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He is underwater, and he is tired.
In the distance, a hazy light glows. He reaches for it, heaves his arms and legs through the heavy water. His weak limbs carry him up, up, but the light only dims.
Lungs screaming, he gasps. Water rushes in.
Jinki wakes and coughs until tears fill his eyes.
“Cancer,” Jinki repeats. The doctor nods and continues speaking, but he can no longer listen.
Lately, Jinki chokes. He is recording in the booth or even just talking, and suddenly he can’t swallow. He can’t get air. He struggles and seizes as his throat collapses inward until, finally, he manages to fill his lungs.
He keeps messing up his breathing while singing. He walks a couple of blocks, and his throat locks, and all he can do is wheeze. He chokes on meat, vegetables, rice, water. Every meal feels like a risk.
But Jinki hasn’t had much of an appetite anyway.
That’s what finally brought him to the hospital. His mother saw him for the first time in weeks and was so alarmed by his weight loss that she insisted he see a doctor. He tried to rebuff her, telling her the excuses he’d been telling himself—it’s not that big of a deal, he’s too busy with the comeback preparations, they won’t find anything anyway. But she made him call and secure an appointment.
To be honest, he’d been scared to know.
Cancer.
“Jinki-ssi? Do you have any questions?”
He forces himself back into the present, this too-comfortable chair in a too-bright doctor’s office. At some point, the doctor must have handed him paperwork because Jinki holds documents in his hands. He shuffles through them, eyes skipping over the headings. His lab results. Basic literature about esophageal cancer and its causes, symptoms, and treatments. In blue ink, the doctor circled a subheading: Surgery.
“Is surgery the only option?” Jinki asks.
“It’s the best option for your case.”
“Would I–would I still be able to sing?”
“It’s likely, if all goes well. You’d need to rest your voice for at least a week after the operation, but—”
If all goes well. That means it might not go well. That means maybe his voice won’t be the same after, and if he can’t sing, what would he do? Jinki already went through something like this once, those damn vocal nodes, and got lucky. What are the chances that fortune will go in his favor again? What if they open him up and discover the cancer has spread too far and have to take out everything, everything.
“Do you understand, Jinki-ssi?”
Jinki breathes deep, trying to calm himself. His throat hitches as if threatening him, but thankfully, this time, the tightness passes in a moment.
“Would it be all right,” Jinki says, “if I came back later with questions?”
“Of course. I understand it is a lot of information to take in at once. But make a decision as quickly as possible. The sooner we begin treatment, the better.”
Jinki nods, unable to make eye contact. As he folds the papers in half, a word in the Causes section catches his eye. He looks away from it. He tucks the documents into his bag, bows his head to the doctor, and puts his hand on the doorknob.
The metal knob is cold under his touch. He freezes there, hesitating on the threshold of staying or leaving, knowing or remaining ignorant.
But that word won’t leave him. It can’t. It’s haunted him for years already.
Jinki turns back to the doctor. “Did I do this?”
“Pardon?”
“The esophageal cancer. I am—it said alcoholism is one of the causes.”
Throughout the entire appointment, the doctor has been nothing but professional. Warm enough, but detached. Now, something passes over his face. Judgment? Pity? He looks down at his desk before Jinki can decide.
“It’s impossible to know for sure. But heavy alcohol use is a common risk factor.”
He is standing on stage, and a microphone is in his hand.
Shadowy people fill the venue’s seats, all watching him. Ten thousand eyes? A hundred thousand? No matter how he squints against the stage lights, he cannot make out the people’s features or even get a sense of their number. The weight of their stares presses him, a tight vise around his chest.
Music begins, and he raises his hand. But there is no microphone. There is only a glass, filled to the brim. He jerks, and it spills, burning through his clothes and his skin.
Jinki wakes, his muscles tense. He lies in bed, scared to move, his nose still filled with the scent of alcohol.
Jinki counted in days first. It felt horrible to admit that going a mere day or two without a drink was an achievement. But the rehab counselors said being sober meant being honest, and that was the truth.
Then he counted in weeks. Graduating to months was the hardest part, the time he wavered most. When, finally, he could say that he was one year sober, his parents threw him a small party. Nothing big, just a special dinner with all his favorite foods and some of his close relatives and friends in attendance. Jinki hadn’t felt like celebrating, but they insisted.
