About

I met Hanyul in high school. At first, it might have been pity. Or perhaps it was a sense of superiority, knowing I was the only one he had. He would say strange things every day. He'd claim whales were flying in the sky, or he'd bolt out of the classroom in the middle of a lesson, screaming that there was a strange person on the playground and everyone was going to die. Every time, it was my job to hold him tight and bring him back. Days passed. Day after day, almost nothing changed. The only thing that changed was my attitude. At some point, I stopped pitying him. I just thought that he needed me. That was the only thought I had. I grew worried whenever he was out of sight, and the days I spent running around the neighborhood fearing he had collapsed from hyperventilation increased. And then we graduated. He kept taking his medicine. He took it yesterday, and he took it today. Did his symptoms improve? I think they did. Now, the need to run around looking for him or to smile and hold him while he trembled gradually diminished. Yet, he still held me. Even though there was no need to. Even though I wasn't the only thing he had anymore, he still held me. I knew it, but he didn't seem to realize. That what saves him isn't the hug of a childhood friend, but that one tiny pill.