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BLUE SCARS
In the silence of the night city, only quiet sobs and the soft roll of skateboard wheels can be heard.
He's speeding forward. Barely sees anything ahead, but he cannot stop.
His body still remembers every touch.
He rides on, without wiping his tears, without fixing his messy hair.
Eyes locked straight ahead. Just rushing.
As if he's chasing her.
As if he could catch up.
As if he could bring her back.
And even if he falls, skinning his knees raw, he has no intention of stopping.
Because it doesn't matter anymore.
He's lost her.
No amount of screaming, no amount of crying will ever bring her back.
And Jisung screamed every night.
Hands pressed against his ears, sinking to his knees—
screaming out loud,
screaming in silence,
screaming until nothing was left.
He repeated her name over and over, begged to return her... or to let him go to her.
Shattering his soul.
Breaking himself again and again.
But no one will bring her back.
He lives in denial, refusing to accept he has lost the one he loved more than himself.
For her, he almost existed.
Woke up and ran to her.
Worked harder, trying to achieve everything, just to change her world.
But in the end, his world collapsed right at his feet.
And he's not ready to breathe without her.
It feels like the whole world betrayed him.
Crushed him.
Threw him away.
Broke his bones.
And this world cannot be saved anymore.
No matter how much he runs.
No matter how much he screams.
No matter how many times he repeats her name.
Jisung doesn't feel needed.
Doesn't believe he'll ever learn how to breathe again.
For him, the air has left the earth. He's a stranger here.
He's lost everything.
Lost himself.
And though so many hands reach out to him, he cannot hold them—unless it's hers.
Because every other touch feels deathly cold.
He learned to hate the cold because of her.
In her arms, there was always warmth.
And now—how is he supposed to live without that warmth, in a world that has turned so unbearably cold?
There is pain in him.
So much pain.
If you tore open his chest, it would spill out.
So much pain it makes his head spin.
How can a human body endure this?
And still—he endures.
With every movement.
With every breath.
His body breaks. He cannot bear it anymore.
And yet, he lives.
If this could even be called living.
In this emptiness, Jisung is not ready to let anyone in.
All the doors are knocking for him, but he's still on his knees, lost in the void of his own mind—
and standing up feels unbearably painful.
Someone, please stop this pain... I beg you.
The employees glance at each other as Jisung drags himself toward the elevator.
He doesn't even remember how he ended up here.
Skating in circles. Again and again.
Falling, scraping his knees open until they bled—
and somehow just appearing in this place.
Jisung is pale to the point of horror.
His face frightens people.
Everyone wants to step closer, to ask how he's doing—
but no one dares.
He stands in front of the elevator for a long time.
His hands too weak to press the button.
Someone else does it for him.
And he steps inside.
The studio door is open.
Not a sound comes from inside.
He thinks maybe Chan stepped out for a moment, so he quietly sits down in the corner to wait.
But Chan is there.
The boy stands up when he sees who has come in.
Jisung only nods in response to his greeting.
Silence.
Chan keeps throwing glances at him while typing quickly on his keyboard.
Jisung hasn't moved since he entered.
Chan tries to start a conversation, but Jisung answers so quietly, so fast, the words barely exist.
He ignores the endless calls.
At some point, he slowly pulls out his phone and switches it off.
"Do you want something?"
"Yes. To die."
Chan regrets asking.
The answer is so raw, so sincere, it stabs straight through his chest.
"Maybe some coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee anymore."
Jisung closes his heavy eyelids.
"Order poison for me instead."
Chan surrenders without a chance to win.
He looks at Jisung for a few seconds, then turns back to his keyboard.
He doesn't understand him.
And yet, deep down, he feels relieved.
Because Jisung came to him first.
Because lately, Jisung hasn't gone anywhere—
except the park, where he rides his skateboard all day.
Chan is truly glad he's here, even though Jisung keeps silent and blocks every attempt at conversation.
He's sitting there in torn jeans, knees bloodied, with a ruined world behind his dull eyes.