Since then, he has counted in years and very cautiously loosened up. Rather than not drinking at all—near impossible in this career, this industry—he allowed himself to drink under three conditions. First, he must never drink if he is in a bad mood. Second, he must never go beyond mildly buzzed. And third, he can only drink if someone is with him who knows his issues. Someone he trusts to call him out if he creeps past buzzed.
No drinking alone. No drinking to black-out. No drinking out of nerves or sorrow.
It’s been five years now since he pledged himself to sobriety, going on six if he doesn’t fuck up.
Fucking up is all he’s done lately.
Jinki hasn’t told the members or the staff about the diagnosis. He doesn’t want to worry them. All he’s said is that he has seen a doctor, and they are considering treatment options, and he’s managing in the meantime. But it’s obvious something is seriously wrong. Everyone has seen him picking at his lunch, suddenly cutting off and gasping mid-song, stumbling only halfway through dance practice because he’s so damn exhausted.
One night, when it is just Jinki and Minho left in the dance studio, Minho says what everyone has probably been thinking.
“Hyung, maybe it would be best for you to take a break.”
They are sitting on the floor, Minho sprawled comfortably and Jinki leaning against the back wall for support. Kibum and Taemin left practice an hour ago to attend other schedules, their manager leaving with them. Minho sent the choreographer away shortly after, saying that he and Jinki could continue practicing on their own.
Jinki wonders whether Minho’s real purpose was to get him alone.
He pretends to misunderstand, taking a moment to mop forehead sweat with his already damp towel. It lets Jinki cover his face as he takes a gasp around his locked throat. He gathers enough air to say, “I just need a minute. Catch my breath. Then we can go again.”
Minho isn’t having it. Jinki can tell from how Minho’s hands twitch in the mirror wall, restraining from crossing his arms over his chest. They know each other so well. They lived together in the dorm nearly as long as they lived with their families.
“Hyung,” Minho says. It’s a plea rather than an address. “You can’t keep going like this.”
“It’s our first comeback in two years,” Jinki says. “We’re finally all together again.”
It might be our last, he doesn’t say. Everyone is so busy that gathering for group schedules requires time management miracles. They are in the beginning stage of contract re-negotiations. Jinki has cancer, needs surgery. Anything could happen.
“Whether you are with us on stage or not, we’ll still be doing it together,” Minho says. “It’s always the five of us.”
At the edges of Jinki’s vision, the dance studio goes fuzzy. He can’t tell if it’s from being lightheaded or from gathering tears. He closes his eyes and rests his weary head against the wall.
Gently, Minho touches his shoulder. Jinki probably feels frail beneath Minho’s hand. What kind of leader is he to concern his team members like this? What kind of hyung?
His throat burns. He wants a drink.
“Kibumie, Taeminie, and I talked,” Minho continues, “and we’re all in agreement. We’d rather perform knowing that you’re resting than perform worrying that you’ll get hurt. But if you’re determined to see this comeback through, we’ll support you. We just need—we just want you to be okay, hyung.”
Jinki opens his eyes. In the mirror wall, his gaunt face stares back. He wants to insist that he is okay. That he can survive the coming weeks, complete all their comeback activities, and then submit to the scalpel and let fate decide the rest. He doesn’t want to own up to his weakness, to run away when so many people are expecting to see him, hear him.
But the idea of stepping on stage and failing—fainting from exhaustion, or stumbling from dizziness, or throat collapsing mid-song from this damn cancer—terrifies him more than anything.
He doesn’t want to choke.
“I’m not okay,” Jinki admits, and Minho’s strong hand tightens on his bony shoulder. “I have—something is wrong with my throat again. I need surgery.”
“Then get surgery, hyung. And get better.”
Minho makes it sound so simple. He’s correct, Jinki supposes. But it doesn’t feel simple to withdraw from the comeback, to schedule another doctor appointment.
It feels like hitting the bottom of a bottle.
He is lying on a gurney, and he is alone.
With trembling arms, he tries to push himself upright, but the room spins around him. So he lies back and stays still. He grows cold.
Finally, a man wearing a surgical gown, mask, and cap enters. His hands are gloveless and strangely pale. One of those bare hands presses against his forehead, preventing any movement. The other hand picks up a scalpel and draws it over his throat.
Heat spills over his neck and chest. He gags on blood, his own life force strangling him.
Jinki wakes with a jolt just past midnight. He stays awake until dawn breaks.
Jinki’s parents insist that he come stay with them, and he obeys.
