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hyubcore · 1 year

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little wonders / mark lee fanfiction

on paper, mark lee seems like the perfect boy; he’s charming, kind, caring, and cute. you see no flaws as you get to know him over the summer when he moves in across the street.

however, he fails to let you know that he’s dying before you start to fall for him.

wc: 17473

tags/warnings: gender neutral reader x mark lee, angst, romance, fluff, terminal illness, mcd, sad ending, read this to feel something i guess

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. i am not affiliated with sm entertainment or any members of nct. this is for entertainment purposes only. it is also not my intent to romanticize any illnesses, i apologize if i offend any readers in any way; please read with caution as this story is not for the faint of heart.

Who is he?

The first wonder occurs at your doorstep.

He stands tall, short, straight dirty-blonde hair covering his head, a black t-shirt along with tattered jeans covering his body. You don’t need to get any closer to notice something about him is different from the others surrounding him. Just by the way he moves, the way he stands—there’s something within him that brings him down. You want to know what it is. You want to know who he is.

You watch him as he slowly unpacks the boxes from the moving truck that sit in the driveway. Another woman, petite in size, and affectionate towards the man, helps him as he tries to lift each box out of the vehicle and into the house. There are moments where he sits on the driveway, taking in slow breaths, leaning against the house. He tilts his head back with his eyes shut. You wonder.

Who is he?

The first wonder is answered when he knocks on your door that very night. Seeing his face up close changes all the things that had been running through your head regarding him before. He has gentle, bright eyes that causes a tightening in your chest, for their brilliance is too much to bear all at once. Not only that, but the small smirk that forms upon his lips as you open the door. You suddenly can’t breathe.

“Hi,” is all he says. He has a raspy and deep voice, one that you would be okay with listening to for forever. “I’m supposed to give these to you.”

He hands over a plate of hotteok. The sweet scent of the dessert makes your stomach grumble. You hesitate to accept the plate, but reach over to grab it once the man in front of you coughs subtly. He smiles bigger as you examine the treats.

“Thank you,” you tell him. He nods. Your chest tightens even more as you watch him.

“I’m Mark, I’m living right across the street. you hope you enjoy the hotteok.” His voice is even raspier, but you still like it. He coughs again before leaving the front porch. As he walks away, your dog begins to bark. You pick him up before you wave to the man—Mark—but he doesn’t see you.

What is he doing?

The second wonder crosses your mind when you see Mark laying outside in the complete darkness, arms and legs stretched, no shirt on his body, looking up at the stars. He doesn’t move at all. As you watch from your bedroom window, your curiosity only grows more unbearable.

It’s late enough for you to get into trouble, but something about the cold draft that comes through your window every so often tells you to force Mark inside. You make your way down the stairs, and once you reach the final step, you grab your jacket from the coat hanger by the door and walk outside. You’re right; it is cold, too cold to be laying in the grass with no sort of coverage.

As you slowly walk across the street, you hug your arms to keep warm. Your nose already feels stuffy and your ears red from the chill. Not only does the cold air make you shiver, but the pure and utter silence that enveloped the atmosphere around you was rather frightening.

“Mark?” you speak. Your voice is piercing in the silence of the night. Mark doesn’t move for a moment, until he finally lifts himself up on his forearms. “Are you okay?”

He shifts in his spot, looking over at you. You can tell he’s in a daze, and you suspect he might be high, especially after he coughs a few times.

“I had an argument with my dad. I came out here to get some air. Sorry I worried you.”

You purse your lips, then sit down next to him. “It’s okay, I just noticed from my window. You looked pretty comfortable.” You both chuckle.

“Yeah, I used to do this a lot back home too. My dad and I aren’t necessarily best friends.”

You feel awkward, immediately being dished out to, however, you also feel comfortable sitting there with Mark. Even considering the fact that you can barely see his face, the sound of his gritty voice in the dense air brought you a sense of safety, despite the topic of conversation. You don’t want to push, but you also don’t want to ignore him.

“I’m sorry to hear,” you say instead.

“It’s okay. You should try it sometime—just go outside and stare at the sky. It’s best at night, there’s no cars or screaming children or anything.” Mark looks up as he speaks, setting his eye on the orion constellation above the two of you. “See the three dots there? That’s Orion. You learn a lot about the universe when you stare at it all the time.”

You chuckle, looking up to where Mark points. You clearly see what he’s referencing—it’s just about the only form that makes sense in the endless mixture of stars and galaxies. “I see it,” you say quietly. He smiles at you, and you smile back, then you both look up again. You wonder what’s up there, if it really is just particles of dust, being born and dying in just seconds, or if there was some life beyond humanity.

“You think there’s anything else out there?” you ask. “Like, life, I guess.” You immediately regret your question; it’s way too deep and philosophical for your first conversation; but Mark’s already looking at you deeply, likely wondering what goes on behind your eyes to ask such a question upon only meeting two days before.

“No,” Mark answers. “Even if there is, it doesn’t concern us as of right now. So I just ignore it.”

You nod, and Mark looks back up. You know then, he’s lying. He knows there’s something else out there.

When will I hear him sing?

Months pass, and ever since the first night it happened, you find Mark sitting outside every night. You wonder each time if it’s truly because he’s fighting with his father, or if he actually just enjoyed being outside at night. During the day, though, you’d see him in the same spot, writing in a little notebook.

The first time you notice him writing, you pretend to just be taking the dog out, but really, you want to say hi to Mark. He looks up at you immediately, and you wave, and he immediately puts the notebook to his side. You walk over, and he smiles at you brightly. Seeing him feels different from the last time you saw him, which was in the darkness of the late night. Now, you see all his features, his comforting eyes and smile.

“Are you okay with dogs?” you ask as you approach the lawn. Mark nods, opening his arms to your pet, and you let go of the leash for him to love on Mark. The wholesome sight sends a warmth through your chest.

“What’s his name?” Mark asks.

“Chewie,” you reply. “My dad likes Star Wars a lot.”

Mark laughs as he scratches behind Chewie’s ears. “Your dad is cool. So are you, Chewie.”

You chuckle at Mark’s baby voice he uses toward Chewie. You sit down next to him, and Chewie immediately sits in your lap comfortably. Mark reaches over to pet him, and you suddenly get nervous, having his hand so close to you. You look down and admire it; it seems so weird in the moment, to be admiring something as random as his hands, but the way his fingers were sculpted was like high art; you thought for a moment, maybe Mark isn’t real. You wonder who, or what, put him on this earth, right next to you. You feel lucky.

There are also periods of time where Mark’s never be outside, even when there are clear and sunny skies. That surprised you the most. Before, he could be outside for hours, whether it be raining, freezing, or way too windy to even keep the notebook on the ground. It had worried you, for the outdoors seemed to be his favorite place, it seemed to be his safe space.

Several weeks pass, and you feel worried for some reason. You don’t know him too well, but it feels like those scenarios where the coffee shop worker always sees the same old man, then the old man suddenly stops coming to get his daily cup of jo and muffin, and you just know the outcome yet never do anything to find the truth; you hope Mark is alive; deep down, you know he is, but part of him isn’t. He’s not outside anymore where he feels safe.

You decide to make hotteok one day. You bake with your mother as you watch reruns of your favorite crime show on TV. The baking process is a lot more difficult than you anticipated, but you power through it, and you think about the smile you’ll see on Mark’s face when you give him the plate of treats.

Once you finish, you run across the street and knock on the door, unable to keep still from excitement. Your spirits are crushed a little when Mark doesn’t answer the door. It’s his mother, and you realize then you’ve never introduced yourself to her.

You greet her kindly, and she smiles warmly back at you.

“I made hotteok for you guys,” you say sweetly. “I’m sure it won’t be as great as yours, but I wanted to do something nice. Is Mark home?”

The smile on her face suddenly fades as she reaches out for the plate. “Yeah, yes—he’s just been a little sick, is all. Want me to get him for you?”

Before you can answer her, Mark appears behind her, and immediately notices the smell of the hotteok. “You made some?” he asks. You nod and smile at him, and he smiles back, holding your eyes in his gaze for a moment. Your insides suddenly feel like jelly.

“Are you doing okay?” you ask, concern evident in your voice. Mark nods, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, just a little cold. I’m okay,” he replies. You smile, and his mother walks away with the hotteok.

“Well, I’m about to take Chewie on a walk, if you want to join. If you need to rest though—”

“I’d love to,” Mark interrupts. You weren’t planning to take Chewie on a walk, but there in Mark’s presence, you needed an excuse to be around him longer. His appearance is like a drug; once you look at him, there’s no looking away.

The two of you make your way down the sidewalk of the neighborhood, Chewie leading the way. The grass is a vibrant green, some houses decorated with flower gardens at their fronts. The sight entirely brings more happiness to the atmosphere.

You eventually reach a local park where there’s a wide field of grass, along with benches here and there. You find one beneath a tree to give some shade. You pick up a stick for Chewie as you claim your seat.

Mark sits while you take Chewie off his leash. You throw the stick, and he runs far from you, fur bouncing as he sprints. He eventually comes running back with the stick in his mouth, and once he reaches you, he jumps on Mark’s legs. Mark pets Chewie as he lets out a bark of glee. You smile at the sight.

“What have you been doing the past few weeks?” you ask, starting a conversation. Mark sighs as he looks out at the view of the grass and the trees before us.

“Nothing important,” he replies. You throw the stick for Chewie again. “Watched a lot of true crime podcasts, that’s for sure.”

You both chuckle softly.

“Also figuring out stuff for school. I might be going to university in the fall,” he informs. You nod, crossing your arms as a cool breeze comes through. Mark notices, and unzips his jacket. “Are you cold? You can—”

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want you getting sick again,” you laugh, putting a hand on Mark’s arm. He freezes under your touch, and you suddenly freeze too. “So what are you going to study?”

