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The day grew to collapse into a subtle evening, met with the light trickle of rain and loss of stars, giving way to a darkness that Seonghwa felt himself lean into. He had made a trip back to his apartment, gathering a few boxes of artistic supplies before driving them back to campus, organizing a few more bins before setting up an easel, staring at a blank, primed canvas, almost as if it were to paint itself.

It stared at him, almost in a mocking manner, brightening up the room even when he had purposely dimmed the lights to make the atmosphere feel calmer. He had a paintbrush in hand, a pencil sitting on his tray, a basket full of paint tubes and bottles, all left unopened and dismissed. He didn't have any ideas in mind, nor did he even know what medium this would be painted in. Oil or acrylic; though he wasn't even sure if he cared anymore. He just needed something, a piece of art to show his future students, something for them to try and draw inspiration from, though he isn't completely sure that he can provide himself that. How was he supposed to inspire a group of future artists? How was he supposed to find the confidence within himself to paint something from the depths of his soul?

He simply sat there, chewing on his lip, listening as his phone buzzed and buzzed incessantly on the desk nearby, no longer drawing his attention. He knew who was texting him, but he couldn't bring himself to glance at his own phone.

This painting, for whatever it may become, felt like a burden. It was a task of something he wished he could avoid, yet he simply didn't, sitting there like a fool, twirling a paintbrush between his fingers in the mere hope that the colors and canvas would speak to him in the ways they used to.

All of that was lost, dwindled into a smothered flame that had been snubbed out, dampened by the downpour of negativity that his life suddenly became drowned with. He was just barely swimming above the surface, clinging to some sort of hope that he will simply survive all of this, and yet, he isn't even completely sure as to why he clung to this reality so hard.

Maybe it was because she was still here. Maybe it was because she hadn't left yet. Or, perhaps it was the idea that if he continued to ignore it all, that the pain that was soon to follow wouldn't be as heart-breaking as it would've been if he continued to pay attention. He could just walk away, engross himself into a job that he relatively knew nothing about, having just applied without properly thinking through a living arrangement or plan, trekking into a city far from his hometown, abandoning everything he once knew in the mere hope that this new city, these new people, this new job would just simply fill the void he felt taking over his entire essence.

The medical bills, the blink of a computerized monitor, the hospice care, the nurses and the doctors, the prognosis; it was beginning to feel too much. He couldn't handle the phone calls, the visits from estranged family, the signing over of wills and duties now falling onto his shoulders. It was a burden he hadn't anticipated, a weight that now accompanied his every breath, pressing down on his lungs and casting a dark sky over his once sunny appearance, dismantling his positivity, allowing the gloomy setting to wash over his skin.

He couldn't tell who he was anymore, at a loss from emotions that once harbored themselves in a deeply-rooted seed to be himself, to be bright and positive, motivated beyond his means, and yet, all of that faded into insignificance. He was struggling, trying to create something in the hope that all of his emotions would pour out from the bristles of his brush, but he just sits there. He just sits and he waits, listening as the clock ticks past internally, counting the seconds and minutes, almost as if he were on a timer. Though, the timer was of his own patience, growing thinner and thinner by the minute, sitting disgruntled and beyond frustrated with himself. The canvas stares back at him, intimidatingly blank, echoing the reverberations of words he told himself time and time again.

He was falling into the abyss, his ears ringing as he tried to distract himself away from the negative annotations of self-inflicted misery, listening as the heart monitor beeped and beeped, the rhythm casual and alive, until it ultimately fell into a dead flatline. His breath hitches, the grip on his paintbrush tightening, looking from corner to corner of this canvas, wondering why he couldn't just move his hand. The inspiration was lost, the tribulations of his past creeping back over, making him realize that this part of himself wasn't lost in another city. It followed him, with every single breath and every step, causing him to snap–

But, as he looks down, the paintbrush now broken between his fingertips, he takes a deep breath in, letting it flee readily. He shakes his head, turning to set the paintbrush down on his desk, properly snapped in half, broken and unable to be used. He glances at his phone again, listening as it vibrates face-down, rattling lightly against the wooden top of his desk. He raises a brow, contemplating, but choosing to rather answer it, knowing that he couldn't delay the inevitable.

"Hello?"

"My son," a voice mutters over the line, almost in relief. "How are you? I haven't heard from you all day."

"I'm well, mother. I'm just. . . settling in. It's a difficult transition."

"I'm happy to hear that, but know that I understand. The circumstances aren't fair, but I know you're doing what's best for you."

"I will come to visit you every weekend, I promise," Seonghwa swears, listening as his mother hums weakly over the phone.

"I know, Seonghwa. You know that I'm so proud of you for taking on this job. I think it'll be good for you!"

