This went on for days. Our one-way conversations, unfailingly beginning and ending with my voice, my words. Surprisingly enough, Yoongi never fought me. He never did so much as to lift his finger to shoo me away, but rather simply acted...like I wasn't even there. After a while it started to feel as though I were talking to a ghost, an imaginary friend, an illusion, a disheartening reflection of my hopeless status in Yoongi's life.

But I refused to stop.

"Hey, Yoongi, did you hear what was on the news this morning? Scary, right?"

"Hey, Yoongi, are you getting enough sleep? Your eyelids are lookin' heavy."

"Hey, Yoongi, I heard it's supposed to rain today. Did you bring an umbrella? If not, no need to worry. I've got an extra large one we can share."

"Hey, Yoongi, have I ever told you I'm uber jealous of your eye color? Seriously, though, how many girls d'you think would have fallen in love with you if they'd just take a closer look?"

"Hey, Yoongi, it's been a while since I've heard your voice. I really wish you'd start talking again."

"Hey, Yoongi...I'm really worried about you..."

It was growing tiring; somewhere along the way, my enthusiasm had threatened to abandon me, to remove itself entirely from the picture, to let my plan fade out into the background like a silly little dream I'd long since given up on. He stuck around, just as I said, never moving, never struggling to push me away; he never spoke, not even a single 'leave me alone' uttered by that tired mouth of his--until one day, however, when something in the boy finally seemed to snap.

"Hey...Yoongi...you're...really good at art..."

"Wh-"

My heartbeat quickened as my ears detected a slight sound escape his lips. It was instinctive, completely due to him having been caught off guard, but nonetheless it flooded my entire being with overwhelming relief, and there was no doubt it showed in my expression. Yoongi froze on the spot, clutching his number two pencil as his fingers and facial features began to twitch uncontrollably. He wasn't angry. This was embarrassment again.

"No way...is that Sungha?" I smiled widely at the sight of the familiar girl, her essence captured perfectly through mere graphite and paper. I almost couldn't believe my eyes. I had seen her enough times to vaguely recognize her through subtle implications, such as the roundness of her face or the wideness of her eyes, but this picture left absolutely nothing to the imagination. "It's beautiful..."

Yoongi shrunk into himself, caressing the surface of his pencil before laying it gently on his desk, right beside the drawing of his sister. "I plan on sending this to her...while she's in the hospital," he said softly, almost shyly. "Sungha...was the one who taught me the basics of art. She's the kindest and meekest person I've ever known..."

It was a sweet sight to behold, watching the way Yoongi's eyes swept over the drawing as though it were his most prized possession, a national treasure upon which none but he could even gaze.

"You've got what some people might call talent."

I chuckled to myself as I repeated Yoongi's words back to him from the time he'd last spoken to me. Judging by his befuddled face, I gathered that it hadn't gone over his head.

"So what else are you good at? Art certainly was not the first thing on my guess list, but hey, I love surprises."

"I don't...have any other talents."

"Yeah, me neither."

I laughed softly as I lowered myself to the seat in front of Yoongi's, turning around so that I could rest my elbow on his desk. He was staring at me again, a look on his face that suggested he was expecting me to elaborate. And I did.

"The only thing I'm good at is basketball. But when I think about it, what else do I need? I'm thankful enough to have at least something to call my own."

"Is that really how you think?"

"Hm." One end of my mouth started to curl upwards without my knowing. "It didn't used to be," I confessed. "When I was younger, I always wanted to play the piano. So I tried taking lessons. I tried and I tried and I tried...but I just couldn't do it. I got easily discouraged and gave up. But even when my fingers wouldn't play the songs I wanted them to...they still knew how to hold a basketball. It's the one thing that has always come naturally to me. It's my one and only talent, so I don't want to let it go."

Just then the bell rang for the start of class, and I soon discovered one of my classmates politely requesting that I vacate their seat. I didn't want to keep them waiting, but at the same time, I wanted to close this conversation in a way that would keep Yoongi dwelling on it. So I left him with one last statement.