Mark looks up. “Music. Songwriting, performing, and composing.”

You’re surprised at his answer, however, it finally starts to make sense. He was probably writing lyrics in his notebook all those days out on the lawn. “That’s amazing,” you reply. “It takes courage to do that stuff professionally. I’m excited for you.”

Knowing Mark has a passion for music immediately interests you. You suddenly wonder about all the lyrics he’s written and all the melodies and chord progressions he writes along with those poetic lines. You wonder about the stories behind these songs. You wonder about it all.

But most of all, you wonder, when will you hear him sing?

Do I like him?

Weeks pass, and it becomes routine for you and Mark to take Chewie on a walk every morning. There’s some mornings where he’s still sleeping, or he’s just not feeling up to the trek; but either way, it’s something to look forward to every night as you lay your head against your pillow. The summer was uneventful, up until Mark came into town.

It’s just another summer evening, and Mark texts you he was going to take me somewhere. You wondered what that somewhere was. Despite getting to know each other more and more over the past several weeks, you didn’t have any clue where he may be taking you. Either way, you dressed nicely, hoping to impress him a little more than usual.

You’re rather surprised when Mark drives you into the town. It’s quite busy, and so you wonder exactly why he’s brought you here, but either way, an excitement bubbles up inside you.

You walk the streets of the town, beneath the somewhat-dark night sky, moon shining bright thanks to the cloudless sky. Mark walks slowly, sure to look at every window of the small shops, nodding and smiling to every vendor along the sidewalk.

“Why exactly are we here?” you ask under a laugh. Mark doesn’t answer for a while.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be here long.”

You finally come to a stop, and it’s at a set up station, selling some sort of treats. The scent that fills your nose is rather familiar.

“Hotteok,” Mark cheers as he looks at me with a grin. You smile at him, then you both begin to laugh. He leads you closer to the stand. You impatiently wait as he pays for the food, your stomach growing more hungry, anticipation thriving. The scent reminds you of the moment you first met Mark up close; the fresh sight of his bright eyes, his marvelous smile; the first time you ever wondered about him.

You think about it, and sure, before that day, you wondered about Mark; people like Mark. Boys you thought didn’t exist. Boys who cared about your interests, your life story, your favorite foods; and boys that were cute. Mark is all of those things, it just seems too good to be true.

Mark completes the payment before handing you the snack. You immediately delve in, savoring the taste of the sweet treat. Mark guides the way back to the car, but asks you at each storefront if you want to go inside. You end up going into one small shop, which was a bookstore. In high school, you loved to read. You were always finishing exams early just so you could read an extra chapter of the novel you had in your backpack, and people may have judged you for reading in the library during lunch instead of sitting with friends, but you didn’t care. Books were your comfort.

You find a signed copy of your favorite book, and Mark notices your excitement.

“This is my favorite book of all time,” you inform him as he stands next to you. “But look.” You point to the signature, smiling excitedly. Mark holds out a hand, gesturing for you to hand it over, and you do exactly so. However, your heart begins to race as Mark speed-walks to the cash register.

“Mark, are you—”

“Shh,” he replies. You shove him on the shoulder, and he chuckles as he pulls out his wallet.

“Stop it, you don’t—”

“Yes, I do. I want to.”

You roll your eyes as you groan. The lady behind the counter hands Mark the receipt, which he immediately crumples up and puts into his pocket before handing you the book. You’re speechless, and you smile small, evidently flustered by Mark’s gesture.

“Mark, that was too nice. Thank you, truly,” you say sincerely.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. “Gifts are my love language, in a way.”

Love language. Is he in love with you? You can’t help but wonder.

“Where to next?” you ask once you reach the car, sitting in the passenger seat. Mark starts the engine before answering.

“My beach.”

“Your beach?” you ask with a small chuckle.

“Yes. It’s all mine.” Mark looks over at you, and you smile.

You drive down the main roads which soon turn into back roads, and you then realize why Mark had said my beach. The sands and water are completely secluded from the rest of the area. There’s no possible way anybody else could ever find it without taking a good 10 minute hike, but Mark knows exactly where to drive to avoid the thick forest that separates it from the rest of town.

Mark leads as you progress closer to the trillions of soft granules lining the beach. He seems to know this place inside and out.

He coughs. “I’ve been coming here a lot lately. The beach is more calm than anywhere else.”

You nod. You both find a spot in the center of the shore, which is a good distance away from the water. You can still feel slight mists as the tides roll in, though. The sensation, combined with the calmness of the night and Mark’s presence, is intoxicating, in a way,

“It’s nice,” you comment. You look around, and to your right is a large, rocky cliff. There are several rocks lining the bottom of it, the trail ending once it reaches the water. Behind you are the patches of dry grass. And to your left is the mound of sand combined with the meadow.

“Any updates on your music?” you ask Mark.

“Writing. Playing. It’s all the same,” Mark answers without enthusiasm. “How about you? What have you been up to?”

“Well, I’ve been worrying about you.”

Mark stays quiet. So do you. Except you're doing the thing that you always do, which is admire his being right beside you. You examine the way he stares at the waters before the two of you. His eyes are squinted, studying each foamy wave that crashes onto the shore, measuring the height and time difference of each swell; watching the moon as its reflection on the water grows brighter as the sky grows darker.

He finally stops his examination on the landscape and looks towards you.

“You brought the book,” Mark notes.

“I brought the book.” You laugh.

“Read me your favorite part,” Mark commands, and on instinct, you flip to the very last page.

“Maybe he is that flower that suddenly bloomed on the rhododendron bush I thought had died long ago; maybe he is that cloud, that wave, that rain, that mist. It isn’t only that he died, or how he died; it is what he died believing. And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.”

You both sit in silence for a moment after you close the book. Mark looks out at the water, and when you turn your head towards him, he looks down at his lap.

“Sorry if it’s depressing,” you apologize. “It’s just…it’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Mark interjects. “But you spoiled the ending.”

You both burst into a harmonious laughter. You jokingly smack yourself on the forehead. “I didn’t know you’d want to read it!”

Mark shakes his head. “You can read it to me. We can come here every weekend and you can just…read. I don’t know.”

You sit quiet for a moment as you imagine his idea; your heart races, your stomach becomes filled with butterflies, and you can’t help but let a foolish smile grow upon your lips. “Yeah, we can do that,” you answer. “Might take a while. This is a big book.”

Mark takes the book from your hands, flipping through the pages, stopping every few seconds.

“We can do it,” he says, the small, sincere smile still visible upon his lips.

“Okay,” you say.

Am I in love?

The first time you go to read on the beach, you sit far apart, and Mark stares out at the water as you speak. He sits silent, letting you flip the pages and giving you water when your mouth gets dry from speaking. When you get too tired to talk, you put the book down and just watch the water.

After the first time, you sit closer and closer each visit, until once you get to the third part of the book, Mark puts his arm around you and keeps you close, looking over your shoulder at the pages, reading along with you. You get tired again, and Mark takes the book from your hands and continues reading.

“You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you.” Mark closes the book after that paragraph. He sets the book next to him, and he looks over at you and smiles.

“Who are you, Mark?” you ask. “If that paragraph was about you, what would it say?”

Mark remains quiet for a moment, and you can tell he’s thinking. He stares down at his feet as he digs his toes in the sand. “You’re a musician. You love your craft; you work hard at it. You’re a songwriter. You’re a writer, in general. You write about the world and yourself and all the little things it brings. You struggle, but you keep trying. You think you want to give up, but you don’t. You’re always you.”

You smile, and you grab Mark’s hand. “What about you?”

You think hard. “I don’t know what I am.”

Mark puts a hand on your arm, caressing the surface of your skin. “You’re you, and you’re beautiful, kind, and compassionate. And funny, too. And beautiful, if I didn’t say it already.”

You shove your face in your hands, blushing hard, heart pounding, stomach flipping and turning. “Mark,” you groan.

You look up, and Mark licks his lips before biting down on his lower lip, the ends of his mouth curling up just slightly. You become entranced by the sight of him, so evidently enthralled by your presence, and you wonder. Is this what it feels like? You had never been in love, you’ve never been loved, not in the way people are supposed to be loved. Your parents loved you, but no one you weren't related to had ever been in love with you. At least not to your knowledge. Who knows, maybe Mark was in love with you the entire time, and you just didn’t know, until now.

You think for a moment, he’s going to kiss me, and you think maybe you should insist instead, since it feels like forever where his lips aren’t on yours. Instead, you stay frozen, and Mark just looks into your eyes, intoxicating you with his glare. He doesn’t kiss you; instead, he pulls you closer, until you’re resting your head in his lap, looking up at him and the stars. The billions of lights and galaxies up there. You can’t find Orion’s belt, or any of the other constellations Mark begins to point out—but you see Mark, and he sees you—and that’s enough.

Is this what love feels like?

Mark asks you out the next week after taking you out for hotteok and shopping. You figured that was a date, but Mark didn’t say so, until he specifically asked this time, Can I take you out on a date?

You go to the beach again, but this time he brings a picnic basket filled with various treats and snacks. He also brings a bottle of champagne, even despite both of you being underage. You never loved the taste of champagne, but you sip on the glass Mark pours for you anyway.

“White or red wine?” Mark asks as you take a sip from your flute. You chuckle as you set it down on top of the picnic basket.

“This is champagne, right?” you laugh. “But I like red, typically. My family has never been a white wine drinking family, so I haven’t had it too much.”