Labs and doctor appointments take over the calendar blocks that comeback prep occupied. Blood work. Chest X-ray and lung function test. Echo-cardiogram. Dietician appointment. Pre-surgery consultation. A date is set.
The surgeon advises him to stay physically active before the procedure to reduce the risk of blood clots. Since Jinki doesn’t have dance practice anymore, he does gentle yoga sessions in the morning and goes on slow walks outside in the evening.
Soon, Jinki knows the location of every liquor shop, convenience store, and market within a ten-block radius of his parents’ home.
He never intended to catalog them, but it’s an old habit he can’t shake. Back when he still lived in the company dorm, he had the same mental map of that neighborhood.
Local delivery workers knew very well that the dorm was occupied by SM artists, and Jinki didn’t want to risk having the same person deliver too often. Rumors spread so easily. Instead, Jinki would go out and get his drinks. But visiting the same shops, the same clerks seeing what he purchased and how much and how often—he couldn’t have that. So, he rotated and tried not to visit the same place more than twice a month.
Now, he does the same. He goes on his evening walks, pausing often to catch his breath whenever his throat hitches, and visits one of the many shops. Tonight, it is the 7-Eleven six blocks west of his parents’ home. He pauses briefly at the shelf of triangular kimbap, palming a ginseng-infused one because his dietician would approve. Then he goes to the beverage coolers in the back and grabs his favorite brand of soju. Just one bottle.
He checks out, careful not to meet the clerk’s eyes but also careful not to seem nervous or unusual. Then he leaves, the bag’s weight soothing.
He stops in a near-empty park to sit on a bench, lower his mask, and catch his breath. Jinki isn’t hungry, but he unwraps the triangular kimbap and eats it in tiny bites, chewing the ginseng rice and chicken breast filling into a paste before swallowing.
Two kids kick a football back and forth in the park’s field. Eight or nine years old. Jinki watches them as he chews. The kids are too far away for him to understand what they shout to each other, but the tone is bright. They laugh, faces bright too against the setting sun.
Did Jinki shine like that back then? It’s hard to remember.
He manages to finish the entire kimbap without choking.
He stands, checks that no one is watching, and transfers the soju bottle from the plastic bag to the pocket of his jeans. The pants were originally baggy, and he has lost weight since he bought them, so it is an easy fit. His oversized shirt conceals any lump.
Jinki throws away the kimbap wrapper and bag and then finishes the rest of the walk home. He greets his parents, sits with them to watch the news, and then excuses himself.
When he’s alone in his bedroom, he removes the soju from his jeans. The glass is warm from his body heat, almost like it is alive. Jinki slides the closet door open, and pushes the hanging clothes aside to expose the stack of shoe boxes in the corner. He opens the box at the bottom. He places the new soju bottle there, glass clinking against the other three bottles.
This box is almost out of space. He’ll need to start filling a new shoe box soon. He already hid bottles in a plastic tub on top of his dresser that his mother cannot reach, and inside a luggage case that his parents think holds recording equipment. Eventually, finding a new spot will become necessary.
He replaces the shoe box in the closet corner, piles other boxes on top of it, and slides the door closed.
Jinki presses his forehead against the closet door and swallows around his burning throat. He wants a drink.
Instead, he starts preparing for sleep, assured, for now at least, that a drink is close at hand. If he listens, he swears he can hear the bottles clinking together again and again. It is eerie and reassuring in the worst way.
It has to be enough.
He is in the bathroom shaving, and the blade is slicing into his cheek.
He drops the razor and presses a tissue to his face. Blood seeps through the paper quickly and runs down his wrist, so he throws the wad away. Red specks splatter on the tile. When he looks back into the mirror, the cut skin has separated from his face, falling away to reveal—nothing. Empty space.
Hand trembling, he peels the skin back, tearing a strip that narrows as it runs down his cheek, his jaw, his throat. A black void stares at him in the mirror, nothingness too deep to penetrate. His fingers slip into the hole where his throat should be and vanish. It's cold and wet. He breathes in, and the edges of his leftover skin tremble and then collapse. He sinks inward, he—
Jinki wakes with a shout that cuts off right away. He chokes and coughs. When he touches his throat, he is startled to find it whole.
The surgery goes fine. The cancerous part of his esophagus is removed, the rest is stitched together, no complications. The surgeon recommends a week of strict vocal rest, and then he can gradually return to speaking. Later, singing. The surgeon and Jinki’s parents are optimistic.
