EPHEMERAL
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lasting for a very short time

Roommate Vulnerability Assignment: Day Six.

We are all on a path, and we don't always know where that path will lead us. If you find yourself off course, try not to judge or beat yourself up, but instead, remember you are always learning. From these lessons, we can continue to fight the mental battles against our unfortunate circumstances in life.

Q: What life lesson has your chronic illness taught you?

A frown pulls itself taut on Minho's lips.

A strange cloud looms over the common room, and a heavy, solemn atmosphere brews. Conversations flow in hushed tones throughout the canteen during breakfast, and several students have been caught whispering behind cupped palms and furtive glances casted in Minho's direction. A sensation of curious eyes track Minho and burn their gaze into the back of his head (more accurately, the synthetic hair of his ratty Amazon wig).

Minho shifts on the sofa. The past twenty-four hours have been plagued by a gossiping virus that spreads throughout the Star Lost program.

Minho doesn't want to think about all those articles any more than he already has. But, the thought is unavoidable, regardless of if he wills it or not. The sick, anxious, sinking feeling in his gut tells him this isn't something he can simply will away.

Former Stray Kids Member, HAN, Caught Faking His Cancer, Live From Hope Care Hospital (Star Lost Program)

Footage Shows HAN, Allegedly Cancer-Afflicted, Faking His Injuries. Netizens Respond.

Body Language Analyst Criticizes HAN's Recent Viral Display – Confirms All We Need to Know About His Alleged Cancer Diagnosis.

Did HAN Fake His Cancer In Order to Be With His Boyfriend In His Last DYING MOMENTS? Netizens Speculate.

With the upload of a single, heart-wrenching video of none other than Jisung crumbling into a shaking mess onto the common room floor, the internet's fire has reignited. His friend Jisung, who is somehow also ultra-famous Jisung.

The video is now viral. As for Jisung, Minho hasn't seen him since the evening of the movie night.

Minho crumbles the yellow paper into a tiny, yellow ball. Jisung isn't here, and there's little purpose in completing the assignments without him. The paper ball falls between his crossed legs as he slumps onto the floor. It bounces lightly once, then rolls to a stop. Minho stares blankly, lightheaded.

For some reason, the insecurity around Jisung's physical well-being has convinced Minho that maybe he should continue his treatment, albeit non-aggressively. With Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia, the symptoms worsen quickly — like a freight train barreling down a steep slope, quickening its deadly pace. It could be a matter of time before Minho could be writhing on the floor like Jisung had last night. Just the thought of experiencing so much pain is terrifying, and perhaps, swallowing some damn pills wouldn't be such a nuisance after all.

Just for the summer, he reminds himself. The temporary mindlessness from the drugs would be worth it, even if it's just to catch a fleeting glimpse of liveliness.

Minho, stands up, discarding the yellow paper in the trash before hobbling over to Room 203.

Aside from his missing roommate, there isn't anything particularly different about Minho and Jisung's accommodations. It's neither overly embellished nor pathetically bare-bones; it just is. Plain and ordinary. Minho likes it that way. His bedroom at home used to be encumbered with cards and gifts from his many empathetic (and desperate for self-vindication) well-wishers, but after a while, it became too much for him to handle. Even now, with time to think and come to terms with his diagnosis, being surrounded by an overabundance of mementos of life being taken away would suffocate him with irrational, claustrophobic dread.

Minho rattles the capsule of what's left of his chemotherapy medication for the month. He should schedule a meeting with Dr. Kim in order to discuss his new treatment plan. Ugh.

He reaches for his bedside and wraps his fingers around a glass of water. The cap lets out a crisp click! as it is uncapped and the chalky, white pills rattle out of the vial. There are about ten little pills left. It's enough to last a few days.

Minho flicks them into his mouth and tips his head back, gulping enough water to swallow. He shudders as the back of his throat closes around a pill that lodges itself rather stubbornly underneath his uvula. A few moments of expected, uncomfortable gagging ensues.

He swallows. All done.

Minho drops the glass back onto the bedside with a low thud, and carefully lays himself on his side to wait for the drowsiness to arrive.

Some days, this is all there is to life: the slow flutter of heavy eyelids and an incessant kick of nausea at the back of his throat. Somehow, in the midst of it all, he's supposed to feel alive. More alive. Like he's getting better.

And maybe that is all there is: a patient and unrelenting wait until either he is cured, or he falls deeper into his comatose, dreamless sleep, eventually dying because, damn, chemotherapy didn't work after all.

"Does he really think a broken bone will convince us that he has cancer?"