Mark nods as he takes a bite of a strawberry macaron. “Good to know.” He reaches out the macaron towards you, and you happily finish off the last bite. The sweet, fruity flavors on your tongue bring a smile to your face, and Mark smiles too as he notices your growing grin. Your heart skips a beat when he winks at you. He hands you another macaron, and you take a sniff of it as you’re unsure of the flavor.

“Café latte,” Mark comments. “My favorite.”

You take a bite, and you immediately understand why it’s his favorite. “This is amazing,” you comment. Mark chuckles.

“I know. That was the last one.”

You immediately hand over what's left of the macaron, and Mark declines. You shove it in his personal space, until he’s scooting away from you, and you grab his face and shove the treat in his mouth. He tries to fight you off, but fails, and you end up in his lap, arms on either side of his body. There’s suddenly a silence between you two that you can’t escape, but you don’t really mind it; Mark is the most comfortable space you’ve ever been in, and you’re glad he chooses to spend his precious time with you. You want to tell him this, however, you feel it’s too corny or sappy, and you know Mark might just laugh at you.

“Thanks for that,” Mark says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you look up at him. He looks at you longingly, and your heart starts to ache. You want to touch his face so badly, but you respect the fact that Mark likely doesn’t want that; and even if he does, it’s too early to be touching him so lovingly. You know you like Mark, maybe you’re even in love with him. But you don’t want to rush things. Even if you both had numbered days, even if the world was ending in just a week, you wanted to feel every joyful emotion that came with falling for someone, especially someone like Mark; you wanted to enjoy every special moment; you didn’t want to fall in all at once.

Mark taps the cover of your book, and you pick it up, opening up to where you left the bookmark. You only mark one passage this evening; “Why wasn’t friendship as good as a relationship? Why wasn’t it even better? It was two people who remained together, day after day, bound not by sex or physical attraction or money or children or property, but only by the shared agreement to keep going, the mutual dedication to a union that could never be codified.”

Is this the end?

You and Mark don’t read for almost two weeks. It’s almost August, and you know life for Mark is probably becoming more hectic as he prepares for school, so you try not to bother him. However, those two weeks, not texting or calling or going to the beach, were some of the most painful days you had ever lived. Part of you wanted to go over to his house, just knock on the door or throw rocks at his window, just to remind him you were thinking about him; but your pride got the better of you, and you kept your distance.

Until one weekend, you decide to knock on his door, just to make sure everything is okay; the intrusive thoughts remind you of the dark coffee-shop-old-man scenario. You need to make sure Mark’s alive.

“Hi,” you speak, holding on tight to the towels beneath your arm. Mark slowly blinks, most likely awaiting an explanation as to why you're standing before him. He looks tired; his hair is unbrushed, there’s a little stubble on his face, and he’s still in his pajamas. He coughs before wiping his eyes. “I’m going to the beach. Your beach, if you want to join me.”

Before you know it, Mark is in your car. You’re both quiet, and you try to focus on the music playing from your phone, humming along at some lines. Mark stares out the window. You try to reach over for his hand, and he lets you hold it, but he doesn’t reciprocate much.

“I’m sorry for kind of ghosting,” he says before clearing his throat. “Life hasn’t been easy lately. I just couldn’t see you.” You nod, even though it’s hard to understand his words, for they’re so vague. You figure it’s something having to do with college tuition, or something of the sort. It was stressful, for you had thought about that too, being out of high school for two years then. You could see why that would distance him.

“It’s okay,” you answer with a subtle grin. He does the same.

“Let’s go. I need a distraction.”

And you drive away. You’re driving down the busy streets and then the quiet, empty streets. You feel happiness and relief grow inside you, knowing Mark is no longer isolating or shutting you out. You squeeze his hand.

You reach the shore after several more minutes, the familiar sound of waves crashing and wind blowing through the trees filling your ears. It brings immediate comfort, carrying the various memories of quotes you loved so dearly being read by Mark as you sat on his lap.

“Can we swim?” Mark asks, and for some reason, he speaks with sadness. You say yes to the idea, for he asked, and you want him to be happy.

Soon enough you’re in the water, and it’s rather warm, despite the overcast skies. While you walk out deeper, Mark lags behind in the shallow. You walk back, hooking your arm around his, taking him with you.

The waves grow bigger once the wind picks up, sometimes swallowing your body beneath the water; meanwhile, Mark tries to stay above. You swim back towards him, since he apparently likes being in the shallow, and jump on his back. He lets out a laugh as you wrap your arms around him.

“Don’t let me drown,” you scold. He grabs onto your legs, walking further out into the water. When waves roll over, he turns around so your backs crash against them. Eventually, you jump off his torso, and he turns around so he’s facing you. He glares at you for a moment, then looks down at the water. He looks so calm, so peaceful, just standing right in front of you. You wish you could kiss his full, soft lips. You just know Mark’s a good kisser; you can tell just by the way he carries himself, how he speaks, the habit he has of licking his lips every so often.

Time passes, and you try your best to relax out in the water, even though the waves seem to be stronger as each minute passes. Mark starts drifting further away from you. You keep an eye on him, for the waves become stronger, and Mark gets farther, and you become more worried. You try to swim to him, but his body just gets smaller and smaller until it eventually disappears. You shout for him, and in the distance, you can see him coughing, struggling to keep above the surface.

“Mark?” you shout. He makes it out of the deep end, but once you finally reach him, he’s limp and weak. You drag his body back to shore as he lets out short coughs, water coming up each time, until he finally stops. When you lay his body on the sand, his eyes are still, and you feel his body freeze.

“Mark,” you panic, trying to keep him conscious. “Mark, can you hear me? Look at me, Mark, please.”

You put your ear to his chest, and there’s no movement or sound, and you panic even more. You look around, but there’s not a single other person in sight. You put a hand on his cold cheek, lightly slapping him, trying to get him to regain consciousness, but to no avail.

“Mark, please,” your eyes are welling up with tears as you panic. You remember what you learned ten years before in your CPR certification course; CAB; compression, airway, breath. You straddled his torso, putting all your weight into your palms as you pump his chest. Your tears fall right onto the sand, and you quickly try to wipe them away from your cheeks. You then tilt back his head, opening his mouth just slightly, pausing before leaning down to put your lips to his. You breathe hard, trying to get any and all life back into him. You were right; his lips are soft, but you didn’t want to have yours on them at that moment; you wanted to kiss him, really kiss him. Not try to save him from dying.

“Mark, come on.” You wait a moment for him to wake up, those seconds feeling like hours. You start to pump his chest again, until finally, water spurts up from his mouth as he coughs.

“Mark, hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” you comfort him as he coughs harder and harder. You give him space as he turns onto his stomach, holding himself up by his forearms. You grab his shoulders for extra support as he tries to catch his breath.

“I can’t,” he heaves in between coughs. He starts breathing heavily and quickly, and when he barks up another cough, there’s blood covering his forearm. You immediately panic again. He starts breathing heavily again, his eyes shut, head hanging loose towards the ground.

“Mark, we have to go to a hospital, can you make it to the car?” you help him stand up by wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You look over to him, and his face shows no emotion, but his eyelids are heavy and blood drips from his mouth. As you look at him, you brush a loose strand of hair from his face. He nods slowly, grabbing onto your free hand tight as he struggles to stand. He starts coughing more once we reach the car.

Once you’re settled in the car, you scramble to find a water bottle, but there’s nothing. “Just hang in there okay,” you tell Mark. He looks at you slowly, and you can tell he needs to say something. You grab his hand, squeezing tight. “What is it, Mark?”

“S-severance Hospital, go there,” he says, his voice gritty and dry. You nod, squeezing his hand again. He doesn't squeeze back.

Why did he lie?

They had to admit Mark into the hospital that week. You go to see him every day, and it’s hard, for he doesn’t seem to improve at all over the last few days. You still don’t know what’s wrong with him, but you figure he just was still coming down from his cold, and nearly drowning didn’t really help his recovery.

It’s a week since Mark was admitted, and you're sitting next to the bed where he rests, and he watches whatever series the hospital has on their TV. He looks like he’s hurting. There are tubes connecting him to the machines next to the bed, along with a nasal catheter, and an obnoxious beep comes from the vital monitor with each beat of his heart.

“Do you know when you can leave?” you ask Mark, grabbing his attention again. He slowly turns his head to look at you.

“No. Hopefully by the weekend.” He pulls the covers over his body more, getting more comfortable beneath the sheets. “You should head home. You’ve been here every day.”

You stand up so you can sit on the bed, putting one arm over Mark, brushing the brown locks of hair behind his ear. He moves his legs to make room.

“I need to know you’re okay.”

He looks the opposite direction from you, letting out a short breath. You grab his hand and hold it. His fingers are cold and dry beneath yours, and he turns his head towards me again and smiles small. He glances at your hands, and suddenly, his expression drops. He’s sad again. You wonder why.

“They said you saved my life. You gave me CPR,” Mark notes. You smile and nod.

“I did,” you answer. Mark chuckles.

“How was it? Kissing me,” he asks, and you roll your eyes, shoving his shoulder gently. He smacks your hand lightly, and you shake your head, showing how utterly sick of him you were in that moment.

“It was disgusting.” You purse your lips and Mark frowns. Your heart skips a beat, for he looks so cute with his pouty face. You want to actually kiss him, but you just don’t know if he’d reciprocate, or if that’s how he truly thinks of you. “And it wasn’t a kiss. I was trying to save you.”

Mark’s frown fades, and he looks at his lap, then up at you, then back at his lap again. “You should try and save me again.”

You smirk, and you don’t catch yourself leaning down to kiss him; he grabs your face, caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. You shiver under his touch, the feeling electric; like he was sending his energy through you right through his fingertips.