The first two days after leaving the hospital, Jinki feels too hollowed out to do much besides doze, eat, and go to the bathroom. He gets some of the best sleep he’s had in months, deep and undisturbed.
But by the third day, Jinki is restless. Even though he barely has any energy, he wanders his parents’ house from room to room in search of something to do. Anything besides count the soju bottles hidden in each crevice of his bedroom and imagine their clinking.
His parents remember how surgery and vocal rest went last time, and they fall into old habits. In the morning before leaving for work, his father sits with Jinki and plays a couple of games of janggi, and at night they watch a movie together. In between, his mother does her best to occupy him. She has him help with light chores. She does her best to follow along with his easiest yoga routines. She recruits his assistance with transitioning all of her photos to more protective albums.
If her life had gone differently, Jinki’s mother would’ve made a good archivist. Since he was young, she has meticulously maintained photo albums of their family, kept and organized all the pictures received from their relatives, and scrapbooked everything that caught her eye. Each item is catalogued according to a complicated system of her invention and accompanied by an informative caption in her neat handwriting. Jinki thinks she has a more extensive and detailed record of SHINee activities than SM.
Flipping through the SHINee photo albums feels strange.
Sometimes, looking at the pictures and articles prompts zero recollection from him. Yes, that is him in the photo, his bangs long and his cheeks full with a smile. But he can’t remember anything from the day, the week, the month.
Other times, he only glances at a faded photo and gets submerged in too much memory: the cigarette stench of a venue’s green room, the throb in his right ankle from twisting it during morning dance practice, the other member’s voices rising and falling as they bicker about dinner plans, the burn of whiskey going down his throat at the after-show dinner.
Maybe he was never cut out for the entertainment industry. He loves the members, he loves singing, and he loves the highs. But the lows hit hard. And all the necessary socializing, always having to be “on”—that was how it began. He was too stiff, too shy. But if he got a drink into him, he could be the life of the party. Then it was a couple of drinks. Then a few. Then he didn’t just need it to deal with parties; he needed it to deal with all types of nerves. Then—
If he turned back time, would he be able to correct his life? Or was he always destined to wind up right here with stitches dissolving in his throat and sour regrets sitting on his tongue? It's pointless to consider, but the question refuses to leave.
As more energy returns, Jinki becomes more restless. His parents’ house can no longer contain him. He resumes his evening walks, tucking a new bottle into his horde each night. During the day, he plays catch. If he’s alone, he uses a rubber ball, bouncing it off the side of the house and catching it. If he can convince his mother or father to play, he uses a baseball and mitt.
When the week of strict vocal rest ends, Taemin visits. He sits and chats with Jinki’s mother, sharing updates about his family and his cat, while Jinki listens, sips tea, and occasionally gives one-syllable responses.
It’s good to see Taemin, even if his presence makes Jinki nervous. With every movement—footsteps, furniture dragging—the bottles in his bedroom seem to clink loud enough to be heard in the living room. Thankfully, only Jinki hears.
When Taemin has finished getting all the latest news from Jinki’s mother, he borrows Jinki’s extra mitt and follows him outside to play catch.
All of Taemin’s first throws go astray, and he fumbles his catches. But after some coaching from Jinki, his form improves. Soon, they are tossing the ball as seamlessly as well-memorized choreography, stepping farther and farther apart as their throwing arms warm up.
It’s an overcast day, clouds burdened with rain they are not yet ready to release. Jinki and Taemin play in silence long enough for the biggest cloud to pass from the left side of the sky to the right.
Then Taemin says, “Hyung, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Jinki can’t raise his voice to be heard at their current distance. Instead, he lifts his eyebrows along with his mitt. Taemin pitches the ball to him, and it falls right into the leather glove.
“I’ve been thinking,” Taemin continues, but then he stops.
Jinki sends the baseball back to him. Taemin turns the ball over in his hand, his thumb running across the stitching.
“We promised before that we would either stay at SM together or leave together. That worked then for all of us,” Taemin says. “But. I’ve been thinking that it’s time for me to move on to another label.”
Taemin looks up from the ball’s red stitches to Jinki. Even at a distance, Jinki reads the fear in his face. Jinki can’t talk loud enough, so he nods. He tries to keep the concern off his own face.
Taemin tosses the ball to him, and he catches it. “The contract negotiations haven’t been going well. They haven’t been bad, I guess. But SM wants to keep doing what we’ve been doing, and I’m tired of everything always being the same. I want to work with different people, try different styles, perform in different places. You understand, right, hyung?”