"Yes, and I'm thankful for all of this. I just wish you could be here with me, you know?"

"I wish I could be, too. It's hard, and I know that. But this is your passion, your life's calling. You are doing this to better yourself, and I couldn't be happier for you, Seonghwa. I would never fault you for chasing after something that you want."

"Even if it leaves you alone?"

"Even then. Because, you know what? I never chased after something that I wanted when I was young. I wanted to become a psychologist, someone who helped people, someone who could offer a shoulder to lean on when the world was too tough. Instead, I. . . I chased after your father. He sheltered me away from the world, held me hostage, dimmed my light–" she pauses, but Seonghwa can hear the bridge of emotion laden on her tongue. "I would never want that for you. You're too brilliant for this world; you hold too much creativity, too much insight, that I would truly be at a loss if that simply were to go to waste."

"You never did tell me the reason why father left," Seonghwa mutters, listening as his mother sighs. It was a tiring topic, truly. He couldn't blame his mother, even though he sought to understand.

His father had left when he was barely four, leaving his mother as a single parent for the remainder of his years. He didn't want to know his father's name, nor of where he lived or what life he entertained now. He was a grueling piece of work, according to his mother, but based upon all of this, he can just assume that his mother had had enough, filing for divorce and moving to a different city, all in a plea to separate herself from the man who sought to ruin her.

Seonghwa had been terrified of love ever since then. He entertained a single partner in his whole life, one of which lied and cheated, time and time again, but because Seonghwa felt that he had no one else, given that his father had already properly abandoned him, he stayed.

Even despite the emotional manipulation, the slurs, the yelling and the unrelenting arguments; Seonghwa chose to stay. He gave himself to someone that was utterly undeserving, simply because he couldn't take the feeling of being abandoned again. But, the moment his ex began to trash his mother and discredit everything that Seonghwa had earned for himself, the relationship was over. The male moved out the next day, and Seonghwa hadn't seen him since. That was three years ago. He hadn't been with a single person as a result of that, leaving him too terrified to simply date or willingly harbor feelings for someone else again.

Now, given the state of his life, he was now truly losing everything. His mother was sick, chronically and terminally ill, laden with a severity of cancer that the doctors couldn't even try and treat. She went through months of chemotherapy, laden with tests and CT scans, all of which pointed to a diagnosis that Seonghwa feared. It wasn't a good outlook, but his mother remained cheerful, smiling and hugging him, expressing that this rather wasn't the end of the road, but instead, an adjustment in their journey together.

Seonghwa didn't much like to think about what was to come in the passing days, weeks, or even months. He was too consumed by self-misery and grief, coping in a world where he'd no longer have parents to support him, no one to turn to, abandoned in the way he had been as a small child. The universe was cruel, but all Seonghwa could do was stand by and watch, intrigued and infuriated, wondering why it chose him, out of all people, to beat around like a punching bag.

"I couldn't stand being around him, Seonghwa. He was cruel, a completely different person than I had married all those years ago."

"I know, mom, I don't want to seem dismissive–"

"You're not, you're just curious. I can't fault you for that."

"You still were the best mother, and father, to me. I wouldn't have wished for it to be any different," Seonghwa says, looking down at his lap, watching as his fingers messed with the hem of his shirt. "You're everything to me."

"Seonghwa–" she says, almost in a faux-nagging tone, reprimanding him for the sudden change of emotion. "Don't make me cry, dammit. I'm already emotional because of the paperwork and the house–"

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. But, hey, it's only Thursday. I'll be by as early as I can on Saturday to come and see you."

"That'll be nice. We can have lunch in the garden."

"Perfect," Seonghwa hums, trying to keep his emotions at bay. "That'll be lovely."

"I better go, Seonghwa. I'm very tired after treatment today, and besides, I'll need my strength for your visit this weekend. Bring a painting with you. It's always made me happy to see what you can create."

He swallows the tears threatening to spill over, nodding though his mother couldn't see it. "Yes, of course. I'll bring you a new one to see."

"Perfect–" she says with an audible smile. "I'll see you in a few days, my son. I love you, always."

"I love you too," Seonghwa mutters. "Always."

Hanging up the phone, Seonghwa sets it down, back where he had grabbed it from, turning to face his canvas once more, feeling a nagging weight tugging at his heart. He tilts his head down, taking a breath inwards and out, clenching his jaw as the tears fought harshly against the tide of his willed composure. In, and out. In, and out.

Looking back up, Seonghwa faces the canvas, reaching a hand out, running his finger along the wooden edge of its frame. The cool touch, followed by the ridges of his stretched canvas, blank and barren with simple white primer, staring back at him with a screaming plea for paint. Yet, he couldn't convince himself that he was strong enough for it. He had tried, time and time again, to lather a canvas in paint, smearing colors together, mixing hues to create newer ones, painting delicate flowers and scenery, only to be left abandoned in his closet back home, untouched for the last few weeks. Every time he stared at them, he felt unmotivated and disgusted, wondering why he could never finish a single thing he started.