Once he had everything to live for.
Now—only emptiness.
"Chan, is it normal to love someone who can never come back?"
Jisung smiles.
Chan almost misses the moment when his mood shifts.
It seems his tears have all dried.
Nothing left to push out of his eyes.
So he just smiles.
Madly.
Half-lidded eyes, scratches on his face.
His sclera are no longer white—bloodshot red, veins stark against them.
Even his pupils are hard to see.
Chan trembles at the sight.
His fingers freeze on the keys.
His shoulders slump.
Terrified.
Because Jisung's face carries nothing—
and at the same time, too much.
So many emotions piled up he could explode at any moment.
His breaths come uneven.
Slow. Silent.
Chan could almost believe his friend isn't breathing at all—his shoulders don't even move.
He sits in the chair, hands stuffed into his pockets, motionless since he came.
Wearing yesterday's clothes.
Elbows scraped, untreated wounds from falling on the pavement.
Even when Minho scolded him, Jisung only walked out again the next morning.
Returned in the evening, covered in dust.
Saw Minho in the living room, threw his skateboard in the hall, and left the house without a word.
⸻
Chan knows everything.
How Jisung hurts himself.
How he doesn't speak to anyone for days.
How he sneaks out in the morning and comes home only when the others are asleep.
They take away untouched meals from his room, throw them out, and leave new plates in the evening—
knowing full well they'll throw them out again the next day, along with empty bottles of water.
Chan knows it's bad.
No.
It's deadly bad.
He sees the new scars on Jisung's wrists, but never dares to ask.
He only watches in silence, regretting that he can't help.
Because Jisung lets no one close.
He banned Hyunjin from entering his room—splashed all the blue paint on him once.
After that, they stopped trying.
Minho went silent. Pretended not to notice.
Only washed his dirty, torn clothes and folded them back clean.
Felix at night opened the door a crack.
Saw him sleeping fully dressed, shoes still on, arms hugging his knees, crying in his sleep.
Felix would cover him with a blanket quietly, hardly daring to breathe—
then leave, eyes full of tears and regret.
And when the door closed behind him, Jisung opened his eyes and whispered into the dark:
"I'm sorry."
Sorry for being broken.
Weak.
Empty.
Too much of a coward to let you near.
Sorry for everything.
⸻
Chan knew all this, and still kept silent.
He tried to talk, but Jisung shut him out completely.
He wasn't hysterical—he was too weak even for that.
He simply stayed silent.
For hours.
Days.
Weeks.
Turning his back on Chan.
Shoving headphones on.
Pretending to write songs.
But Chanbin saw the truth.
Empty notebooks.
Torn pages.
Random sketches, scribbles.
Even his thoughts seemed emptied out.
From a talented genius, nothing remained.
Nothing at all.
⸻
Chan wanted to hug him.
To take even half of his pain away.
But that pain was tied to his blood, buried in his lungs, carved into more than half his heart.
There was no saving Jisung from it.
But Chan refused to leave him there.
⸻
"Why are you looking at me like that? I'm—"
Jisung falls silent as Chan stands up.
Wraps his arms around his shoulders.
The smile fades.
His lip trembles.
He doesn't even have the strength to bite it and hold the tears back.
He lifts his eyes, desperate to stop the tears somehow—
but when he blinks, one drop falls on Chan's shoulder.
Chan hugs him tighter.
His fingers soothing circles on his back, trying to comfort him.
But he's crying too, silently, his eyes darting around the room.
Jisung doesn't hug back.
He has no strength left for that.
He hides his head in the crook of Chan's neck, sniffling.
Chan's shirt grows wet with Jisung's tears.
Warm, damp—while Jisung tries to breathe through his mouth, not drown in his own grief.
But there's no air.
There hasn't been for a long time.
⸻
"You can love her as long as your heart still beats," Chan whispers.
But Jisung wonders if his heart even beats anymore.
Does he still have one?
He hasn't heard it since the moment hers stopped beneath his hands.
So why hasn't his love disappeared too?