“But you’re not dying right now,” you whisper, your lips just inches away from his. The tips of your noses touch, and Mark moves his hands from your face to your shoulders.

Mark’s smile fades.

“I am.”

You chuckle, cupping his face in your hands. “Shut up.”

Mark looks at your eyes as his hands fall from your shoulders. “I am. I’m dying.”

As if on cue, the doctor bursts through the door, and you quickly pull away from Mark. He looks at you with a certain gaze, and your heart feels heavy. You stand from the bed, and Mark reaches for your hand.

“Nice to see you again, Mark,” the doctor greets. He looks at the machines standing next to the bed, examining the different components. “Are you feeling any better?”

Silence grows in the room once Mark answers no. The doctor doesn’t seem shocked. You look at Mark, your eyebrows furrowed, lip quivering.

“Well, it seems you’ve gotten worse since your last visit. You’ve been taking all your medications and doing treatments, right?” The doctor shows great concern in this conversation. The look on his face is a mixture of worrisome and angry. Meanwhile, you're completely confused. You feel the need to leave the room, so you start towards the door, until Mark calls for you. You turn around.

“Would you like to be alone? I can come back,” the doctor asks awkwardly. You shake your head, leaving the room. Mark calls for you again. You reluctantly turn back, and the look on his face breaks your heart. He looks at you with a look that reads, I need you, and you feel your heart sink into your stomach.

You stand next to him, and the doctor quickly exits. Mark sits up, grabbing your hand, looking at you with sorry eyes.

“I have cystic fibrosis. It’s why I moved here—to participate in a clinical trial. I’m not going to school, I’m living in this hospital to do the trial.”

You sit down on the bed, looking ahead of you at the floor. The air seems to leave your lungs, and you struggle to catch your breath.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, voice barely audible. Mark looks at you, and there are tears in his eyes. He tugs on your hand, and you look away as you feel tears welling up too quickly to hold back. “You should have told me.”

Mark bites his lip, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says. “I just wanted to be more than my sickness. I wanted to feel like a person to you. I’ve never felt the way I have with you.”

You look at Mark, and he smiles at you, but you can’t smile back. “You’re more than just a person to me,” you assure him. “But you should have told me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Mark repeats. “Before, I never let myself fall for anyone, because I thought I’d be dead the next day. But I couldn’t not fall for you.”

You sigh, a small smile forming on your lips. Before you can process it, Mark’s face is just inches from yours, holding your face in his hands. You bring your body closer to his, leaning into his space. You think, finally, he’s going to kiss you, but you’re wrong. He just sits there, breathing you in. You lean in closer, but he just pulls farther back. You sigh as you stand.

An uncomfortable stillness envelops the room. You wipe your eyes as Mark watches you closely. You breathe in deep, then grab Mark’s hand.

“I think I should go home,” you say softly. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Mark nods. “I think that’d be good. Just get some rest.”

Once you reach your car, you sit there for several moments. Then, you let it all go; you cry hard, loud, and violently. As you think about Mark laying in that flat and uncomfortable bed, trying his hardest to simply take a breath, tears fall from your eyes and the beating in your chest speeds up. Before you can allow yourself to get any angrier or upset, you drive off, going fast through the roads to your home. You sit in your car again, staring at the garage door in front of you. You start to wonder. You wonder about Mark.

Should you fall out of love?

Can you fall out of love?

Is it okay to be mad at him when you love him?

Why did he lie?

What will you do without him?

You don’t see Mark until a week after he was released from the hospital. You spend those days alone, processing the fact that someday, there will be no more Mark; even though you had only known him for a few months, the idea hurt you immensely. You also spent that time cursing yourself for being so upset. Of course Mark was going to die someday; so were you. You both were going to die. You wondered why you were so distraught.

To your surprise, when you visit Mark for the first time after the hospital, he isn’t in bed. Instead, you find him in the room next to his bedroom. The walls are a pleasant gray color, and the sun shining through the window adds more color and light to the room. The space is pretty empty, minus a few more machines that you assume are for Mark’s treatments, the oxygen tank that sends air to Mark’s nose, and right against the wall—a piano. Upright, black, and polished. And before it sits Mark, his eyes scanning the keys, but not playing them. You close the door behind you, which grabs Mark’s attention. He barely smiles as he glances up at me.

“Hey,” you greet. You walk closer to him. He makes space on the piano bench, and you take a seat next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice dry and quiet.

“For what?”

He slithers his hand slowly towards yours then he grips onto your fingers. “You know why.”

At first, you don’t know what to say. There isn’t even much to say.

“It’s okay,” you rub his shoulder, then reach your hand across the span of his back, pulling him close. “It’s okay.”

You sit in silence for a moment, just looking at one another, waiting for the other to speak. Mark then looks down at the piano keys, then back at you.

“I wrote you a song.” Mark says out of the blue. Your heart begins to race as you process the fact that Mark has sat down by himself, that notebook in hand, thinking about you and what words to conjure up that describe how he feels for you, imagining singing it right to you.

“W-why?” you ask, your voice breaking up as you speak.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

You smile as blood rushes to your cheeks, and you hang your head, hiding your face in your hands. Mark doesn’t touch you, but when you look up again, he’s still watching you with the soft smile he always has. You cover your lips as you can’t control the grin on your face. He puts his hands on the keys, just about to press down, until you put your hand on his, halting him from proceeding.

“Wait,” you interrupt. “I’m not ready.”

“What do you mean?” Mark laughs.

You let out a deep breath. “What’s the song about?”

Mark chuckles. “You, silly.”

“No, I mean, what about me, I—”

“Just listen.”

Mark puts his hands back on the keys, concentrating on the correct placement, then he presses down and the room fills with the sweet sound of an A major chord. You wait for Mark to sing, and it seems like forever until he finally starts to sing. The sound of his voice sends chills down your arms and spine.

Our lives are made

In these small hoursThese little wonders

These twists and turns of fate

You feel a warmth rush through your veins soon after, and goosebumps on your arms and thighs begin to rise. Mark sings, and you try damn hard not to cry, because his voice is oh-so comforting; it is the warmth of the sun on a spring morning, it is the smell of clean linen, it is the hug from your mother after a long day of school; it’s everything good in the world, wrapped up in the soundwaves of this single person’s vocal chords.

Time falls away

But these small hoursThese small hours

Still remain

He repeats the melody several times before playing the last few chords, repeating these small hours, these small hours still remain, and the chords become quieter and quieter, until Mark’s fingers lift from the piano keys.

More tears fall down your face as you look at Mark. You reach for his hand, slowly gripping onto it. You feel his flesh beneath your fingers, and you let out a sigh of relief, because he’s here. You see him and you feel him, and he’s alive.

He finally looks at you, and there are tears in his eyes too. He looks down at your lips, then back into your eyes. You feel your heart start to crack, for you can tell just by the look in his eyes that he’s tired.

“Thank you,” you say finally. He grabs your hand and holds it tight, and your heart fully breaks at that moment. You stand up from the piano bench, turning away from him, letting the tears fall fast and hard. You thought you cried all that you could in those several days where Mark was still in the hospital, but you were wrong. You were so wrong; your eyes can’t seem to stop watering.

You hear Mark get up behind you. He quickly stands, then walks in front of you, putting his hands on your cheeks, wiping the tears that just don’t seem to stop coming.

Mark takes you in his arms as you cry. You let out all the emotions you have felt since the day you met him, all the confusion you felt since he told you he was dying. All the sadness you’ve felt since you realized how much you love him, the pain of thinking this could be the last time he holds you, or this could be the last time you smell his scent, or the last time you feel his arms around you.

“I’ll be okay,” he whispers to you. That only causes more sobs to escape. You suddenly can’t breathe, for your cries have become too much, and your face is buried in the curve of Mark’s neck and shoulder. You hold him tighter, feeling his torso on each centimeter of your arms.

“This trial,” you finally say, lifting your head from Mark’s shoulder. “It’s gonna keep you here, right? You won’t—you’re not gonna be dying anymore, right?”

Mark wipes your tears and tucks the strands of hair that cover your face. “I hope so. We really hope.”

“What’s hope? It’s gonna work, right? I mean, it’s science, it’s supposed to help, it’ll keep you here—”

“It’ll work. It’s not as simple as taking a pill every day, but it will work.”

Mark smiles, and he pokes your cheek, and you smile, too. His eyes travel from your gaze, to your nose, then your lips, then your neck, until he burrows his face in the crook between your shoulder and neck. You wrap your arms around his waist and pull him close.

He continues his path to the back of your neck, and before you know it, he's pulling your face closer to his—slowly but surely. you sharply breathe momentarily, trying to comprehend Mark's actions.

"Y/N," he says as your foreheads touch. "I want to kiss you. Just this once." He looks down at your lips. You try to answer, but when you open your mouth to speak, nothing comes out. Your heart has sunk so deep within your chest, and your throat hurts so bad from crying that you simply can’t talk. Instead, you nod.

Mark brings his hands down along the length of your arms, then around your waist. He looks up at you again, your lips now just barely touching. You place your hand on his soft cheek as you pull him closer. And then, without hesitation, he kisses you. You let him do it the way he wants to, which is smooth, soft, subtle and effective. You hold onto the kiss as he tries to pull away. But eventually, his lips are disconnected, and he whispers, "Just once."

Contrary to what you expected for your first kiss, your heart slows down to a steady pace, and you feel relaxed. Less worried about what Mark just revealed to you; given you can feel his lips on yours, and you can feel his hair and skin beneath your fingertips. You feel him, he’s alive, he’s there with you.

You want nothing more in the world then but to kiss him more. Just one more time. One more chance to feel his lips against yours, one more chance to hold his delicate face in your hands, one more chance to just feel him. But Mark glances down to the area of your chest, and rests his forehead on your shoulder. You pull him closer, his head buried in between your neck and shoulder, and his arms wrap tighter around your torso.