As expected, Minho finds himself approaching Rami, Taeha, and Nayoung during lunch. The only spot left at the table is, per usual, at the very end of the linoleum bench, and Minho is halfway through putting his tray down when the whispers start. The idle chatter and constant hum of the canteen seem to cease as conversations around him hush, and faces turn.

If he thought the online attention was brutal, the real-life confrontation is more insufferable.
Minho sets his tray down and takes a seat. Three sets of eyes lock onto his presence immediately.

"What do you think, Minho?" Taeha sneers, twirling at the ends of her sandy ponytail. "Rumor has it that Jisung broke his leg during the movie."

Minho forks a bite of tasteless ramen noodles into his mouth. The noodles are cold, but he chews anyway. He doesn't say anything. He hopes his blank, zoned-out demeanor will be a repellant and the girls will eventually leave him alone.

(Unfortunately, it does little to deter their taunting.)

"I don't see how it's possible," Nayoung adds, albeit, she wasn't asked for her opinion. She's wearing a frilly, hot pink blouse that matches her wig rather distastefully. "It has to be a cover-up."

Taeha snorts in what is either a nasally cough or a hysterical giggle.

"I mean," Rami speaks, voice quivering, "if he were truly faking it, the doctors would've caught onto him by now..."

Nayoung offers an unamused shrug. "Unless his company is paying to keep the scandal alive."

Taeha's gaze returns to Minho after an aggressive fit of wheezing and coughing her lungs up.

"Minho, I'll ask again: what do you think?"

Minho bites at the inside of his cheek. He swallows his food, despite the fact that his appetite has been destroyed. The noodles slide uncomfortably down his throat.

A part of him feels insulted that the topic of conversation is none other than his own roommate, and yet, Jisung himself is absent and, therefore, has no say in what is being said in regards to his health status. Or in this situation, the lack thereof.

Minho sips at his water.

"You know how I feel," he says, words laconic, tone clipped. "Jisung's cancer is none of our business. Celebrity or not. He's still a person, you know."

A flash of annoyance gleams in Taeha's and Nayoung's eyes. They regard each other with spears for irises, before returning their gaze to Minho. After a moment of tense silence, Taeha clears her throat:

"I find it offensive that I have to undergo a lung transplant because I actually have a chronic illness," she says, fingers curling into her plastic silverware, "while your roommate gets to appropriate what it means to have cancer. Just so people will pity him! It's fucked up, Minho."

Minho fights the bitter scowl wanting to escape his mouth. Taeha scoffs. Her gaze locks on Minho for a brief moment before settling at his side. Her nose scrunches. Her jaw slackens, and her beady eyes grow wide as her posture straightens, almost rigidly.

She continues her tirade, her serpentine tongue lit aflame with misplaced anger towards faux cancer. Allegedly.

"And now, you and Miss Soo expect everyone here to tolerate him?! He's using chronic illness to cover up his sexuality! It's totally wrong!"

Nayoung chimes in, because the scrutiny always comes in twin pairs: "Minho, you have cancer. You're not an idiot. Jisung had to Google his diagnosis. He's got all his hair. So far, his only symptom is a broken bone..."

Rami wilts into her shirt. She attempts to interject, "Well, we aren't completely sure... You never know if Jisung c–could be telling the truth— I just think... But yeah, there could be more to it... And there was that video..."

"Either way, it's none of your business. I'd appreciate it if you all would stop talking about me."

The clacking and rustling and chattering and commotion of the canteen seem to mute in that instant as everyone collectively stops to turn their attention to the subject of their gossip.

Jisung is there, supporting a singular crutch, wearing a walking boot, and standing stiffly at the edge of Minho and the other girls' table. His ink hued hair is still perfectly coiffed and parted slightly off center, and his long fingers are gripping his crutch tightly — almost nervously.

His posture seems to crumble like a feeble cardboard cutout, however, and Jisung gives a rattling exhale, before finally opening his mouth to speak, though his voice wavers with uncertainty:

"It seems like no matter what I do, I'm still 'faking' everything. I don't care. But you all have been talking about me since the bus ride here. It sucks."

Minho tries not to think too hard about the bitterness simmering to the surface in the form of droplets of tears in the corners of Jisung's eyes. Rami bites at her fingernails. Nayoung sips her tea quietly. Minho places his chopsticks down, calmly, a stern frown fighting against his mouth to leave its familiar, resolute impression.

Taeha stands, nostrils flaring, shoulders pushed back in an effort to be a scary delinquent like those in Hollywood movies. Except her chest and voice give a rattling, gargled cough (which ruins the effect, actually), before she deflates. A flicker of disgusted faces flash over the meal room. It only angers Taeha more.