With a breath, Seonghwa rises from his seat, shoving away the motivation to try and create something within this new dedicated space, shaking his head as he physically tries to dispel every single negative thought that he has. The room was quiet, dimmed by the lights, yet somewhat organized.

He knew he needed posters, maybe paintings of his own creation, plants or something else to liven up the space in the way Hongjoong's room was effortlessly tasteful. He needed more for this, not only for his students, but for himself, transforming this bland workspace into something a bit more comforting, even if it felt anything but.

So, he begins to move through his belongings again, setting aside books and containers of paint, moving through the items he had brought back from his apartment, slowly beginning to organize the cubicle near his desk. He placed binders and folders down, labeling things with markers and small white pieces of paper, sitting down on the floor cross-legged as he moved through every single item with delicate care.

The act of simply putting things together made his heart feel a bit less splintered, not quite put together, but something similar. He was healing, in the only avoidant way he knew how, dealing with everything else in the hope that he could distract himself long enough to warrant a thoughtless night. If he continued to harass himself with the thoughts of everything he left behind, he knew he'd harbor remorse, maybe even a heavier weight of guilt, all stowed away on his shoulders like a leech.

He just wanted to be numb, to isolate away from the idea that his mother would soon leave this life and begin elsewhere, wherever that was. He just didn't want to accept it. He wanted to deny, deny, deny, all in the hope that one day, it wouldn't hurt as much. But he knew, deep down, that it hurt even worse to behave this way. Yet, he continued, because it felt to be all he knew how to do. How else was he supposed to act? What was he supposed to do? Surely, there was no right or wrong way to handle any of this, so he simply just acted, without even bothering to think of the consequences. He thought of himself, which wasn't likely the best idea, but it was all he could offer. He felt like a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off, and one faulty cut of the wrong wire would just set him off, exploding and hurting everyone else in his wake.

But, even as he sat there, meticulously organizing books and paperwork, he could feel the emptiness settling back in. It was slow, moving like a wave of energy that was insurmountable. It was a dense fog, clouding over his senses, making his brain feel like a messy jumble of things that he didn't know how to properly organize, stilling his hands and sending his head to tilt forwards. His breath hitches, hands tightening around the binder he held in his hands, listening as the sound of his shuddering breaths filled every single corner of his room.

He was alone. Left to trek in this life without someone to guide him, to comfort him, to just be there through all of life's unpredictable throes. He was abandoned in every single essence, not by force, but by destiny, creating a path for him that he wasn't sure he wished to trek down. He was just sitting there, feeling the flood of tears curl over his lash line, struggling to free themselves as he forcefully held himself together, knowing that the moment he chose to fall apart, he'd simply unravel completely.

His grip tightens again, eyes closing forcibly, swallowing the tears before they could ever seek to escape, listening as a new sound slowly makes its way into the quiet of his room. It was delicate; a soothing melody that waltzed into his room with a care that was as fragile as it was beautiful. Slowly, Seonghwa opened his eyes, his brows pinching together as he listened devotedly, trying to calm his breaths as the song continued to soothe the tide of his emotions. It was the sound of a piano, the melody dancing around from the press of keys, weaving their way through the halls of the quiet campus, bringing Seonghwa's eyes to widen in realization. Hongjoong.

He stands, setting the binder down, smoothing out his clothes before he grabs his phone and shoves it into his pocket. With careful steps, Seonghwa peeks around the threshold of his door, spotting a faint glimmer of light emanating out from beneath Hongjoong's door. The melody was louder now, yet incredibly soft, continuing on in a slow pace, pitched with lovely higher notes, mixed with warmer, low notes. It was a beautiful song, crafted on the likes of paper and now performed with a grace that Seonghwa hadn't heard before.

The tears in his eyes, once rushing to escape, now run dry, leaving his eyes red yet searching, his steps leading him down the hall until he was able to peek into Hongjoong's classroom, spotting the male with his piano, settled on the bench with his foot pressing against the pedals, playing along with a delicate hum from each of the chords. The piano was smaller, though white in color, shimmering beautifully beneath the warmth of a flickering candle. The room smelled of lavender, maybe a bit of something stronger, more husky. The space was completely dimmed, only brightened by the flare of candlelight, dancing around almost as if it were moving along to the melody of the piano keys.