How do you rip it out by the roots, die with it, and finally end this?
Chan, you always know the answers... then answer me now...
⸻
"We will all love her," the studio door creaks open.
Seungmin freezes.
Chan presses a finger to his lips, asking for silence.
"Love her deeply. Even if we can't bring her back."
Then let me go to her.
⸻
Jisung still doesn't move.
Even speaking feels impossible.
So he stays silent, answering only in his head.
But inside, he wants to scream.
Answers.
He needs answers. He needs to scream, to break down at least once to survive.
But he cannot force his mouth open.
So he stays silent.
For how long?
⸻
Seungmin covers his own mouth with a hand, choking back sounds, tears falling freely.
His other hand clutches the door handle so tightly his knuckles turn white.
From helplessness, his bones ache.
He would drop to his knees and beg if it meant pulling Jisung out of this.
Stay awake all night, stop eating, stop drinking—anything to help his friend.
Seungmin... any of them would throw away everything just to save him.
"I wish..."
Jisung breaks apart mid-sentence.
Turns to nothing in Chan's hands.
But Chan refuses to let him fade.
Never.
He promised to gather him back together.
Keep him near.
Drag him out of hell itself if he must.
But never let him go.
Because Chan keeps his promises.
⸻
"Quiet," Chan clutches tighter.
"You've done enough. You fought well, alright?
Now let us do the rest for you, Jisung.
Trust us. Just be quiet now."
⸻
"If only I could have told her not to hurt herself.
If only I hadn't just looked at her scars and told her she was still beautiful with them..."
Jisung collapses.
Seungmin lets go of the handle, rushing forward—
but Chan holds him back with one arm.
He's terrified.
Terrified of scaring Jisung away again.
Terrified of losing this fragile chance.
So he blocks Seungmin.
And Seungmin understands.
Grabs the handle again to keep himself upright.
Silent. Shaking.
⸻
"If she had a friend like you, not like me.
A friend Chan, who is strong and reliable—
not a friend Jisung, weak and cowardly, uncertain of himself...
maybe she could have lived.
She had dreams, hyung..."
"Quiet."
Chan repeats it.
His head splitting from his own tears.
But Jisung won't stop now.
The words pour out through unbearable pain.
Each letter reopening wounds, making them bleed again.
Until nothing is left inside him.
Until it all leaves with the blood.
⸻
Jisung is full of scars.
Life carved them into his body and his soul.
Especially his soul.
So many scars he sometimes thought he was made of them.
That he himself was nothing but one giant scar in the lives of those who knew him.
That's what he believed.
So he always hid them.
Long sleeves. Loose clothes.
Wrapped his wrists in bandages, muttering the doctor told him it was "for warmth."
The others never asked.
⸻
Until one day, he forgot.
Rolled his sleeves up in the stifling heat of the practice room.
And they saw.
Silence filled the room.
Like all their souls had fled the walls.
Like they were too afraid even to breathe wrong.
Everyone looked away.
Waiting for Jisung to break the silence, to give them permission to look at him again.
But he only laughed weakly, cleared his throat, and walked out.
Leaving the door ajar.
⸻
He wasn't angry.
Why would he be?
Their reaction was normal.
He just felt... awkward.
Unsure what he wanted—questions? Or maybe he preferred their silence.
He didn't know.
Neither did they.
So they turned away.
Too afraid their eyes full of pity would hurt him even more.
⸻
That night, someone knocked on his door.
Jisung lay on his back, one earphone in, staring at the cracks on the ceiling.
Still in the same clothes as earlier, sleeves rolled up past his elbows.
The knock startled him.
He quickly pulled his sleeves down, padded barefoot to open the door.
He expected Felix. Or Seungmin. Maybe food left for him.
But it was Hyunjin.
Clean clothes. Damp hair falling into his eyes.
Barefoot, no jewelry, nothing extra.
"You busy?" Hyunjin asked softly, cracking his knuckles.
"Well..." Jisung glanced around, scratched his head.
