EPHEMERAL
» ♡ «
lasting for a very short time

In retrospect, agreeing to enroll in a summer camp designed for chronically-ill youth was the worst possible decision Minho could have made. Over the years, his social skills have experienced a drastic decline. Hearing the "I'm sorry," after revealing his cancer became too painful to listen to — sitting in awkward silences with his friends post-diagnosis became too difficult to sit through.

So, Minho simply gave up trying. It's easier to stick to yourself when you don't quite fit into anywhere else. Sometimes, the consistency of the mold is insufficient in holding your limbs.

It's a bit unnerving, a bit irritating, to watch one of the proctors — Miss Aera Soo — beaming behind her thin, wire-frame glasses. She's standing at the front of the bus, hands clasped tightly over her stomach, and a grin stretching ear-to-ear. Her natural, dark brown hair is so long, it's tied back into a ponytail. A clipboard is tucked safely underneath her armpit.

A few seats ahead of Minho, a boy is coughing into a handkerchief. The sound is wet and thick, and it makes the hairs on Minho's arm stand. He grimaces.

How anyone can stand at the forefront of a mortuary-to-be and smile is beyond Minho. They're either sick in the head, or sadistic, he supposes.

"Well," Miss Soo begins, clapping her hands together happily, "we've gathered you all here today because you have the rare opportunity to make friends and bond with others who share similar life experiences!"

Minho rolls his eyes. It sounds a bit condescending, a bit pretentious. Miss Soo has hair, and can stand without her body threatening to collapse on herself. Thank you for reminding me of this 'rare' opportunity because we're all going to die soon, he thinks. But, he knows that it's supposed to sound like a cheesy commercial — one of those 800-number phone scam advertisements that prey on the gullible.

"We are excited to spend the summer with you, and hope that this will be a transformative experience," Miss Soo says. "We have an exciting schedule planned for you all."

A frown befalls Minho's features. It's hard to be optimistic when your chronic illness is determined to steal your excitement at any cost.

Miss Soo proceeds to drone on about the upcoming schedule. It consists of team-building activities, games, and miniature "field trips" around the hospital. Goodie.

Minho sighs, leaning against the cool windowglass to stare at the blur of scenery. It's an array of vibrant colors and blurring figures as the bus zips by. It becomes a monotonous backdrop of greens, blues, and whites — of people walking and laughing with each other and enjoying the summer sun. It isn't fair. He watches as a flock of birds flutter past the window, and as a lone tree grows larger until it eventually disappears into the background.

Imagining a reality where he won't be able to somewhat enjoy the world's natural wonders is...terrifying. Minho is doomed to die before his mother, doomed to die before some scientist cracks the code to curing cancer, doomed to die before his life can truly begin, and doomed to die before he can watch his children grow.

There will be no future, that is, no future with the potential to become better. The thought alone is enough to send a sickening nausea through his system. It's a large, invisible hand pressing against his lungs and stealing his air supply.

To distract himself from his thoughts, Minho fiddles with the strings of his hoodie, twirls the frays between his fingertips, and then tugs gently at them. The thread snaps.

"Stressed out?"

Startled, Minho jolts. He glances to his right, finding his bus seat neighbor staring at him with wide, curious eyes. They haven't spoken much since the beginning of the ride — not ever since the aforementioned 'seat neighbor' double-tapped on his shoulder and asked for permission to sit beside him. Minho remembers staring intently at the boy's scalp, looking for those boxy patches that come when wearing wigs. Nope, the neck-length hair was definitely real...and permed.

Minho, at the time, simply nodded and let his brain rule the boy out as someone who is also cancer-afflicted. No one with cancer can have that much hair.

"Uhm, sorry for asking," the boy mumbles after an awkward silence. He fastens obnoxiously large headphones (ones that are littered in rainbow stickers) over his ears and returns to scrolling on his phone.

Minho blinks. His gaze drops to the string, then back to his 'seat-neighbor' (who, for the record, appears to be just as fidgety as Minho).

Minho doesn't understand why, but the words spill out: "Yeah, a little."

The boy lowers his phone and turns to Minho. A small smile forms, and he says, "It's okay to feel a little stressed. I'm sure there are tons of people here who feel the same."

Minho stares blankly. "Yeah."

What an odd thing to say for someone who's in the same boat as everyone else.

"Do you...like listening to music? Music is good for stress relief," the boy suggests. He's looking at Minho with a genuine expression, one that isn't masked in pity, or the prelude to an "I'm sorry". It's a nice change.

