“Kim Jongin, time of death nine twenty-seven, January thirteenth, year two-thousand and fourteen. Monday.” Wrong.
It’s not until Kyungsoo has made it out of the hospital that the tears slam him in the face, knocks him off guard and shatters his whole body into a thousand irreversible pieces. He has no idea why the world seems to have ended on such a beautiful January day, or why he’s sobbing in the middle of the street as if tomorrow will never come. Why the name on the back of his hand burns harder than any goodbye. [x]
please please please, and i can’t stress this enough, if you’re feeling depressed or like there is no one to talk to, message me. i won’t be annoyed. i won’t judge you. i know words alone can’t stop the world from falling onto your shoulders, but they can help you avoid it. or even message someone else. if you look past the blur of the tears, the world is filled with people waiting waiting to listen, i promise. just please. you don’t have to feel so alone.
i feel down now