Jinki nods again. He grinds the baseball into his glove instead of tossing it.
Taemin lowers his mitt. “I know it will make team activities more complicated. And it might create some bad blood with the company. But when I think about signing on for years more of the same stuff I’ve always known, I feel so…wrung out.”’
Jinki tugs his mitt off, folding it around the ball and tucking both under his arm. Hands free, he takes his phone from his pocket and types, We can make it work. Kibum and Minho will understand.
Taemin approaches to read Jinki’s phone screen. Then he looks to Jinki.
“What will you do?”
Jinki raises his eyebrows again.
“It makes sense for those two to stay. No other company is going to cut Kibum a better deal so far as TV appearances, and Minho likes the people here too much to leave easily. But what do you want, hyung?”
Jinki wants a drink. He wants to drown the jitters in his limbs, the concerns circling his mind, the clouds smothering his heart. He wants to not care. He wants to fear nothing. He wants to drink and drink until every hollow crevice of him is filled with something, even if it’s nothing good. He wants to—he wants.
Taemin watches him. So, Jinki lifts and lowers his shoulders in a silent, I don’t know.
Taemin smiles, small but mischievous. “You should leave too. Then those guys won’t give me so much grief.”
Jinki dredges up an answering smile. “Maybe,” he says.
He is in his childhood bedroom, and he cannot move.
He must clean it before his mother comes home and sees how he has filled it with filth. But he is wading through debris and decay packed so tightly that he can barely lift his feet.
Somehow, he finds a wastebasket that’s not yet full and tries to shovel trash in. But whenever he clears a small spot on the floor, more trash floods the space in an instant. It congeals around his feet, cold seeping through his socks and then his skin.
A knock rattles the door, and his mother calls. He tries to yank a foot free, but he falls forward instead. His lips part unwillingly, and the filth seeps in, rancid.
Jinki wakes in the spare bedroom at his parents’ new home, the silhouettes familiar yet strange.
The day after Taemin’s visit, Moonsung comes too.
Jinki doesn’t think anything of it at first, not as his old friend gossips with his mother and jokes around like usual. But when Jinki’s mother leaves for an errand, Moonsung digs in his bag and starts pulling out paperwork.
“You remember how I’ve talked before about starting my own company?”
“Yes,” Jinki says, eying the papers being arranged on the table. They look like a formal business proposal, the types of documents you’d put together for a bank’s loan department or investors. “You…?” he shouldn’t say more, so he taps the paper closest to him instead and looks to his hyung.
Moonsung understands perfectly. “Yeah, I’m getting serious about it. If I keep moving, I could launch as early as Q1 next year.” He spreads his hands over the paperwork array. “What do you think?”
Jinki reviews the proposal while Moonsung snacks on the acorn jelly his mother left with them. It’s a solid business plan—ambitious enough to be attractive but realistic about what’s possible for a brand-new label. Moonsung has a long career in artist management, so he knows his stuff.
“It looks good,” Jinki says.
Moonsung nods. “Taeminie contacted me.”
“To sign him?”
“No, no. That kid is way too hungry to be satisfied with me. But he said…Well, he thought that you might be ready to leave SM too.”
Jinki stares down at the paperwork that’s stark white against the table’s dark wood. Now, looking again, he can read between the lines. This business is for him. Or, it could be.
“We’ve talked about it before,” Moonsung says. “If I ever started up my own label, I should snatch you away. All that.”
“That…” Jinki coughs. He stops to sip some tea. Rubbing his throat, he says, “Those were jokes.”
“I know. And I know that an artist like you deserves a lot more than what I can offer, but—”
Jinki shakes his head.
“You do,” Moonsung insists. “But you know we work together well. And I know what you like and don’t like. We’re both capable of keeping business and friendship separate.”
He’s not wrong. He’s not wrong, but Jinki can’t accept, can’t burden Moonsung, can’t put a fledgling business at risk. It’s too much.
“I won’t be offended if you go with a better offer, I swear. You need to do what’s best for you. But promise me you’ll think about it, all right?” Moonsung asks.
Jinki agrees because it’s his hyung, and he won’t say no to such a humble request. Moonsung stays a while longer and doesn’t bring up the business proposal again. But when he leaves, the paperwork stays behind.
Jinki hides the documents in his bedroom. When his mother returns and asks what he and Moonsung spoke about, Jinki lies.
He is walking through the neighborhood, and everyone is staring.