With the heavy realization that all eyes are trained on her, Taeha lurches forward and grabs a fistful of Jisung's thick, curled hair — hair that stops just short of where his back begins. Her hands ball into a firm, white-knuckled fist, and it only takes a moment until Jisung is grimacing and gritting his teeth, hissing out a yelp.

A collective gasp ensues, succeeded by boisterous commentary on the situation at hand.

"See, everyone, his hair is real," Taeha declares...almost sadistically. "I'm sure you knew that already, but—"

"Stop this immediately!" Miss Soo chastises, bounding into the canteen and breaking the two apart.

As soon as Taeha releases her grip, Jisung immediately straightens. An odd look overcomes him; he remains silent. Frozen. Completely still. His face pales a sickly, ashy hue.

"Miss Soo!" Taeha continues exploding — molten lava poured over her syllables. "How can you let him stay here? He's... He's faking everything! It's common knowledge that you lose your hair during chemo."

Choruses of nods and grunts of agreement ring throughout the canteen. Minho remains stiff in his seat, watching the subtle changes in Jisung's expression. The twitch of his lips; the sinking of a frown on his mouth; the way his eyes narrow into a glare.

Miss Soo crosses her arms. "Taeha, that's extremely inappropriate to say—"

Jisung mumbles something under his breath, words incoherent.

"What did you say?" Taeha asks, a haughty little smirk smeared across her otherwise bland, emaciated face.

Jisung draws in a breath on stilts. "I said, I'm not doing chemo."

Murmurs and whispers rush through the room like a tide waiting to cluster into a tsunami.

"You're not doing chemo? But you have 'cancer', don't you?" Taeha asks matter-of-factly, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest. "You're a fraud, just admit it."

Miss Soo attempts to regulate the situation, albeit, poorly: "Taeha, that's enough."

"No, I'm not doing chemo," Jisung spits, voice wobbling around the vowels, "'cause maybe I just want to die."

An audible inhale escapes between Minho's teeth.

Time slows, like those cheesy rom-coms where everything comes to a jerking, frenzied halt — except this time, nobody is laughing. A stunned silence sweeps across the room.

Jisung swipes at the moisture blooming in his eyes and retreats with an unsteady gait.

Miss Soo frantically follows after him, leaving Minho, Taeha, Nayoung, and Rami wearing quadruplet 'dropped jaws'.

"Did you mean what you said? About...wanting to die?"

The sun is shining with unbridled fury, and the temperature is blistering, burning, even beneath the wide stretch of shade provided by the towering trees.

Minho had spent twenty minutes wandering across the grounds, searching, until he had located a small area of the courtyard walled by an ivory trellis where Jisung had situated himself. Jisung stares forward, refusing to look at Minho — or so much as acknowledge his presence.

Still, Jisung opens up slightly and offers him a hint:
After a brief, tense silence, he nods stiffly.

The bench offers an indignant creak as Minho settles at the far end, hands clasped between his knees, staring at his sneakers for a minute or so.

"B–But...why?" Minho hazards, fingers coiling together.

A smile winds itself slowly across Jisung's features. Not because he's happy. Rather, the grin that curls along his mouth is forced and desolate. Cold. Brittle. Something intangible breaks between them and dissolves into a plunging, silent darkness.

It takes a moment, but Jisung moves to offer a broken explanation. He tilts his head over toward the summer sun and closes his eyes against the harsh light that passes through the canopy of leaves above them. The rays cast a prismatic net of color over his face.

"It's easier to just...die," Jisung admits. The words are nonchalant. Easy. Unencumbered. "Less wasted funds, less wasted time worrying about the off chance that I might get better, y'know?"

A brief image of Jisung laying motionless on the floor — veins rigidly protruding from beneath thinning skin, sunken eyes glazed over, jaw lolled open — flashes through Minho's mind. No.

What a horrible conversation to have.

Minho almost expects a breeze to sweep between them, offering some comfort of the physical variety — the kind that entails the sweet, delicate scent of lavender on air — but there is none. It is merely them and the searing brightness of the sun and the incessant chatter of the world around them.

After another extended lull, Jisung speaks:

"If you're wanting to tell me that I have a lot to live for, that dying would just...unnecessarily complicate things, then believe me: I know. I've heard it a hundred times. Possibly even a thousand."

Minho peers upwards at the sky, tracing the shape of a bird's shadow swooping low, before fluttering out of sight. It's a tactic to keep himself from crying in front of Jisung, because why would you cry? This has nothing to do with you, Minho.