He finally looks up at you again, a shooting pain runs through your chest.

He places his hand on your cheek. “‘I’m sorry.”

You wonder, what will I do without him?

Are you still in love?

Every day for the next two weeks, you show up at Mark’s house at the same time. Each visit, he’d be laying in bed, either sleeping or writing in his songbook. As each day passed, he talked less, he didn’t smile as big, and his eyes became more sullen.

There’s one week left until Mark would go to the hospital indefinitely to start the clinical trial. His mother would often be packing bags, preparing for his stay.

“Welcome.” His mother opens the door one day and you slowly step in. You told her you would help her gather Mark’s things and organize them for his stay, as much as she said she didn’t need the help, you wanted an excuse to be around Mark.

“Mark is upstairs,” Mrs. Lee instructs. You smile at her before you walk up the stairs. Once you reach the next floor, there are multiple rooms, and you go to the only familiar one where Mark rests. His room is completely silent, other than the barely audible piano music playing from a small speaker next to his bed. He lays on the bed, eyes nearly shut, covered in blankets.

Once he hears you step in the room, his eyes seem to light up. To your surprise, a smile forms on his face.

“Hey, Mark.” You walk closer to the bed. He doesn’t speak. He just smiles. You sit down in the cushioned chair in the corner, but Mark immediately motions for you to come near him. You kneel next to the bed, where there’s a single machine keeping track of Mark’s vitals. The noise starts to become more and more familiar to you.

Mark attempts a deep breath, but it’s shorter than anticipated. He turns over onto his side so he’s facing you. You help him become more comfortable by adjusting the pillows behind his head, then tucking the blankets over him further.

“Is this okay?” you ask him as you place your hand on his shoulder. He nods.

“Perfect.”

Neither of you speak as you sit down again. The music slowly fades out before beginning a new song. It’s a slow and peaceful song, and you can tell Mark is focused on it. As he brushes his fingers over your hand, he presses against your arm along with the melody of the song. you laugh, and so does he.

Once the song is halfway over, Mark’s mother walks in. She has a small plate in her hands, and suddenly, the scent of hotteok fills your nose. You look at Mark, and he smiles again. Mrs. Lee sets the plate on the table next to the bed, and Mark immediately reaches for the food. you grab one of the cakes for him, tearing off a piece and putting it to his mouth. The corners of his lips turn up as he chews. You take a piece for yourself.

Time passes, and you eat the remainder of the hotteok, listening to the music pouring from the speakers. Mark closes his eyes now and then, but you hold his hand again, and he opens his eyes again. And in between all that, he has coughing attacks, and then complains about a sore throat. You give him water each time.

You can tell Mark has grown to be rather drowsy, but he still asks you to sit in bed with him. You gladly crawl under the covers, and the whole time, he’s smiling. You take note of the way his eyes brighten when he grins, for it makes your heart pound out of pure love and admiration. If you could keep him here and make him smile for the rest of his life, you would.

You’re both beneath the duvet, and Mark’s small body is curled up next to yours. He practically covers you entirely, for he is now laying right on top of you. His body weight is light—and you know it’s a bad thing. As you run your hand up and down his back, you feel his ribs through his skin, along with the short breaths he takes. He starts to drift off, and he’s aware, because as soon as his eyelids begin to fall he picks up his head to look at you.

“Y/N.” His voice sounds the same whenever he repeats your name, but each time, it’s something new. Your heart still races and your stomach always tingles.

You brush a strand of hair from his forehead, continuing to stroke his brown locks. “What is it?”

He looks down in embarrassment, but you gently place your fingers below his chin, and he picks his head up again. He blushes as you look him in his eyes.

“Can I kiss you again?”

His question makes the air in your lungs vanish. Again, you lose all ability to speak, and you just end up staring at him like an idiot. But, you don’t need to answer this time, because Mark goes ahead and kisses you without warning. You move your hand back down to his waist, wrapping your arm around him. He places his hands on both your cheeks which sends your whole body into a shudder. The feeling of him being this close to you is one you wish you could experience many times after this, but you know that isn’t the case, so you savor each millisecond and the touch of his fingers on your face and our hearts beating right along with one another.

Mark stops the kiss for a moment, only to give you one last peck. You keep your eyes closed as he pulls away.

“Can I just…I don’t know,” Mark trails on, flustered. You grab onto his hand to reassure him that he can talk to you. “Will you let me just, touch you?”

You nod.

And his fingers are brushing against the features of your face—your dry lips, the area beneath your eyes, the edges of your eyelids, all along your hairline, then his hands are rustling the strands atop your head. The feeling is soothing and sends you into a calm state. You softly close your eyes, and Mark continues feeling you. His touches move from your head down to your neck and collarbone. His thumb grazes over your throat, which tickles, and you let out a small chuckle. He then traces the length of your clavicle, which leads him to your shoulder. He pulls down your t-shirt to reveal more of your skin. you don’t expect him to start to softly kiss the area. The action causes me to shiver, especially when his hands sneak beneath the hem of your shirt. His hands explore your body as you feel the goosebumps rise all over your arms and your legs.

“Y/N,” Mark says for the umpteenth time. He takes his hands and places them on your shoulders. He rests his head on your chest. “Find someone better than me, okay?”

“That’s impossible.”

Mark sighs. “Find someone who will live long enough to love you.”

“You will live long enough. You’re going to be a part of this amazing trial in just a few days, right? You’ll be fine,” you reassure. “You were the one talking about hope. It’s gonna work.”

Mark sighs before he purses his lips. He nods.

Mark eventually falls asleep, and he’s still resting on top of you. You gently get up and place his body in a comfortable position, covering his shoulders with the blankets, and adjusting the cannula to his nose, making sure he’s getting the oxygen he needs. Once he’s still again, you make your way out of the bed. You kneel next to him before you leave.

You softly brush your fingertips over his face, tracing his hairline, feeling the soft hair behind his ear, down his jawline and neck. You feel the area where his pulse beats, and when you feel the rhythmic oscillation, you feel the worry and anxiousness lift off your shoulders. You take note of how he’s slowly breathing and how his pulse continually beats beneath your fingers.

Once the outside sky turns into a dark void, you tell yourself that Mark should rest without admiring him. You stand up, bending over Mark's face. You place a soft kiss on his forehead, and you wonder, am I still in love?

Should I have fallen in love?

You wake up the next day with five missed calls from Mark. You immediately feel relentless worry bubble up inside you. Your heart paces as you call him back, praying it’s Mark who answers, and not his mother. Your heart stops when you hear his husky voice tell you good morning.

“Mark,” you breathe. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay. I just need you to do something for me.”

You pause. “What is it?”

“Take me to my beach. Just one last time before I leave.”

Hearing him say last time makes the temporary excitement in you vanish completely. The way he says it—you can tell he’s sad. But you don’t want him to be sad. So you put on your best outfit, throw your book into your bag, and drive over to Mark’s home.

He’s already sitting out on the front lawn. You jump out of your car to see him. You notice he doesn’t have his little oxygen tank, and he’s breathing on his own.

“Hi Mark,” you greet, sitting next to the boy. He looks at you but he doesn’t smile. You try not to think much of it. “Do you wanna go?”

He nods. So you hook your arm around his and help him stand, grabbing his oxygen from the garage where he set it before, and eventually getting him into the car.

As you drive, he stays quiet, which you expect due to his rather glum mood. You reach your hand over towards him, placing it on his leg. He softly covers it with his beautiful fingers, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. You glance at him, and he’s looking down at your hands.

“You’re okay,” you tell him, almost more so reassuring yourself rather than him. You don’t necessarily know what’s bothering him—other than the fact that his days are numbered if this trial doesn’t work—but you reassure him anyway. You know it’s what he needs.

You reach the bumpy back roads which indicates you’re almost to your destination. Mark occasionally starts coughing a lot, and you worry, but you’ve learned that’s normal for him. He gets over it within a matter of seconds. At one point, you look over at Mark, and you can tell he’s studying the trees and bushes and small buildings we pass by as we drive. His eyes are slightly squinted, the window slightly rolled down for fresh air. All you can think is he is so damn beautiful.

You take one last turn before parking right before the stretch of woods. Mark slowly gets out—slow enough for you to exit and help him. He takes your hand, and you walk.

You lay out your beach blanket, and you help Mark sit down, positioning his oxygen right next to him. You sit next to him closely. Once your feet sink into the sand, it seems as if Mark sinks deeper into sadness, and you sink further into guilt. All you wanted was to reassure him, to remind him how he’d make it out of that hospital; but none of it seems to work.

You grab your bag and pull out the book, your book, and gesture towards Mark. He smiles and nods, and you open to the page you both left off on. You have reached Part V, The Happy Years. You brought your annotation kit, for you and Mark like to mark your favorite quotes and write down all your thoughts.

“…he too felt that his relationship with Jude existed to no one but themselves: it seemed something sacred, and fought-for, and unique to them.”

“Mark that one,” Mark says. You nod, grabbing a sticky note sticking it to the page. He puts his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer as you continue reading.

“That one too,” Mark says. And he repeats it throughout the night as you continue to read. You read and read and read, until the sun sets, until Mark has to hold his phone up to the book so you can actually see the words on the pages.

“But now he knows for certain how true the axiom is, because he himself––his very life––has proven it. The person I was will always be the person I am, he realizes. The context may have changed: he may be in this apartment, and he may have a job that he enjoys and that pays him well, and he may have parents and friends he loves.”

You read almost 100 pages that night, until you close the book, looking up at Mark.