He tries to ignore it. But the stares burn, so he begins walking faster. They keep watching. And it’s not just watching—they know. Everyone knows everything he has ever done, every terrible thing.
He breaks into a run, but the eyes follow him, chase him, closer, closer, closer.
Something breathes against the back of his neck, cool and wet. He slips. The pale pavement rushes towards him.
Jinki wakes right before impact, his pulse racing and breath too fast. He coughs in the dark until his heart finally slows.
Physically, his recovery makes good progress.
The surgical incisions heal well. His fatigue lessens, and his strength begins to return. The dietician is happy with him. His appetite still isn’t what it used to be, and he will have to stick to soft foods for many more months, but he has an appetite again. He manages to put some weight back on. He hasn’t choked on food since leaving the hospital. Even still, he sticks to tiny bites, tiny sips, tiny breaths.
Mentally…
He distracts himself as much as possible. He corresponds with his attorney about the contract negotiations with SM, and he corresponds with his agent about other offers he is receiving. He reviews Moonsung’s documents. He sits at the desk in his bedroom and tries to write out lists of what he wants out of the upcoming years. What he must have and what he could compromise on.
Does he even deserve any of it?
He wants a drink. It’s all he can think about sometimes. Whenever he tries to imagine the future, all that surfaces is bone-deep dread and reasons why it would be okay to have just one drink.
He distracts himself. Pros of staying at SM: SHINee is there. They made him. He knows the staff well and understands how to operate within that system. It’s one of the best labels in the business, has connections and resources beyond most companies. They take care of most everything, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. They are offering him a pretty good deal. They stuck by him and took care of him at his worst. SM is safe.
Cons of staying at SM: they are rigid. Everything has a long process that must be followed, everything needs multiple people to sign off on it. They expect an amount of control that grates on him after so long in the industry. They have ideas about what is suitable for their artists and what’s not that he doesn’t agree with. He wants to perform at events that SM thinks are beneath someone of his seniority. He wants to go on tour to places he’s never been, places that SM thinks they will lose money at.
But what if they are right?
What can Jinki be certain of, really? Anything can happen, and anyone can fail. He learned those lessons the hard way, had his confidence cracked so completely that even now, years later, he still isn’t whole. Wouldn’t it be selfish to sign with another company, especially a small label like Moonsung’s, when he knows he can’t promise anything? He couldn’t even play his part in SHINee this year, his most fundamental role.
What if he fails and drags everyone down with him?
He needs a drink. Just one drink.
And really, what is the harm in a drink? There are probably thousands of people downing soju across Korea at this very moment, no big deal. Why not him too? Why not just one shot? A single shot won’t even do anything to Jinki. Heck, he could probably down an entire bottle on his empty stomach and only get buzzed. Sure, his tolerance isn’t what it used to be. But even if a bottle is enough to get him drunk now, he is just alone in his room anyway. He won’t be driving anywhere or bothering anybody. His parents have already retired for the night. Nobody will even know except him. He’ll just have a drink, quiet his mind, and go to sleep.
Jinki abandons his pro and con list at his desk. He slides the closet door open soundlessly, lifts a shoe box lid, and studies the hidden soju bottles. He’s lost track of how many are concealed in his room. The number doesn’t matter; what matters is knowing they are there if he needs them. Like now.
Jinki lifts one of the soju bottles from its cache, replaces the box lid, and closes the closet door. It’s summer, and the bottle hasn’t been refrigerated, so it should be warm. But, somehow, the glass is cold in his hand.
He twists the cap off. The crisp, slightly sweet scent hits his nose. It smells familiar. It smells good.
The soju burns down his stitched esophagus. But Jinki doesn’t choke. He keeps drinking, sips becoming gulps. Soon, the bottle is empty except for a single drop of soju that rolls around the bottom when Jinki holds the bottle up to the light.
He opens the closet door and the shoe box again and replaces the empty bottle among the full ones. They clink together loudly. There are five more soju bottles packed into the box. Four other shoe boxes. Soju bottles packed in the back of his clothing drawers, tucked in a bag under his bed, hidden in plastic tubs stored high where his parents can’t reach, and in luggage they won’t check. He could drink for weeks without buying any more. He could drink all night.
He wants another drink.
He will always want another drink.
He knows it is true. He’s known this for years. And yet, he—why is he so—
Jinki shoves the shoe box away. The glass bottles rattle in protest, but he shuts the closet door on them.