"The same principle applies for people, too."

*****

I was somewhat proud of myself; to Yoongi I had said something quite profound, and if my luck hadn't run out yet, perhaps he'd even be able to unlock exactly what it was I had been trying to convey. During the next class--which, coincidentally, was Korean History, and I never paid attention in Korean History--I found myself mentally sorting through image after image of what Yoongi's face might look like the next time I spoke to him, chuckling under my breath every now and then, only to be halfheartedly reprimanded by our impassive instructor.

I would have spent the entirety of the class goofing off, for it was much more entertaining than listening to an old man give his viewpoints on the Korean War, but unfortunately...

...tragically...

...something interrupted my pleasant atmosphere.

It was around the three-quarter mark, just a little under fifteen minutes left until our lunch break, when someone stopped by our classroom, a cell phone loosely clutched in her hand and an inscrutable expression plastered on her face. And the first thing she did was request for Mr. Min Yoongi.

"It's about Sungha."

My eyes locked on Yoongi's countenance like a sharpshooter, though I held back fire until the precise moment I saw it necessary. Those three little words had managed to set his mind on edge, and with heaviness of heart he tore himself from his chair and stumbled over to the doorway to greet the lady who, in a voice so quiet none but he could hear, whispered something to Yoongi that seemed to shatter him in an instant.

And he took off. Down the hallway I heard his frantic footsteps echo, bouncing off every wall till they struck my ear like a heat-seeking missile which went on to implode in the caverns of my head. I couldn't bring myself to sit still, so I ran after him, paying little mind to the fact I was excusing myself from class without permission, but to be brutally honest, getting another bad mark in history was the least of my concerns.

I had to catch him. I'd already made the mistake of letting him get away in the past. I wasn't going to make that same mistake again.

"Yoongi!!"

There was no way he would be able to outrun me. With a bat's eyesight and already faltering steps, it was only a matter of time before Yoongi hit a wall, both literally and figuratively. At the moment, however, he was holding on strong, somehow managing to charge at full speed and still turn corners without colliding into any doors or bulletin boards. We were nearing the exit.

"Yoongi, wait up!!"

He threw open the door with one heaving tug, darting outside into the warm, yet somehow unwelcoming spring air, only to fall to his knees straightaway. His feigned stamina had reached its peak sooner than I predicted. And to my knees I fell as well, my arms reaching immediately for his shoulders to provide support. He didn't hesitate to shove me aside.

"Stop. I don't want you to pity me."

"Who said I was pitying you? You need to get to the hospital, don't you? I'll help you get there faster."

It took a lot out of him to be submissive, but nonetheless I was aware of the presence of his desperation, and he appeared to be realizing it, too. He said not a word to me. But that was how I knew I had received his permission.

So I helped Yoongi to his feet and held tightly to his wrist, guiding him along just as I had done on the day we first exchanged words.

The hospital where Sungha was being warded was a little under a mile away from the school, but believe me when I say that I was willing to go more than that distance, if it had be necessary. Physically, Yoongi was fine...at the moment. I wasn't worried about him collapsing halfway through--a mile, in the grand scheme of things, wasn't so great a distance after all. He wasn't looking at the ground, nor at my hand, as he typically did when walking with me. This time...he was staring directly at me. I had to urge myself not to continue with my subtle, over-the-shoulder glances, for he was bound to notice sooner or later-not to mention the fact that his expression was alternating between hopelessly confused and just...hopeless.

The second we arrived at the hospital, Yoongi darted out in front of me, but I held fast to his wrist, attempting to pull him back before he ran into anyone. He was anxious, so incredibly anxious, I could almost feel his frantically beating heart through the veins beneath my grasp. And that heartbeat only quickened with each passing second.

"Mr. Min Yoongi?"

A nurse caught sight of him restlessly scanning the reception area, and she called out to him tenderly. Yoongi couldn't think straight. He wasn't able to put his senses to use, even the ones that weren't impaired, so the woman's gentle voice went without his reply.

