xiv. sleep
But tonight will pass us by
As we're breathing in this moonlit air
Tonight will pass us by
As the world it seems to disappear
Scars don't fade.
They mark us, as our all our experiences do. Blemishes on our skin that will always remind us of the pain we went through. Arcs on our hearts of the ones that hurt us the most. Like starlight glittering on the breaking waves, and maps above that cannot be decoded except by those in the know. Secrets that only you carry, that somehow still affect your future, blemish what is good with what was fucking terrible.
It's hard to hold myself up and love my scars, but I'm trying.
Each scar tells a story of its own, with feelings unique to each experience. A tale that we remember in quick flashes at a glance, from the red eyes to the nausea and back again. Those feelings resurface sometimes and they feel as new as the day that we were marked. Or sometimes they pull up a tidal wave of emotion from the sheer memory that suffocates some men and drown others. But they aren't new.
I survived that. I still don't know how.
I believed once that the scars that won't fade away are on the heart.
I was wrong.
God, I was wrong.
They will always be there, ugly and stitched by no less unique, no less me. An explanation all on their own, of the bullshit that I have lived through. Of what I have crushed and conquered, and am somehow still standing after. They still itch sometimes, once in a blue moon, for no fucking reason; but they don't rip open anymore. I don't know if they're truly shut, and I don't know if they will ever be. The scar is still there. It still fucks with my head. But they're holding, they're fading.
They don't tear under the pressure anymore.
They marked who I was then and who I am now, affecting so many parts of me; and I wish I was strong enough to say words I used to fucking throw around like they were nothing – but they mean something, they mean so fucking much and I feel it.
"What time is it?"
"Eleven at night," I answer, eyes diverting to the digital letters at the other side of the room.
"Ugh, alright, alright. I'll get up."
How did I fucking find you?
As I watch you sit up and start busying yourself – brushing your hair, putting that beat up purple hat on your head, making sure you've got everything in your bag because you don't want to forget shit in another hotel room again – I'm reminded of things I've said before this. Of times where I could open my stupid mouth and let eight letters, three words dribble out so fucking easily.
Of things that now constrict in my throat and no matter how hard I try, they won't come out.
Fear.
I remember Julia. Oh, yeah, I remember her well enough, even as she continues to walk away from my recollection, swallowed by fog and shunned by the sun she claimed to so dearly love. Even as she recedes further into the darkest parts of my memory, the ones that I can't completely remember even if I wanted to. But I remember enough.
The stony expression, left-brained and unblinking before me. The constant compromising on my part, the emotional… I don't want to say manipulation. I don't think it was always purposeful. That doesn't mean it wasn't there. The anxiety inside of me that she doesn't actually give a shit about me. The desire to let it die and fall apart underneath us – or rather, the inability to combat it anymore.
Since then, I remembered how to love myself, because no one else could; until now.
It's been a while, but I am still left with a filthy fucking memory of a girl who left me when I needed her the most.
When I look at earlier pages as you're putting your shoes on, when I see what… I put down back then – the desire to fall back and hide in the darkness from the memories, to escape the pain through whatever means necessary – it baffles me. It baffles me because I don't remember feeling all this because of Julia; I don't remember it devastating me, ruining me.
Oh but you could, if you wanted to.
You terrify me.
But there isn't pain anymore, just the memory of it. There hasn't been pain from those scars in a long time, even though I can still sometimes hear myself screaming, at myself, at her, at the pain and the need and the hate that I thought I was incapable of. But I am not better than that. I tried to be, but I am not.
A few weeks ago I found her words again. Julia's ones, in messages long past their expiration date. Her words were meaningless then and they are even more meaningless now. Apologies that never felt genuine. Dreams that were never real. Love that never felt legitimate. Like I was a chore.
There was a time where I still felt the desire to hide in the darkness from the sheer memory of the way my heart was all but ripped from my ribcage, with her long fingernails piercing into the organ and leaving crescent moon scars that ached and tore themselves open for a long time. And I have to remind myself again that there isn't pain anymore. This is now forever a memory, and it will always mar me – maybe I won't get over this for a long time – but things are better now.
They are so much better.
The echo of I can't let you go from a boy so fucking scared of being alone and watching his bitter heart freeze. Where are my wings, I used to wonder. Where did I go, I used to question. All shit. Because I learnt to be alone again, to be happy in solitude, and it was fine. Because my wings are here, as they always have been, stronger. Because I am still here, and I am better, whole.
I'd say that I still wish she cried more, but it is a wasted breath. And I am done wasting them on her.
To think I once thought I loved that woman. A real, gut-wrenching, heart-stopping kind of love.
I had no fucking idea what love was, then.
But I know it now. God, I know it now. And it terrifies me.