Unsteadily, Jinki walks away. He doesn’t go far. Outside, he sits in the grass behind the house where he plays catch. He breathes in fits and starts.
He calls Kibum and asks him to come.
Jinki doesn’t know how much time passes. An hour? Probably less. He runs his hands through the damp grass and watches storm clouds approach across the black sky. The soju he drank works through his system more quickly than he remembers. Maybe it’s because he really is hollow inside. Really is nothing once you look past the surface.
He’s drunk when he hears the grinding gravel that means Kibum has arrived. It starts to rain, but it’s not the furious thunderstorm Jinki expected. Instead, a cool, light shower washes over the backyard and him in it. It feels good, better than he deserves.
A moment later, Kibum comes around and finds Jinki. His face is pale against the night.
“Hyung,” Kibum says, sinking beside Jinki in the wet grass. His nostrils flare. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Jinki says. “Nothing. I just…I…” He chokes, but this time he chokes around a sob rising deep from his chest. “I fucked up. I failed.”
Kibum holds Jinki as broken words struggle from his still-healing esophagus. He hasn’t spoken so much since the surgery. He shouldn’t speak so much. But he must confess it all, so he does. Kibum’s arms remain firm around him as he listens.
“Please don’t tell the others,” Jinki says when there is nothing left to divulge, his throat burning. His face is hot with tears, despite the rain cleansing them away. “They’ll be so disappointed.”
Minho, who thinks the best of everyone because he is the best. Taemin, who endures the impossible through force of will. Jinki has already disappointed them so much, too much. He doesn’t deserve another chance, but he wants it. He wants it so badly he can barely breathe.
Kibum speaks then, squeezing Jinki against his chest. “They won’t be disappointed. They’ll be worried. They love you.”
“They shouldn’t. I’m pathetic. A burden.”
“You’re not.”
Jinki shakes his head, but Kibum won’t let go. He tugs Jinki forward, guiding him to rest his head against Kibum’s shoulder. Jinki goes, still trembling. Kibum’s soft pajama top is already wet from the rain, but Jinki’s tears soak in anyway.
Kibum strokes one hand down Jinki’s heaving back, the other through his lank hair. “It’s hard, hyung. You’re doing well,” he tells him, voice low.
“It shouldn’t—I’m not—”
“It’s hard. Hyung, I know. I’ve slipped before too.”
“You? The—” Jinki can’t finish, can’t say cutting because it sounds so harsh, but he feels Kibum nod. “That’s different though.”
“I don’t think it is. Not that different, anyway.”
Maybe. Jinki doesn’t know, and he can’t think, not when it’s still so hard to breathe, not when his head is still clouded with drink. He supposes that he called Kibum for a reason though. His parents and his friends wouldn’t understand. Jonghyun is out of reach. He can’t let Minho and Taemin down again.
But maybe Kibum knows how this feels.
Kibum keeps hugging him as Jinki’s crying finally winds down. The shower passes on. Eventually, they can hear the cicadas buzzing, the frogs croaking. The night sings around them.
Jinki lifts his head from Kibum’s shoulder, embarrassment beginning to overtake his sorrow. But before he can mumble an apology, Kibum grips Jinki’s shoulders and meets his gaze head on.
“Show me where your stash is. All your stashes.”
Kibum knows, so Jinki doesn’t try to pretend there are no stashes. Together, they creep past the bedroom where Jinki’s parents still sleep. Together, they empty the closet, the drawers, the shelves, every crevice, and line the bottles across Jinki’s floor. Jinki doesn’t count how many there are, but there are a lot. Kibum doesn’t remark on the number. Jinki spots Kibum noticing the pros and cons list on the desk too, but Kibum doesn’t remark on that either.
Together, they pour all the soju down the kitchen sink. Kibum turns the exhaust hood fan on to dissipate the odor and cover up the soju stink with a floral-scented sink rinse he finds in the cabinet. Despite this, he says, “You should tell your parents. Let them help you.”
“I will.”
Sobriety means honesty, and he’s been anything but that. He must be honest again. He refuses to go back to how he was before, can’t let this slip become a full relapse. Not after how hard he fought, how hard he has been fighting even these past weak weeks.
“What else will you do?” Kibum asks.
Maybe Jinki should call his old therapist, resume regular appointments. But that doesn’t feel like enough. Maybe he should check into rehab again. That feels like too much, but it would be good to get away for a while. Even with his parents watching him, it’s too easy to sneak around in a familiar environment. Brooding in his own apartment would be even more disastrous.