Yeah, back when I could improvise to any beat. Back when I could turn any song into a routine. Back before I—

"Not really," Minho answers, clipped. There's kerosine building up in his waterline, so he turns away. The last thing he wants to do is cry in front of a stranger.

The boy's eyes widen incredulously, and he begins rambling: "W–What? You don't like music? Everyone likes listening to music. You just haven't listened to good music yet!"

Minho blinks at his seatmate, unsure of how to react. Is it even possible to enjoy music anymore? Music reminds him of the stage, and the stage reminds him of the fact that he can never return.

The boy continues, not deterred by Minho's silence.

"H–Here, you can listen to my favorite song!" and he's yanking off his headphones and crowning Minho with them before he can properly react. "It's called Silent Cry, a–and it's by a boy group called — ah, it doesn't matter, you'll like them!"

Before Minho can protest, his seatmate (still unnamed by this point) presses the play button. At first, Minho is irritated. This boy talks a lot, and is way too cheerful to identify with the rest of these chronically ill, grumpy-faced, campgoers. He opens his mouth to voice his complaint, only for the words to fall away. A gentle, drum beat floats from the headphones.

The melody is sweet, but the lyrics are a bit depressing — something that resonates with Minho. It's a little relatable. If only there were someone to hold an umbrella to the tears in his heart, or whatever.

Minho turns to the boy and offers a half-smile "I guess I can listen to this."

His seatmate beams. "See, I knew you'd like it! I'm Jisung, by the way."

Jisung reaches for his hand and shakes it. The motion is so energetic, Minho thinks he might get whiplash. More unnerving than the abundance of energy flowing through Jisung's fingertips, is the way all eyes seem to be on them at a seemingly innocent exchange. Minho is used to being invisible — being a mere face in the crowd, unnoticed by most, and a shadow of what once was. Invisibility makes it easier for people's hearts when he eventually is invisible. Dead. Gone.

"And, you are?"

"Oh. Uh, Minho."

Jisung's smile widens. "Minho," he repeats, nodding, "I like that."

They don't talk for the rest of the ride, but the headphones remain around Minho's neck. Jisung doesn't pry into the fact that Minho makes no effort to remove them. Instead, he pops a pair of AirPods into his ears and continues nodding away to his music.

For a moment, Minho thinks about what it would be like to have a friend. The thought is fleeting. It wouldn't be fair to befriend someone when you yourself have every intention of stopping your treatment and...well...dying.

Maybe in another lifetime, if the stars aligned, and the planets collided, and fate took pity on Minho, they could be friends.

Despite advertising, Star Lost isn't really a camp upon inspection. It would be pretty negligent to jumble a bunch of chronically ill teenagers together and leave them in the wilderness with zero access to adequate treatment. Instead, Minho finds that Star Lost is simply the name given to a wing of the hospital specifically for the program.

"I know," Jisung teases, noticing the resting frown on Minho's face. "You were expecting a campfire, and tents, and s'mores, weren't you?"

Minho snorts.

Star Lost is a series of small suites, all lined up in a hallway that leads to a common room. The walls are covered in bright murals and motivational quotes. Some are funny, others are not. The space itself is cozy and inviting, furnished with comfortable couches and armchairs arranged in conversational groupings. Soft throw pillows in various shades add pops of color to the room, preventing it from looking entirely like a hospital, or a prison.

Speaking of "conversational groupings", everyone is seated in one now, but on multicolored bean bags that are arranged in a circle. Jisung is supposed to be listening, not attempting to spark conversation in the middle of the introductory phase.

Miss Soo's instructions are simple in terms of ice breakers. Name. Age. Chronic Illness.

Simple.

A girl with a horrible stark-bubblegum-pink wig is speaking when Minho pulls his attention away from Jisung and back to the group circle. She clears her throat of her nerves, fiddling with the hem of her dress. It's uncanny how the color of her summer dress matches the shade of her wig.

"H–Hello everyone, my name is Min Nayoung." Nayoung's voice sounds like a ballad, sweet, clear, and a little slow. "I'm seventeen and I have Hodgkin lymphoma. My favorite animal is a rabbit and my favorite color is pink. Uhm...thank you for listening. It's nice to meet you all."

Nayoung is sitting with her hands clasped tightly over her knees and an uncertain look on her face. She glances at Miss Soo.

"Yes, thank you for sharing, Nayoung," Miss Soo beams. Nayoung gives a slight nod, and her shoulders relax a little.

It takes a second for Minho to realize that he's next in the introductory circle. All eyes dart to him—a momentary spotlight — and his skin starts to feel too small for his body. Claustrophobic.