"Besides," Jisung drawls, an airy, weightless laugh escaping his mouth, "maybe the world would be better off without me, you know?"

Beneath the brash and confident sheen, Jisung is glass. Fragile and afraid. Minho had only just remembered, the boy beside him is seventeen. Young. It's absurd to even entertain the thought.

(And yet, Minho can't blame him.)

A deep frown crimps Minho's mouth. He can only mutter softly; "You don't mean that."

Minho supposes it's the appropriate thing to say, even if it makes him a hypocrite.

A pained chuckle rips through the humid, summer air. Jisung wrenches himself away from the embrace of the sun and whips around to stare at him. The black of Jisung's pupils bore deeply into his very being — the empty, yawning darkness suddenly far more compelling than the luminance of the sky. Jisung sits rigid. Nothing hums between them, nor is there a familiar warmth building in his chest. There is only the stilling silence that swells between them.

The next thing out of Jisung's mouth is a single inquiry:

"Do you know how hard it is to entertain millions of people around the world while simultaneously hiding a disease that nobody understands or has any pity for?"

Minho opens his mouth to say something: anything. He wishes to say the right words. To coax Jisung out of this shell he seems to have enclosed himself in.

Instead, his lungs refuse to work. He cannot find the appropriate response in his vocabulary.

"It's torture. Pure torture," Jisung nearly hisses, breaking the wedge of silence between them. "If dying means finding peace and freedom, then maybe living is what I should be afraid of."

A gust of wind teases the greenery around them, and the leaves of the bushes rustle together, before settling back into place.

Jisung runs a hand through his hair. It bounces into a messy, new shape. "They think dying a fast, peaceful death is something I should be scared of... And I... They just—"

His voice cracks, shatters.

Jisung's face scrunches up as he lets the flood of emotions surface. He sniffles and tears slide free from the bottoms of his eyes. Shakily, he slides a sleeve across the mess on his face, though this action does nothing to dissuade the flow of tears or hide the quivering of his lip.

With a hiccup, he finally gives into his emotions, burying his face in his hands, back hunched over with the strain.

Minho moves on autopilot: an instinctual reaction to relieve Jisung of his pain. Minho's arms loop around Jisung's thin frame. Jisung shudders. At first, he is resistant, offering Minho a weak shove in return, fingers clasped tightly over his mouth in an attempt to muffle his sobs.

Though, after an insurmountable moment, when his brain has finally caught up with his impulsive, benevolent impulses, Jisung slackens into his embrace, pushing his nose into the crook of Minho's neck. Inhales and exhales quiver against Minho's collarbones. The small pinpricks of tears dampen the fabric of his shirt. Fingers dig themselves into Minho's shoulders as if he were a lifeline — the embodiment of tangible comfort.

"I don't want you to give up on yourself," Minho whispers into the dark tresses of Jisung's hair. As he pulls away, fingers cup at Jisung's cheeks and sweep away the trails of salt-tinged tears with his thumb. "You shouldn't...give up on your body when you haven't tried."

Jisung stares up at him blearily. Crimson and pink hues have dyed themselves across the whites of his eyes, and his pink lips are split open into a tight, apologetic frown.

He croaks out, "Sorry you had to see me cry."

"Don't be."

For a long moment, the two of them sit there beneath the shade of a tree in dead silence. Jisung finds his words first, and it feels so sudden — an interjection in the shape of a question.

"How come you can make everything feel okay?" he asks. "Make everything...so easy?"

"I don't know," is Minho's simple, honest reply.

Even the slightest of smiles grace Jisung's lips. "Are you sure you're human, you know, for reals?"

Minho chuckles lightly: a lilted rush of air. "Maybe not. Can't say."

"Thought so."

They press their backs against the rough etching of the ivory stone wall and stare ahead to the sight of summer plants and shrubs blooming in the flower beds before them.

As a breath of air sweeps between the two of them, Jisung laces their fingers together and smiles minutely, looking up at him beneath his long, dark lashes. "Okay, fine... I'll try. T–To get better."

Minho returns the sentiment in the form of a small, crooked smile. He hopes Jisung will.

Author's Note.

Thank you for reading Chapter Four! This one, I feel like has been kinda angsty compared to the first two chapters...but any sunflia2 readers should be used to this by now. 🤦🏾‍♀️ I'm trying to keep the pacing steady but simultaneously quick, as this story is supposed to be really short!

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

Q: Is it possible for Jisung's cancer to still be an act? If so, how do you think Minho will react to the inevitable revelation that Jisung faked his cancer?

Leave comments 💬 and votes ⭐️ if you enjoyed!

♥ – Lia