“I’m really tired,” you comment. Mark pulls his arm from around your shoulders.

“Me too,” Mark says. “I have to get to the hospital kinda early tomorrow.”

You put the book back into your bag, and you stand before helping Mark as well. He lets out a breath as he straightens his back. You grab his oxygen, carrying it to the car for him. He lets out a deep breath as he sits in the passenger seat. You put a hand on his forehead, and he turns his head towards you, and you kiss him tenderly. He barely reciprocates, but you don’t get upbeat about it. You know he’s tired.

“Do you feel okay?” you ask before you drive away. Mark looks over at you, and his eyes are dull and sullen.

“Spend the night with me.”

You look at him for a moment, then you nod. “Okay.”

You help each other set up a mini fort in the piano room, which ends up just becoming a pile of soft pillows and fluffy blankets. Mark throws some pillows at you jokingly, and your heart feels relief as you witness Mark’s true lightheartedness seep through the true pain he was in.

You tell Mark to rest while you go to the kitchen and get some snacks. You meet Mark’s mother who is already making popcorn in the microwave.

“Hi Mrs. Lee,” you greet. She smiles at your appearance.

“Hello, dear,” she replies happily. The microwave beeps immediately after she speaks. As she takes out the bag, she walks over to the island in the middle of the kitchen where all of Mark’s supplements are sorted out.

“Want me to take those up for him?”

She nods. As she closes the caps to the several pill bottles, you can tell she’s sad. you want to say something, but you don’t know what.

“Thank you, dear.” She looks up at you with a glint in her eye.

“It’s no problem, Mrs. Lee.” you ask as you walk closer to her.

“No, thank you for making my son happy again. I swear, the minute he realized how serious this sickness was, he was so…sad. He was so closed off. He stopped his piano and singing. He barely spoke to anyone. He knew if he became attached to anyone, leaving them would hurt too much. You really changed him.”

You don’t know what to say. You feel like crying a little. So you don’t say anything. You just smile.

“He adores you so much.”

“I love him,” you spit out. You can’t catch yourself saying it, but it just comes out, and Mrs. Lee looks surprised for a moment. “I know we’re young, and maybe we don’t really know what love is, but if love is a feeling, I think it’s what I feel for him.”

There’s a long pause, but you focus on the growing scent of popcorn to distract yourself. Mrs. Lee slides the bowl of pills over to you before patting your back. “Go have fun.”

So you walk up the steps again, and you already hear the sound of the piano coming from the room. You smile to yourself as you listen from outside the door. Although it does sound dark and solemn, it’s fast paced, and you can hear a slight energy behind each note. You can tell Mark hasn’t played like this in a while.

You crack the door open, not wanting Mark to notice you. Even as you begin to creep inside, he continues to play like there’s no tomorrow. You feel your smile growing bigger and bigger the further into the song he gets. You walk towards him, no longer caring if he notices. You watch his fingers press down on the keys repetitively.

Instead of turning around and looking at you again when he finishes, Mark stays staring at the keys. You place the bowl of popcorn on the ground, then wrap your arms around his chest, resting your chin on his shoulder. He sets his hand over your arm and softly strokes it.

“You okay?” you ask him with a soft tone. He then starts to stand again, facing you. He softly nods with a small smile, which you can tell is fake, before standing on his toes and placing a light kiss on your cheek. He walks over to the pile of blankets and pillows. You grab the popcorn and join him.

He grabs the laptop from beside where he spreads his body to rest, and you do the same. His head is nuzzled up on your shoulder, hands resting either on your chest or your stomach. He turns on a movie, which you assume is his favorite. Dead Poets Society. You don’t have to look twice to see how happy he is to be watching it.

While he has his focus on the movie, you’re focused on Mark. As he chows down on the popcorn, you make sure he’s okay; you place a kiss on his forehead, and sometimes, he’ll kiss you straight on the lips. Each time, his lips are salty from the popcorn, but you don’t care, because it’s Mark you're kissing.

It’s about the middle of the movie when Mark suddenly closes the laptop and sets it away. He rests against your body again, letting his weight sink into your side. He groans a little before he crawls on top of you completely. He has one leg on either side of your waist, and he grabs your face in his hands, looking right at your lips, but he doesn’t try to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his small body and pull him closer.

“Y/N.” You hold his hand, for you’ve learned that when Mark says your name this way, he’s going to say something important. His eyes glisten from the streetlight slipping through the blinds of the window above you. He looks down, letting out a sigh. Picking his head up again, he says, “you’re so beautiful.”

He kisses you—just once—softly and delicately. But he keeps his face close to yours, so your foreheads are touching along with your noses. You run your hand up and down his spine, feeling each vertebrae, taking note of his slow breaths. Eventually, Mark lets his body fully collapse on yours. You wrap your arms completely around him so he’s even more close to you. His arms are now loosely around your neck, stroking your hair.

You roll over to where he’s on his back and you’re straddling his waist. He puts his hands on your hips, stroking the length of your thigh, up and down, and the feeling makes your breath hitch a little and the butterflies in your stomach release. You wanted Mark so badly then, you felt your whole body tingle.

“I love you, Mark.”

He pauses as he looks up at you. You hear him swallow hard, and his heartbeat speeds up as you place a hand on his chest. The feeling of each thump beneath your skin reassures you. He’s here, he’s alive, he’s with you, and he’s Mark. You want to see him fully, in his purest form, so you tug at the hem of his sweatshirt, and he sits up to pull the cloth over his head.

“I love you, Y/N.” He pulls you closer, kissing you deep and tenderly. You let yourself lay on his side, keeping one leg wrapped over his lap. He pulls away from your kiss and looks at you longingly. “Can I?”

He gestures to your shirt, and you nod, ridding yourself of the clothing. When he pulls you closer and your chests touch, an electric field seems to form between you, keeping you both within each other’s orbit, unable to pull away. He caresses your back as you touch all over his torso. As each second passes, your heart becomes more eager and your stomach grows more tingly. Mark touches your hips, and you feel like you want to implode; you want him touching you all over, but such a thing is impossible all at once. You want a thousand years to spend with him so you can explore all of him, you want him all to yourself, you never want him to let go; your selfish need to have him all over you was a craving too insatiable.

“Mark,” you exhale. “Please, fucking live. You can’t die.”

Mark lets out a deep breath through his nose as your foreheads touch. He frowns, and you kiss him softly. He’s going to cry. You can feel it in the air, you can see it in his face.

“Mark, don’t cry.” You take his hands from his face, holding them tightly. Tears are forming in your eyes faster than you want them to. Then they suddenly attack completely, falling like waterfalls down your cheeks.

You swallow hard. “We have now okay? I’m here, you’re here. It’s okay,” your voice cracks as you speak. He nods slowly. “We have this right now. And you’re gonna get better from the trial. Just keep looking at me, okay?”

Mark looks down. “I’m so tired,” he breathes. “I’m tired of everything. I need this to work, I’m so goddamn tired.”

“I know, Mark, but it’s gone too far. I’m in love with you. And if you give up, I’ll fucking die, I think. So you have to keep going. Even though you’re tired.”

Mark sighs, his breath shaky as it leaves his lips. You blink slowly, pressing your forehead against his. He puts a hand on your cheek. “I shouldn’t have let you love me.”

You purse your lips. “We both knew, Mark. There wasn’t any stopping it.”

“We should sleep,” Mark suggests, obviously not wanting to talk about the topic any longer. He lays himself down on his back, pulling the blankets over his body. You stay sitting up as you watch him. “Lay down, Y/N.”

You follow his instructions, resting your body next to his. You immediately begin to feel your body and your mind grow more and more tired. As you close your eyes and let out a breath, Mark pokes at your side, grabbing your attention again. You look over at him, and he’s facing you as he rests on his side. Instead of touching him, you admire him—his round eyes that glare at me longingly, his cute nose, his pretty lips, his velvet skin. His eyelids slowly droop as he looks at you.

You can tell he doesn’t feel like speaking. He just wants to be there. So you let him do that. Mark crawls closer to you, bringing your faces close together again. You close your eyes as you feel his hands on your arms, stroking them slowly. You hold your breath, and you stay frozen, for Mark seems so precious and fragile at this point—you don’t want to break him any more than you already have.

You open your eyes for a moment to see Mark’s are shut. You sneak your arm behind his back, bringing him closer. You do it gently, just like the way you kiss him after. Slow and gentle. You hold on to the kiss as you take in the feeling of his lips—soft, sweet. He barely kisses back, and you know it’s because he’s so drained. He just wants to let go. He wants to get the heartache over with. He just wants to be done.

You pull away, and he looks up at you.

“Y/N.”

You worry.

“I’m sorry,” he says. You shake your head.

“You have no reason to be sorry. Just rest, Mark,” you instruct him.

“I shouldn’t have let you love me,” he says again.

You wonder. Maybe I shouldn’t have fallen in love.

What does he dream about?

Mark was admitted to the hospital on November 21. You visited him for the first time on November 22. He made sure to show you around the facility, for he already knew you would be basically living there along with him. It was a nice hospital, if hospitals could be considered nice. There were decorations on each door for the patients, which you could tell were all like Mark—18-24 years old, all living with CF, participating in the drug trial. You imagined a utopia where the trial worked and Mark would be part of some life-changing scientific study; you imagined reading the peer-reviewed journals of the entire experiment that would save millions across the globe, including Mark, who you loved so dearly.

But that was early on. You only saw Mark a few days after he first was admitted, as it was Christmas time, and for winter break, you always visited your family out of state. You facetimed Mark every day, though, and he’d update you on all the things he cared for most; he started reading your book by himself, and he was writing songs every day. He never mentioned how he was feeling, or how the trial was going. He got his first dose of the drug on November 25. You texted him immediately when you woke up that day.