Minho's heart leaps into his throat, and he tries his best to swallow it.

"H–Hi, I'm Minho. Nineteen. A–L–L. Uhm, I like cats." Minho's words are so laconic that he supposes he should say more. To sound friendlier, or something like that. "I used to own a cat, actually. B–But we gave him away to my father's family when I got diagnosed."

(God, Minho wishes he didn't sound like such an idiot whenever he opens his mouth.)

An awkward silence ensues. Nayoung offers a sympathetic smile and places an uninvited, yet gentle hand on Minho's shoulder. Great. This is exactly what he didn't want: the dejected, sympathetic stares over a circumstance that everyone in the circle shares, to an extent. Minho shrugs away from the touch and states pointedly at his sneakers. Perhaps mentioning the cat was too much. Too depressing.

"Thank you, Minho. I'm very sorry about your cat," Miss Soo says, and then motions towards the person sitting to Minho's right. "Jisung, would you like to share?"

Jisung blinks and gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up. He stands and clears his throat, then announces:

"Hello, everyone. As you may know, I'm Jisung!" As he's speaking, the circle erupts into an overlapping series of murmurs. "I'm seventeen, and I have...uhm, uh."

Then, he takes out his phone. The circle of enrollees only becomes increasingly unimpressed as Jisung scrolls away on his phone. Even Minho's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly. Finally, after a not-so-silent "silence" filled with the gossiping of the other campgoers, Jisung stops scrolling and exclaims:

"Ah, I have Ewing sarcoma!"

Minho takes note of the way the whispers turn into...almost offensive chatter about Jisung. There are some people whipping out their own devices to search up what Ewing sarcoma is (Minho included — and it turns out it's some rare bone cancer), and others questioning how he could possibly have Ewing's sarcoma with that much hair. Real hair. Natural. Untouched by the impending hair loss of chemotherapy.

Jisung is either oblivious to the whispers or is trying way too hard to seem unbothered. He sits back down in his lime green bean bag, and claps his hands together. "Oh, and my favorite color is red! And I love listening to music!"

(It's unfortunate that the boisterous chatter in the room overpowers Jisung's introduction.)

Miss Soo is quick to diffuse the situation. She gives everyone a stern look, and they quiet immediately.

"Oh, would you look at the time!" Miss Soo bursts, glancing at her wrist that wears no watch. "How about you all settle into your rooms? We'll continue the introduction circle later."

Miss Soo instructs everyone to single-file before a transparent bowl filled with folded papers. She tells them to each select a paper, and then proceed to their respective rooms. Since everyone is treating Jisung as if he's an otherworldly being, Miss Soo pulls him to the side and not-so-discreetly asks if he wants to room alone. Jisung declines and, without hesitation, grabs the last slip of paper in the bowl.

And Minho doesn't want to seem too obsessed with Jisung, or too curious, so he busies himself with finding the room printed onto his own folded paper.

Room 203.

The suite is a miniature version of the common room, with its warm colors and mismatched decor. The walls are painted a warm yellow and adorned with a smaller selection of the same motivational paintings and vibrant artwork as the common room. At the center of the room is a small wooden table. It's littered with stacks of pamphlets, and a few colorful, handmade cards. There are also two identical beds pushed against the far wall.

Minho sighs and drops his suitcase beside one of the beds. His phone then buzzes against his thigh with a text from "Mom 😸🤍."

Mom 😸🤍
Hope you made it there safely!
Good luck today, baby. I love you!

The message is followed by a plethora of emojis, all with bright, happy smiles. Minho ignores the way his heart stings with an ache that isn't from cancer.

Minho
okay
love you too
don't forget to eat!

Minho is halfway through unpacking his clothes — ones his mother thinks make him look so handsome — and toiletries when the door slams open, then shut. He looks up from his suitcase to find Jisung grinning ear-to-ear, accompanied by a large suitcase.

"We're roommates!" Jisung states the obvious. He walks over to the unoccupied bed and flops onto it, then turns onto his back and gazes at the ceiling. "Hope you don't mind."

Minho shrugs. "Not really."

"Awesome," Jisung grins as he sits upright. He begins pulling out a few articles of clothing, all in the same rainbow color scheme. He notices Minho's staring and adds, "I love fashion."

"Oh. That's...cool." Minho's voice is a bit monotonous, and he wonders if his tone came off as disinterested or rude. He quickly adds: "I–I'm not very good at putting together outfits, but I think it's really cool that you know what works."