Jinki rubs his throat. “I’ll decide tomorrow.”
They both change into dry clothes, Kibum borrowing a soft shirt and sweatpants. Kibum puts their rain-soaked clothes in the washing machine on a short cycle while Jinki cleans the wet footsteps they trailed through the house. Together, they fill a trash bag with the empty bottles until it bulges grotesquely. The bag clinks as Kibum takes it to his car, Jinki tailing him.
“I should go home,” Kibum says, and Jinki thinks of his two dogs, his weekly TV filming schedules, how few hours there are before sunrise. Despite all that, Kibum came. “But I can stay here if you need me.”
“No, thank you. I’m sorry I made you deal with this. I shouldn’t have—”
“Hyung, stop. I’m relieved you called. You can always call when you need someone. Any of us would come.” Kibum searches his face. “You’ll be all right?”
Jinki nods, and he’s pretty sure it’s true. From how Kibum hugs him, Jinki can tell he understands everything unsaid. Jinki watches as the taillights of Kibum’s car vanish down the road. He sits by the washing machine, interrupting its chime before it can wake his parents, and transferring the clothes to the dryer. By then, he’s mostly sober once again. He goes to his bedroom and lays his head on his pillow.
His bedroom is empty and very quiet. Across the house, the dryer rumbles softly. He wants a drink, but he told Kibum that, and tomorrow Kibum will come to pick up his clothes and make sure Jinki is okay.
He wants a drink, but sleep comes easily.
He is sitting inside a plane, and the moon is shining outside the tiny, egg-shaped window.
The moon grows round and full as the massive machine hums around him like a living creature. He watches the window for a while, not knowing where he is going or why. He doesn’t need to know.
When he finally turns away from the view, he finds a beloved face in the seat next to his. His friend sleeps deeply, his brow smooth and his mouth relaxed. He wants to wake him, to talk to him. It’s been so long. But that might end it all, and it’s enough to have him at his side. To know he is still there.
The plane keeps flying, and when Jinki wakes and looks out at the pale blue sky, he finds the faint moon sitting beside the rising sun.
He tells his parents everything.
Then he tells Minho, Taemin, Moonsung, everyone who matters.
He sees his therapist once a week.
He still wants a drink.
But the wanting doesn’t ring so loud when he voices it instead of locking it inside his head. At first, confessing feels shameful. Eventually, it becomes a relief. He has good people around him.
He’s loved despite his mistakes.
He walks, but not on familiar routes. He drives out of the city and walks through nature. It’s good to let the sunshine warm his skin, to hear birdsong, to fill his eyes with green trees, purple flowers, brown soil. He tucks pretty leaves into his pockets and shows them to his parents when he returns. His father helps him identify them. His mother shows him how to preserve them in his own album.
The pages fill.
He researches famous hiking trails in Japan, Southeast Asia, Europe, America. Places he’s never been, places he thought he could never go.
He visits Moonsung, and he tells him yes.
He sleeps deeply, and he doesn’t remember his dreams.
Jinki packs light.
His father pretends to be unconcerned, but he keeps mentioning things he thinks Jinki should bring. An eighth pair of socks. A toiletry container with built-in pumps that he saw on TV. A 65-watt power bank. Jinki assures him that if he really needs something he isn’t packing, he can buy it overseas.
His mother doesn’t pretend to be unconcerned. She frets aloud over and over whether it would be best for her or someone else to accompany him. After all, his surgeon only recently cleared him to resume strenuous activity! But Jinki thinks it will be better to do this alone. His therapist agrees.
Jinki has traveled a lot. Mostly for work but sometimes for pleasure. He’s rarely traveled alone though, certainly never so far away. He’s never had to decipher foreign languages and unfamiliar directions by himself. He’s never departed for a yet unseen place with an itinerary he filled by himself. But that doesn’t mean that he can’t.
When the date of his departure arrives, both of his parents drive him to the airport and hug him goodbye. He hugs them back, gratitude swelling in his throat but still breathing easily.
“Be careful, all right?” his mother tells him. “Come home well.”
“I will,” Jinki promises.
Maybe he will mess up. Maybe he will miss a bus or get lost or have his bag stolen. Maybe the trip will be a failure, and he’ll have to come home earlier than planned.
He thinks, even so, things will be all right. He just needs to try and see.
He just needs to keep moving forward, even when he chokes.