How do you feel?

i haven’t had the drug yet, so still like shit lol

Oh, well let me know when you get it! I’m so excited for you!

<3 i miss u

I miss you too. One more week!!!

You’re walking downtown with your family one night after dinner, when you go into a souvenir store with your cousin, where you find lots of various gifts for Mark. You end up buying him a bracelet made of crystal beads, all a dark green color that reminds you of him. You also buy him a sweatshirt. You noticed him wearing sweatshirts in all your facetime calls, giving him one more couldn’t hurt, and you could rest well knowing a piece of you was with him at all times, enveloping him in warmth like the hugs you wish you could give him over and over.

When you get home, the first thing you do is wrap all the little things you bought and found for Mark. You decide to write him a little letter as well, which you fold up into the gift bag. You leave for the hospital as soon as you get home, not wanting to waste a single moment longer away from Mark.

Your heart is beating fast when you grab your visitor's pass, but your heart beats even faster as the elevator moves up the several floors. You haven’t seen Mark in exactly 9 days, and for you, that was 9 days too long. You practically run to his room as soon as you’re in the unit, and his door is closed like normal, and you smile to yourself when you see his decorative name tag on the door. Mark. You can’t wait to say his name again, you can’t wait to see the smile on his face as you say it.

When the nurse opens the door for you, Mark is fast asleep, lying on his side. Some Marvel movie is playing on the television, but you can’t decipher which one. You take a seat on the chair next to his bed. You scoot closer, putting your hand over his, stroking his hair with your other hand. His eyes slowly flutter open, and you smile, witnessing him in his peaceful slumber brings a certain lift to your spirit. You wonder what he dreams about; if he has weird dreams like the rest of us, or if he has lovely dreams, or nightmares. You hope not. He suffers enough, and you think to yourself, if you could crawl inside his brain and fend off any negative thoughts that might seep in during his slumber, you’d do so.

“Mark,” you say. He smiles as his eyes open just enough to see you. He immediately tries to sit up and reaches his arms out. “Mark, Mark, Mark.”

He hugs you, eventually pulling you off the chair and onto the bed. “Hi,” he says, and you giggle as you lay on your side, facing your boy. He smiles too, holding your face in his hands, and god, you missed the feeling so bad. You put your forehead against his and close your eyes.

“Hi,” you whisper. Mark doesn’t hesitate to kiss you. His lips are warm and gentle, and your heart skips a beat as he kisses you deeper.

“Did you—”

You can’t get another word out because Mark keeps kissing you. You don’t mind, but your curiosities are eating you alive. You need to know if he’s feeling any better, if the drug is working yet, if he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning by his own lungs. Mark kisses you deeper, then resorts to small pecks, and you can tell he’s short of breath.

“Did you get the drug? How are you feeling? Is it working?”

Mark smiles. “Yes. And I’m okay. Just have some nausea, but that’s one of the side effects.”

You nod as you reach down for Mark’s hand, holding it tight. “What are the other side effects?”

Mark sighs. “Rash, respiratory infection, headache, dizziness. To name a few.”

You furrow your eyebrows and purse your lips. The list Mark just relayed doesn’t sound good, but you try not to worry. “And you’ve been feeling okay?”

Mark nods as he laughs. “Yes, yes. I’m okay. You don’t have to worry.”

“You were dying just two weeks ago, I’m going to worry, you know.” You’re relieved when Mark lets out a chuckle. You’re just not sure the extent to which your jokes can go, and you figure just about as far as they can go, given Mark’s days were just numbered, so he must know not to be hung up on dark jokes. Except you weren’t really joking; you were terrified with your life of how Mark was feeling.

“You gotta understand, I’m gonna have bad days. Doesn’t necessarily mean I’m gonna die, though.”

You sigh as you nod. Mark kisses your forehead, and you smile. “I brought you some stuff. From vacation.”

Mark puckers his lips in interest, and you laugh at his face, because it’s just too cute. You reach over to the table where you set down the gift bag, and you and Mark sit up as you hand him the bag. He reaches for the sweatshirt first. It’s simple, just the classic tourist-style design, but he still smiles and holds it close to his chest anyway.

“I sprayed my perfume on it so it smells like me,” you inform, chuckling under your breath. Mark holds it to his nose, and he immediately looks over at you lovingly. He takes out the oxygen cannula from his nose before pulling the sweatshirt he currently wears over his head, revealing his bare skin, and you hate yourself for it, but your mouth waters. His body isn’t anything special—except it is, because it’s Mark’s. You lick your lips and bite down to hold back any giggles that fight to escape your vocal chords. Mark puts the sweatshirt on, and you smile as it fits him loosely, he looks so cozy and cuddle-able.

“Cute,” you comment. “Now open the rest.”

Mark follows your command, reaching inside the bag and pulling out the various little things you found for him. The first was a bag of seashells you found on the beach, both big and small, and Mark pulled out one that must have caught his eye. He admires it closely before putting it back in the bag. He then pulls out the bracelet you bought him, and he immediately puts it on the same wrist that has his hospital band. You grab his hand and hold it up, looking at the bracelet on his skinny wrist. You kiss his knuckles, then pull him close to you.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he says sincerely. “You’re the best. And this sweatshirt is really comfortable.”

You chuckle, and you both fall asleep there, and you dream of a world where Mark never leaves it, where he’s just as constant as the air you breathe and the water that runs on earth; he’s your axiom of equality; Mark will always be Mark the same way x will always be x, and you find comfort in this. Regardless of if the trial works or not, whether Mark dies tomorrow or Mark dies in 20 years, you know that he will always be. Mark is the axiom that drives you mad, that consumes you, that has become your entire life.

Isn't he lovely?

The hospital is a lively place during the holidays. You know it’s for the saddest reasons, though—so much despair ran through the halls of that place, and it couldn’t have been any better during the holidays, while the rest of the world was out celebrating with loved ones. You felt bad for Mark, as you remember him saying once that Christmas was his favorite holiday. So, you made a commitment to him, to bring Christmas to his little room there in that behemoth of a building.

You brought him some fairy lights, colored red and green, as well as a little Christmas tree to put in the corner of the room. You also bought some silver tinsel, and, of course, wrapped some Christmas gifts for him to put beneath the tree.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Mark tells you as you wrap the tinsel around the railings of the hospital bed.

“I know,” you say. “I just want to.”

Mark chuckles, and you kiss his forehead.

“I’m going to shove this cheesy Christmas stuff down your throat no matter what. It makes me feel better about you being trapped here, so deal with it.”

Mark shakes his head and throws his hands up. “Fine, fine. But can I help at least?”

You throw him a wad of fairy lights. He smiles as he begins to untangle them, then he stands from his bed, plugging them into the outlet. Glowing red and green light fills the room, evening out as you help him tape them up along the walls. You can hear him breathing heavily as he reached up to put the lights into place, but you kept your worries to yourself, as you knew Mark didn’t like how much you worried about him.

“All done,” you breathe as you sit down on the bed. Mark joins you, resting his head on your shoulder. You turn your head to give him a kiss. He looks up at you with a glint in his eye, and your heart breaks a little, seeing how cute he is the way he looks up at you. He holds the world in his eyes, and for a moment, you lose yourself in them.

“We should go to the roof,” Mark suggests. You chuckle as you grab his hand.

“But I just decorated your room all nice. You wanna leave already?” you ask jokingly. Mark slaps you playfully.

“We’ll come back. But the roof is really cool, and it’s a full moon tonight.” Mark bounces his leg anxiously as he awaits your reply. You smile as you stand, pulling him up behind you. He claps his hands excitedly as you let him lead the way.

You have to take the stairs to get to the roof, and Mark struggles once you reach the higher floors, taking rests every few steps. He looks up at you momentarily each time, like an apology, but you just smile back at him. Once you finally reach the top, he excitedly yells, and his voice echoes off the open atmosphere. You laugh as he inhales a deep breath and walks toward the edge of the building. You follow behind him closely.

“I fucking love it up here. I feel like I’m really breathing,” Mark explains. You look over at him endearingly. “Like I can feel every single air particle in my shitty pair of lungs. Try it—just breathe.”

You chuckle before you actually listen to Mark’s command; you inhale deeply, noting the feeling of the crisp air going into your airways. You lift your arms up as you exhale, and Mark laughs happily.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Mark asks.

You nod. “You’re lovely.”

Mark rolls his eyes before pulling on your waist. “No.”

“Yes,” you mock him, and he shakes his head, looking out at the skyline beyond the borders of the rooftop. You admire the beauty of Mark’s face in that moment. So serene, so happy, so content with life, despite the situation he was in. You think to yourself in that moment how much better he deserved. He was such a curious, wonderful, kind human being, and the universe gave him such an awful situation to be in.

Mark turns his head towards you, looking at you with love in his gaze, and you smile bright. He looks at your lips before holding your face in his hands, leaning in slowly, pausing for a moment before kissing you. You smile as his lips meet yours, and he smiles too, until your kiss is broken.

You kiss under the moonlight, and you kiss more under the fairy lights of his room, until the nurses interrupt to take Mark’s vitals and check on him. At one point in the night, Mark has a cough attack, and his throat begins to hurt, so you both decide to halt the making out and simply read instead. You read aloud to Mark. He points to the book at the parts he wants you to annotate—one quote reads, “Friendship, companionship: it so often defied logic, so often eluded the deserving, so often settled itself on the odd, the bad, the peculiar, the damaged.”

Will my wonders come to an end?

Mark Lee died in the hospital 3 days after your last visit. He succumbed to high counts of liver enzymes, which destroyed his liver cells, and his heart stopped beating at 4:39 am. He was alone, and they didn’t find him until 5 am.