"We're here for Sungha," I said in his place.

"Yes, we were expecting a visit relatively soon," she uttered with a hint of sobriety in her tone. She then stepped back and gestured for us to follow her. "I'm afraid the doctors are still with her now, but if you'd like, you could wait outside her room for a little while until they're finished. Would that be-"

"Take me to her."

Yoongi had somehow slipped out of my reach without my knowledge, but just then, his hand seized mine, and he intertwined our fingers, pressing each individual one of his against my knuckles so as to ensure...I couldn't get away. He should have known that I hadn't planned to leave until I saw this through, but at the same time, I could understand his behavior. He was terrified. And without Sungha by his side, who I was sure he'd spent his entire life holding on to, I was all he had. My heart felt to be caught between two sharp blades.

The nurse led us down the seemingly never-ending hallway, past doctors and patients alike who wore such grave expressions, and while I'm sure not every living being this in this establishment was cloaked in misery and grief, those happened to be the only ones I could see. It reminded me how much I hated hospitals.

"Please wait here for now."

A small, vacant bench sat outside Room 204, beckoning for Yoongi and I to claim it. Yoongi was shockingly humble about the whole situation now, but I soon realized that this was simply due to how mentally exhausted he was. Whatever went on in that mind of his was wearing him down, so it was only natural that he'd be pushed across his limit with time. Although, I suppose anticipating the results of his sister's operation wasn't the best stress relief.

And all the while he clutched my hand as though I were his last breath of oxygen, and he wasn't ready to give up his own life just yet.

I lost track of how much time had passed with the two of us sitting side by side, our heads turned from each other, faces hidden, though strangely enough, I had a feeling I knew what his looked like. It was like the silent treatment all over again, but much more torturous. I wanted to say something. I wanted to be able to encourage him, to leave him with some sort of inspirational message he could utilize as a pillar, a means of emotional support, even if but temporary. Subconsciously I began rubbing my index finger against the back of his hand, rooting through the mountain of scrambled thoughts in my head in a desperate search to find the right words to say.

I knew how fragile Yoongi was. By this point, I was well aware of how thin the walls were of this front he'd built with his own hands. One wrong move and I might end up breaking something. And I certainly was no mechanic, especially when it came to things like broken hearts, so there was no way I'd be able to mend what had been damaged.

I had fallen in love with Yoongi somewhere along the way. But this intimacy going on between us seemed vague somehow. Holding his hand didn't make me happy. It only made me want to hold on to him more.

And I found myself thinking, 'no longer. I won't let him be alone any longer.'

The time swept by us as gradual as gradual could be, and yet the sight of a certain Room 204 door opening rattled by bones, as though in reality, it had been much too soon. Good news didn't waltz through into the halls to shower us with sunshine and roses, but instead we were greeted by the melancholy of a failed operation. Sobriety of mind and manner stretched across the pale complexion of a doctor, who, in unadulterated submission, bowed his head before Yoongi and expressed his sincerest and utmost condolences.

"We did all we could for Sungha, but in the end it wasn't enough. I am deeply regretful for coming short my duties. I pray that you will forgive me some day."

And just like that, he vanished. The hallways grew eerily quieter. For what seemed like an eternity, I was still, and I'm sure I would have stayed that way, had it not been for the arms so suddenly wrapping themselves around my neck, pulling me closer, closer...

...until I could feel Yoongi's tears fall on me.

His body trembled like a leaf, like bare skin against the ruthless winds of winter, quivering, fearful, as the soft, bitter sounds of his weeping tore me mercilessly from my ideal sense of peace and security. I felt the need to hug him back. Merely him holding on wasn't enough.

My conscience told me that I was nothing more than a replacement. But my heart insisted that Yoongi needed me...that I was put on this earth...

...for him.

And with that thought spinning endlessly in my restless mind, I finally found the words I was looking for.

"I'm here, Yoongi."