I feel your hand on my shoulder, shaking me. I blink a few times, my eyes adjusting from the unfocused stare, looking at you directly in the face. You're frowning a bit. I fucking hate that shit. It guts me almost as much as your small self-worth. You ask as I adjust the strap of my backpack and slip the stupid red thing that's partially hidden from your view into my back pocket, "Are you alright?"
"Yeah."
"Do you have everything?"
"Yeah, let's go."
When I stand, you take my fucking hand like it's not just desired, but needed.
The hotel door slams shut behind me. I leave the memory of Julia within its walls.
Wolves don't have to be alone.
I had grieved until I had forgotten what it was like to be happy.
And now I am so happy that I have forgotten what it was like to grieve.
The world spins in many strange circles.
I'm still scared.
"Have you heard from your friends lately?" you ask, carefully descending each step. I've noticed you almost have a fear of falling down, in every way. But if you do, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere like those before – I'll catch you. No reason to be so cautious anymore. And I know you've got my back too.
"No," I reply. "Asuka's gone back to Osaka and that's about it."
"And Xiaoyu? The one that ignored you after you…?"
"I don't give a shit now. As long as she's happy."
Xiaoyu wasn't satisfying, because she wasn't sweet. A concept, a lie wrapped in a pink dress. The idea that she was a light out of a dark tunnel, only for it to collapse before I could even make it out. But she is nothing, nothing compared to this light tethered to my hand and gripping and squeezing, like letting go is not a fucking option.
But you. God, you.
"Are you both checking out?" the receptionist inquires, pushing her glasses up her tiny nose. You approach her, still holding my hand, and begin talking in rapid Japanese, too fast that I can't understand it myself. Leaving me standing there in my own head again.
Funny how shit changes.
I remember once – years ago now, really – telling Baek that it never felt like I saw the world in true colour. That I could see colours, but they were muted, faded, like the jeans I practically lived in. Sometimes the colours were bright again, like the yellow and purple pansies that lined the tiniest gardens; and other times there were no colours, nothing but black and white and every shade of grey.
Bursts of extremes with nothing in between.
And then you appeared. And it's like I can fucking see again.
You literally came out of nowhere, when I had resigned myself to just living. An awkward laugh shared, wrapped up with the smallest of smiles and our eyes locking and 'the name's Hwoarang' and your hand extending; and there, inside. Past the skin and muscle and bone and through the frozen heart I had kept cold for so fucking long.
Life.
Life.
There was a bit of distance to cross, you and me. The breaking of walls. The showing of fear. Fighting past bad memories – mine and yours. The readiness to accept being vulnerable again, even though it screwed us both up for years with our predecessors. And the admittance that, there is something fucking here. And I want it.
So did you. That's why I'm standing next to you right now. Because we both wanted it.
You scare me so fucking much, Miharu.
When I had resigned myself to just living, to harden against the ache of the scars when I move, you appeared. When I had accepted and began enjoying being alone, you appeared. When I swore I would never be that vulnerable again, to never let anyone get inside of me like that, you appeared. And you changed all that.
The thought of bearing my wounds to anyone again, of showing that someone fucked me up, that many things fucked me up and have left marks and mental struggles, to allow myself to be so vulnerable… in my weaknesses and my strengths; my dreams and my nightmares; my hopes and my despairs; my sicknesses and my health. It scares me. Makes me feel sick.
And then you appeared, and it's almost like I am strong again. More than when I learnt I couldn't forgive not because I hadn't tried, but that I simply could not.
I wonder what the old man would think of you. He'd probably just nod with a grin, glad for my happiness.
You get it. You get so much that it's just, it's just… I can't.
The one thing that scares me more is this ache in my chest when I look at you, and the way that I feel almost invincible again – almost invincible, because she reminded me that I am, in fact, vulnerable. But you peeled all that back, you fought through the walls of iron and all the mental bullshit and you found me, even when I swore I would never be found again.
The feeling that I am more than nothing on the side of the road; that I am gold, and you helped shape me into something beautiful again. Precious, even. It trips me up. It fucking trips me up.
You caring about me as much as you do, being comfortable with showing it and being so accepting and understanding – I wish I could tell you how thankful I am for all this. But I'm shit with words, and shittier with melodies and chords, so it stays inside; a festering, pleasant ache against the memories that rotted and continue to fade with each day that passes.
Your words to the receptionist come to a complete stop. She's giving you an odd look. I know better. I know that it's something inside of you trying to claw out, so I squeeze your hand. You were never good with public speaking, you said once. And then you continue talking, slowly at first, choosing your words carefully until you are confident again.
You told me once about that feeling in your chest, the one that you hate and that makes you almost always second guess your thoughts, your words, your actions. Where a thought consumes you and you can't help but obsess over it, because that's what anxiety does, that's what anxiety is. I understand that and said 'same.'