Hongjoong was completely zoned in, harnessing whatever passion lay within him, moving his hands with a grace that Seonghwa couldn't describe with words. He was lost in his music, a smile gracing his lips as he played without fear and hesitation. He was in a trance, slowly bobbing his head in tune with the song, and it was only then that Seonghwa realized that he was playing without a single sheet of paper. He was just. . . creating, on the spot, passionately pressing the keys and making a melody all of his own creation. He didn't need the books of pre-written songs, or anything else similar to that. He just needed his own self, his hands and his thoughts, creating a symphony of notes that strung pure awe into Seonghwa's expression.

He stood there, a hand pressed against the door frame, feeling himself grow lax in simply just staring at the oblivious male. Did he always stay this late? Did he always create alone like this? Was this his artistic process?

Too many questions, too many pleas for answers, too. . . invasive. Seonghwa takes a step backwards, feeling as his eyes search the space for a reach of something, anything that he could tether himself to. But, then it hits him like a wave. A surge. Like a restless ocean tide, both incoming and receding, dragging the current with it as it crashed ashore. Seonghwa felt it right then, strong and powerful. The urge to be just like Hongjoong. The urge to be lost in his passion. The urge to create. The urge to paint again.

Quietly, Seonghwa trekks back to his room, hastily setting his phone back down, reaching back into his studio bag, searching through his brushes until he finds the perfect detailing brush. He sits down, scooting his chair closer, pulling the canvas impossibly close, reaching for the black paint from the small basket he had left nearby. Carefully, strengthened by the continuous purr of a harmonic melody, Seonghwa takes a small amount of black paint onto his brush, moving in tune with every arch and sinking hum of the music, allowing the music to guide him.

The paintbrush feels to be moving on its own accord, stroking upwards and back, creating an outline for something that he could vaguely recognize, though he tried not to worry himself with the details. He continued to sketch, very lightly, outlining everything he could, adding more and more paint until he realized exactly what he was painting.

He reached for the white, then the blue, delving further into colors he couldn't have even fathomed, getting thicker brushes, all of which were different in type, ranging from a boxier-length, followed with a sponge and a palette knife, met with details of a fan brush and the delicate stroke of a intricate detailing brush. He continued on, allowing the music to guide him, rushing through a blur of colors, knowing that his hands and wrists were likely covered in streaks of drying paint and mishaps, though he couldn't find it within himself to care.

The melody grows stronger, as does his passion, moving with an unknown motivation that he hadn't felt in months. He continued on, lathering the canvas in strokes of navy and black, blurred together with mutters of teal and light blue, accented with the bright levity of white, yet deepened by the hue of indigo. It was coming together, inch by inch, quarter by quarter, closing in on the exact thing that he had seen for himself.

After a blur of time had passed, he stepped backwards, searching the canvas for a stroke of hope that anything that he had just created would be any good, but what he saw wasn't anything of what he expected. In his passionate haze, he inadvertently had painted himself, sitting before a easel, though the canvas was no longer white and freshly-primed, suddenly becoming a mirror, staring right back at him. He was hunched over, a paintbrush in hand, the mirror reflecting his face back towards him while the room itself was deepened in the hues of shadows and blues, all of which felt isolating and cold. He felt his lip quiver, the brush falling from his hands, his eyes blurring back over with tears, only now realizing what his heart was struggling to admit.

He was lonely.

Whatever was inside of him, whatever demon was demanding to be freed, finally crawled out, taking control over his hands and his mind, creating a piece that only spoke of the darkness he was harboring. He didn't want to show this to his mother, nor his class, leaving him at a loss.

It was disappointing, but not in the way of not being good enough, but rather being too revealing, too real and utterly raw. He was treating the canvas like a mirror, seeking to find his heart smeared across the barren slate, and instead, seeing every single bit of himself, making it all that much more difficult to transfer a fresh idea onto the stretched canvas. He was bleeding himself dry, practically until all he had left was to lather it with his own disgruntled weaves of drama.

He needed the outlet, he'd admit it. But this wasn't what he needed right now. He needed something scenic, something happy, something. . . less like him. This painting needed to make his mother smile, to inspire his students, to speak volumes about the artist he truly was, and yet here he stood before said painting, at a loss for words, choking on his own stifled breaths and escaping tears.

He leans down, pressing his palms to his knees, allowing the frustration to finally bubble free. He was tired, not just of himself or this lack of passion, but of life itself, trekking along a path that had become the coldest thing he had ever experienced. But with this, he didn't know how to fix it.

No amount of paint would cover the truth, nor could it hide the pain. He was just masking the smile, painting over his features like makeup, pretending that his heart wasn't worse for wear. He was on the cusp of losing his mother, his life, his home and most importantly, he was losing himself.

That was just the cost of this. Hiding away, swallowing his fears and smiling even when the world was too cruel. He wasn't worth it to the universe, so why should he be worth it to himself?

Besides, after all of this, all he'd have is himself.

He'd be alone, just like he always had been.

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