You go to visit him that morning, and you don’t get past the unit doors when you see Mark’s mother crying with a nurse in the waiting area. Your heart immediately falls in your stomach. You can’t breathe. You don’t need to speak to any doctor or nurse to know what happened. You imagined this day several times, as ashamed of it as you were. But you realized, no amount of imagining this occurrence would better prepare you for when it actually happened.

You hear Mark’s mom crying from the opposite end of the doors that separate you and the unit. You don’t hesitate to walk up to the doors, pounding on the glass, rattling the handle trying to open it. It’s locked like always, but you yank on the handle and kick at the door, until the nurse finally lets you in, but immediately puts her hands on your shoulders.

“Can I see him? Please, I need to see him, I have to, I have to see him—”

“Who are you here for, hon? I can’t let you see anyone like this,” the nurse explains.

“Mark. Mark Lee, I need to see Mark.”

She shook her head. Mark’s mother walked over to you, wrapping an arm around you.

“Mark’s gone. He died this morning,” she said between sharp, short breaths. She started crying harder, although you could tell she had been crying all day. You closed your eyes as the breath was knocked out of your lungs. You fell to the floor, reaching over to the garbage can sitting against the wall, vomiting into it as you tried to catch your breath. The nurse kneeled down and rubbed your back, and a few more nurses came, one of them supplying you with a towel, another bringing another box of tissues.

“Mark’s liver enzymes got too high, and his organs failed. I’m so sorry, honey. Can I get you some water?” the nurse said. You started to cry, then. You felt a pain grow in your chest as you let out a strong sob. You grabbed onto the arm of the chair next to you. The nurse rubbed your back as you cried. Mark’s mother soon joined, wiping the tears from your face.

“Can…can I see him, please? I just want to see him,” you sob. The nurse purses her lips, and Mark’s mother sighs.

“They took him already, dear,” she said. You bring your hands to your face to subdue your cries as you realize, he’s really gone. You don’t get to say goodbye. Your hands shake as Mark’s mother helps pull you back up to your feet. You start to speak, but nothing that comes out makes any sense, your voice mutters a jumble of nos and gods and pleases, until you go quiet, and all you can say under your breath is Mark, Mark, Mark.

Mark.

Mark who ceases to exist in that very moment. Mark, who would never again kiss you, never again touch you, never look at you with the stars in his eyes, never sing to you or write songs about you. There is no more Mark. All that is left of him are memories and the little wonders of him.

Is there anything worth wondering about anymore?

You’ve become a member of the black sea today. This ocean consists of nobody but Mark’s closest friends and family, and you.

Everywhere are pictures of him. There is one which looks more recent than the others—his hair is dark, he’s smiling, his eyes are glowing, and his cheeks are full and red. He looks as alive as he ever could. As if he hadn’t been battling that sickness all his life. Like he was okay.

You sit alone, and you stare at the three photographs Mrs. Lee has given you. One is a baby picture. The baby in the photograph has the same brilliance and happiness as the Mark you always knew.

Another, he’s probably in his younger teenage years. He’s simply playing the guitar, and he’s completely concentrated on the strings. You wish you could have heard him play more.

The last one is evidently recent. It appears as if he’s somewhere tropical, from a vacation he recently went on, because he’s wearing a flower-shirt and the sun is beaming down on him as he grins from ear to ear. He looks so happy. You wish you could have been there to see this moment in person. You had only seen him smile a fair number of times, and your heart hurts as you think about all the smiles you could have seen before then. All the happy times when he thought he could live with the trial ahead of him. The moments where in the back of his mind, he knew, there’s a chance. You can survive. You can stay.

But happiness could only last until those new drugs caused the chemistry lab inside of him malfunction, until they forced his organs to shut down, until his heart stopped beating and he ceased to exist.

The sky grows more and more vibrant as the sun begins to set. You realize that you're still sitting on the couch, frozen in your seat, staring at the photos of Mark, when the boy himself is laying across the room from you. You try to get yourself to gain the courage to see him and pay respects to his family, but it’s almost as if you're glued to the sofa. The funeral home is quiet and eerie. You look over to the other room, where most of the people are gathered, sharing drinks and snacks, sharing hugs and condolences. You look up at the box across the room that holds your boy. Tears fill your eyes, and you set the photos on the table in front of you. You stand, and your legs shake; but you think about the boy resting across the room. You knew deep down he deserved a better send off from you. You can’t even recall your last conversation that you had; now, you have a chance to remember.

“I love you, Mark. So big. I love you so, so big.” You start to cry, and you kneel down next to him as you wipe your tears. “I’m sorry the world failed you. I’ll never forgive the universe for this. Just…please rest easy, my love.”

Next to Mark sits a framed photo of him. It’s evidently a school photo, maybe one of his senior pictures. On the table sits a notebook and a yearbook. You look through the notebook, and it’s full of prose, and you then realize, it’s his songs. You recognize the one he sang for you. You cry harder as you see your name written across the top.

“Goddammit,” you curse. “I miss you, Mark. I’m going to miss you so bad.”

“I love you,” you say a moment later. You cover your mouth as you turn your back towards him, walking quickly towards the other room where you find his mother. A look of concern grows upon her expression as she sees you crying.

“Can someone just go in there with him? I don’t want him to be alone, but I can’t, I just can’t—”

Mrs. Lee pulls you into her arms. The person she was speaking to immediately leaves, going back into the other room where Mark rests. You let out broken sobs as she holds you. “I miss him so much.”

The room becomes less full as time passes and you hug Mrs. Lee. People were evidently beginning to leave, and as you watch people begin to exit the building, you feel a sudden pain shoot through your heart. Everyone was leaving Mark. At some point that day, Mark would be alone again, the way he was when he died. You want to yell and scream at everyone not to leave. You don’t want Mark to be alone ever again.

“Dear,” Mrs. Lee says softly. “We have to leave for burial.”

You shake your head as you cover your eyes. “No, I don’t want him to be alone again. Please,” you cry. “I can’t watch that. I’m sorry.”

She wipes your cheeks. “I understand, dear. Go rest. Mark would understand, I know. He wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You inhale a deep, shaky breath. You look down at the ground, then you feel the metal chain around your neck, and you touch the locket charm attached. You pull the necklace from your neck, handing it to Mrs. Lee.

“Can you put this with him? Or keep it? It’s nothing special, I’ve just worn it almost everyday for years, I just want a piece of me with him.”

Mrs. Lee smiles. “Of course, love.” She hugs you one more time. “It reminds me, here, take this with your photos.”

She went over to the table with all the pictures of Mark and all the little pieces of his life displayed on the surface. She goes under the table and pulls out a book, and you immediately recognize the cover, and you feel another sob threaten your throat.

“This is for you. He read it every day, and always talked about you while reading it, too.”

Your heart falls into your stomach as you flip through the pages, every single one highlighted or marked or annotated. One page you flip to, the text reads, I am Willem Ragnarsson, and I will never let you go. He has it highlighted, and beneath it writes, I am Mark Lee, and I will never let you go.

You look up at her, and then you look towards the door, and you make your way out of the building. The sky outside is covered with clouds. You look up, but there’s just gray. No color whatsoever.

It’s still a pleasant day outside when you go to his beach. You cry the whole drive there. You don’t stop crying for what feels like forever. Your eyes hurt, your throat is sore, and your chest throbs in pain with each heartbeat. You try to focus on what’s around you, but it’s hard when all you can think about is Mark, all you feel is Mark, all you hear is Mark.

You lie down on the cold sand, clutching your book in your arms. As you watch as the sky become a mixture of blues and oranges and pinks, you flip open the book. You go to the end of the book, just to see if he ever made it that far. He circles a paragraph.

Or maybe he is closer still: maybe he is that gray cat that has begun to sit outside our neighbor’s house, purring when I reach out my hand to it; maybe he is that new puppy I see tugging at the end of my other neighbor’s leash; maybe he is that toddler I saw running through the square a few months ago, shrieking with joy, his parents huffing after him; maybe he is that flower that suddenly bloomed on the rhododendron bush I thought had died long ago; maybe he is that cloud, that wave, that rain, that mist. It isn’t only that he died, or how he died; it is what he died believing. And so I try to be kind to everything I see, and in everything I see, I see him.

The side of the page is full of Mark’s writing.

If you outlive me, if this trial doesn’t work — what will I come back as? Maybe a cat, like Harold says here. Maybe I’ll be a dolphin in the ocean on our beach, even though I’ve never seen a dolphin there. Maybe a crab. Or a fucking branch or something. Maybe I’ll be a flower in a vase in my mom’s living room. Who the fuck knows.

You smile as you read the annotation in his voice. You miss him. So much.

You read those last few pages, until you reach the very end, where the bottom is not blank, but is full of more of Mark’s writing.

Y/N,

“The axiom of equality states that x always equals x: it assumes that if you have a conceptual thing named x, that it must always be equivalent to itself, that it has a uniqueness about it, that it is in possession of something so irreducible that we must assume it is absolutely, unchangeably equivalent to itself for all time, that its very elementalness can never be altered. But it is impossible to prove.” This is my favorite quote from this book. I understand why this book is your favorite. It’s now my favorite, too. Seriously, I won’t ever forget this book. I wonder why it’s your favorite, though. It’s so sad. Are you secretly incredibly depressed? Nah, you would tell me, or I’d know. I know we talk about me alot, with my shitty lungs or whatever, and we never talk about you and I never got to know you the way I want to, but I feel like, in a way, through this book, I now know you so wholly. I know that you are you, you are always equal to you, like x = x, and you are unique, and I love you. Thanks for showing me this book.

I am Mark Lee, and I will never let you go.

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