Jisung offers a lopsided grin, cheeks dusted a faint shade of ballet pink. Ribbon pink. It's endearing, and it makes Minho smile, just a little.

"I'll help you get a wardrobe going!" Jisung announces, eyes alight with enthusiasm. Minho fails in stifling the chuckle that escapes his throat. "A–And if we're still friends after the summer, then we can go to the mall and shop together!"

Minho's teeth sink into the thin flesh of his inner cheek. It is peculiar how Jisung ignorantly glosses over the fact that everyone is here to die. What Jisung should say is "if we're both alive after the summer, then...", but Minho has already decided that Jisung's behavior is atypical for someone with cancer. His abundance of optimism is almost...offensive.

Instead of voicing his suspicions aloud, and by extension, pulling his social battery taut, Minho purses his lips and nods slowly.

"Yeah, maybe."

"You know he's faking it, right?"

Minho glances up from his lunch — a half-eaten serving of kimbap with a depressing cucumber — and furrows his brows at Nayoung, who has chosen to bless Minho during his lunch break with her pink presence. Since faculty confiscated all devices at noon (to-be returned in the evening), Minho assumes that she must be bored. She sits opposite of him with a bowl of soup that has gone cold, and an open book in her hands.

When Minho doesn't answer, Nayoung sighs and closes her book with a snap. Her spoon clinks against her metal lunch tray and she fixes her attention on Minho.

"He's faking his cancer, Minho," she repeats, and then continues: "His symptoms. All of it. You've heard the whispers, haven't you? Everyone's suspicious."

Minho frowns. Of course he's heard the whispers. They're everywhere — like an airborne virus that no one can escape from — and it's only day one. It's the reason why everyone seems to be giving Jisung a wide berth, or blatantly ignoring his existence.

Another girl, blonde with her hair pulled tightly into a sandy ponytail, chimes in. Kim Taeha. 18. Cystic fibrosis. "I mean...look at him. He has all his hair on his head, but he has cancer? I find that hard to believe."

"And, don't forget, he had to look up the diagnosis!" Nayoung adds, stabbing her plastic fork into a kiwi portion. "It's probably a PR stunt. I don't believe for a second that Jisung has cancer."

Minho frowns at the two girls, who are now engrossed in their own conversation, and glances over at Jisung. He doesn't seem to be bothered by how he has no one to sit with during meals. In fact, Minho had not-so-subtly asked Jisung to accompany him during lunch, to which Jisung denied due to "needing his own space." Jisung has spent every waking hour of the first day attached to Minho like a shadow. The sudden change in attitude is unsettling.

Still, Minho swallowed the burn of embarrassment and found company in Nayoung and Taeha. Unfortunately, they're addicted to inappropriately gossiping and speculating about others with their serpentine tongues. Jisung, on the other hand, is happily munching away at his salad and fruit, large headphones secured over his ears. He catches Minho's gaze and smiles sweetly. Heart-shaped. Crescent moons for eyes. It's hard to imagine something cruel within Jisung — something so evil, it could compel him to fake a chronic illness.

"I don't think it's appropriate to speculate on someone else's illness," Minho says after a while. He turns his attention back to his lunch, picking away at the cucumber slices that make the kimbap taste sour. "It's not like he's a celebrity, or anything, so I don't see how it could be a 'PR' stunt."

Nayoung blinks slowly, incredulously, condescendingly—like Minho is an ignorant fool.

"E–Either way, I don't see why anyone would want to spent a summer with a bunch of rude, dying people," Minho mutters before Nayoung can get a word in. Taeha and Nayoung seem to take offense to that. "He hasn't done anything to hurt anyone."

With that, Minho excuses himself from the table. He doesn't miss the way the two girls' eyes follow him as he crosses the canteen to dispose of his leftovers. He's sure that his words will reach the gossip vine, and the whole program will be made aware of Minho's opinion. It's a bit childish, he supposes, but he can't help it. It's his instinct to stick up for Jisung, and to be honest, he feels a little offended that everyone has so willingly cast aside the only person in the program who isn't a bitch.

Even if there is an incessant itch at the back of his mind telling him that something about Jisung is suspicious.

Author's Note.

First, I want to say THANK YOU for 100 reads so quickly! I know that this kind of story may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I thank you all for giving it a chance, at least🥹. This entire story is prewritten, so updates should only be slow if I want to rewrite a whole chapter or change plot direction...

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

Q: Do you think that Jisung is faking his cancer?

Leave comments 💬 and votes ⭐️ if you enjoyed!

♥ – Lia