"Not really. Lying down. Listening to music."
"Perfect."
Hyunjin turned, lifted his old black skateboard in one hand and a can of blue paint in the other.
"This color annoys me. Let's change it. Alone's boring—I thought of you."
⸻
Jisung froze. Embarrassed.
He opened the door wider, letting him in.
While Hyunjin set the board on the floor, opened the paint, laid out brushes—
Jisung only stood there, watching in silence.
Hyunjin called him over.
He slipped on gloves over his sleeves, refusing to roll them up.
And together, they painted.
Hyunjin noticed everything.
Every glance, every move.
But he said nothing.
Pretended the only thing that mattered was the paint.
They both felt awkward.
They had never been close.
Hyunjin would rather go to Seungmin or Jeongin.
But not tonight.
⸻
At some point, Jisung set the brush down, stood, and rummaged in his closet.
"You know, this board's my favorite," Hyunjin said after a pause.
"It's full of cracks. I've ridden it since middle school."
He smiled faintly, looking up at Jisung's back.
"It's fallen so many times. People stepped on it over and over."
Jisung stayed silent.
He didn't understand him.
They'd never had the best relationship.
Often ignored each other.
Left the room if they were alone.
This was the first time they spoke for more than a minute.
The first time Hyunjin came to him.
Just to paint his board a different color.
With him.
And Jisung could only wonder—why?
Does he pity me?
The thought made him want to vanish.
Hide in the closet.
Run away.
Throw Hyunjin out.
He didn't want pity.
He wasn't pathetic.
Broken, closed off, afraid—maybe.
But not pathetic.
⸻
"I love riding it when I'm tired, when I see no way out," Hyunjin continued.
"It feels like my best friend."
His voice carried hidden sorrow.
A pain from his past that still lingered.
Jisung caught it instantly.
But said nothing.
He pulled something out of the closet and returned.
"You're lucky," he muttered, holding a pack of colorful markers.
"I want to write your name here... if you don't mind."
"Jisung."
His voice was soft.
Warm.
So much warmth Jisung felt it burn against his heart.
Hyunjin's eyes were smiling.
"No matter how many cracks you have, no matter how many times life tries to break you—
you're still someone important to me.
I don't know your story.
Don't know what you've been through.
But..."
He set the brush aside, pulled off his gloves, reached out, and took Jisung's hidden wrists.
"You're still Jisung. The one I want to walk this road with."
⸻
"What are you—"
"Write a new story on them. In blue."
Hyunjin grabbed a marker.
"Blue is sorrow."
He drew a cloud over the scars.
"And I'm sorry you had to live it."
"But it's also comfort. And I'm sorry you had to live it."
His hand trembled, but he kept drawing.
"But blue is also comfort. And it's the color of someone who wants to take your pain onto themselves."
He drew a smile.
A smile on Jisung's wrist.
A smile in his eyes.
A smile on his face—
through the tears Hyunjin had unknowingly brought out of him.
Hyunjin didn't even see them.
He only felt Jisung's hand shaking in his own.
Felt his breathing quicken.
Felt his lips pressed tight to hold back a scream.
Until the tears spilled anyway, dripping onto his gray pants.
This wasn't pity, Jisung.
It was love.
Understanding.
Not judgment.
Just care.
There was no pity between them.
Because in Hyunjin's eyes—blurred with his own tears, yet still smiling—
Jisung wasn't pathetic.
He was a fighter.
The strongest of them all.
"Don't hide your scars," Hyunjin whispered.
"Because I'll come back every time... and draw a smile on them again."
⸻
Hyunjin left his skateboard behind that night.
"Was going to buy a new one anyway."
But in truth, he wanted Jisung to remember him every time he saw that blue-painted board.
To remember there was someone in this world from whom he didn't have to hide his scars.
The next day, Jisung went to practice in a t-shirt, his arms uncovered.
It was hard—he wore a jacket on the way there, hiding himself from strangers.
But from that day on, he never tried to hide his scars from them again.
Not from them.
Never again.
