♥ – Lia