I told you once about the feeling in my mind, the one that drains all the colour and makes you wonder what the fucking point of anything is. Where it's not a desire to just fucking die or something, but just, to fall asleep and wake up later with everything sorted out, or not wake up at all. A flat line feeling. And you get it and said 'me too.'
We once had some in depth conversation about religion and how we both think it's a crock of shit, but with good lessons; that people have polluted the best of it, as people always fucking do, because people are shit. We've had other conversations about horrible internet jokes, and the stupidity of youth – girls are shit, you say it so much; boys are shit too. I still laugh at your reactions to some of the stories I've told you – wrinkled nose, wide, beautiful eyes.
You pull my hand. We start walking out of the hotel and towards the entrance, where my faithful motorbike remains. You tighten your grip on my hand, to the point that your painted blue fingernails start digging into my skin. And it is such a fucking different feeling to past experiences, "So are you going to pick up your guitar again at some point? You should really do what you love, if you still wanted it."
"Maybe, I don't know. Might stick with martial arts. I just want to –"
"To leave your mark on the world," you say, pulling the back of your hat down a little. "I get it."
Of course you do. "Books, right? It's the same."
You will make it. You are too curious. I might not, we'll see.
All I know is I want you in my life. I want to share it with you. I want you to be a part of it.
What I feel scares me. Because I'm not used to it. Because it's immense.
It saddens me that even after months I'm this terrified of you, because of the strength of my feelings for you, because they eclipse anything and everything I have felt before. The knowledge that who I love most, who I've let in and allowed to see and be with such vulnerability, also has the power to truly destroy me.
But you are not fucking Julia, whose arms I walked into knowing that it would not last.
You are Miharu, whose eyes I met and felt alive and felt a frightening, immediate, soulful bond.
The potential possibility of you leaving me one day terrifies me as much as the fact that I would gladly spend the rest of my entire life with you in a heartbeat.
We're standing out the front of the hotel. There are some noise and some lights, but it isn't overwhelming. Tokyo's beginning to sleep.
"Seriously, where's your head at?" you ask, tongue touching your teeth lightly. I shrug nonchalantly, because that's how I've always done it. But you see through it anyway, because you are Miharu and you always have; and you let go of my hand to rub my arm. Then something shifts inside me as I go to rest against my motorbike, where it waits to take us somewhere new on the curb.
I pull out the small notebook from my back pocket. The red one the size of my hand that I've been scribbling my feelings in for the past five years. You understand then. You see the beaten up cover and the way my hands shake as I hold it. That it's… things that I'm still struggling with, struggling to get past.
Me at my most vulnerable.
I wrote in this because I needed an outlet for my emotions. Because I'm a ball of rage, flurry of fists and feet, and screaming red hair and a bike that spurts out smoke and only has one side mirror. Because I need somewhere to put my vulnerabilities, to store them. Baek thought it was a good idea – might have something to turn these pages into one day, he said; words with melodies and chords following. Small stories with future sounds. And it worked.
But I don't need it anymore.
I might need it again one day, but I don't need it now. And that's okay. It is shut. It is done.
The pages slide through my fingers, one after the other in reverse order, as I glimpse at them all. Finding myself again, twice, and that time I thought I had a way out of the pain. The time that the scars were born. The desperation. Remembering that I have good people around me, and that I'm not a fucking lonely little boy with a frozen heart. The constant fear of breakdowns. The words slung at me because people didn't understand – and the rage.
That isn't me anymore.
The cover stares back at me, a beaten red and curling corners. Your hand appears on top of it, pressing it – and all those bad feelings that used to consume me at night and made me question if I really belonged here – down. Away from me. Goodbye.
You pull it from my hands, slowly as always, and you hold it shut even as the last of it leaves my fingertips. My hands struggle to cope with the sudden air, grasping as though that stupid notebook remains. I stare at the nothingness and note that my fingers are still trembling slightly. I am still adjusting to being vulnerable again.
And then you press your mouth firmly to the notebook and then my forehead and I'm just so fucking overwhelmed with feelings that I feel like I could collapse into tears. But I don't.
You are as easy as breathing and I adore you for it.
"Alright, let's go," I say, straddling my bike. You put the notebook in your bag, carrying and shouldering my flaws, taking them away for now so that I don't have to feel them. I feel like my voice cracks, that it strains, but I hope I hide it well enough to add, "Just, somewhere."
"Okay. Moving forward into a new adventure, to wherever the hell we like! Together."
Jesus, I love you. I really fucking do. I hope you know that.
I can't say it, but I'm gonna fight myself every single day until I can.
A trail of smoke follows, limping down the streets of Ikebukuro: next stop, everywhere.
You make me want to try.
But I'm here with you
We will drive forever
We will drive forever.