Wasn’t that social media app Florence was always glued to also called White Star? Come to think of it, it was.
After breaking up with Gilbert, Florence had developed this odd habit of bugging Seojun to pick the best photo from her phone gallery.
For a second, Seojun’s heart skipped a beat, like a record skipping and landing on an eerie note. His stomach clenched, a knot of anxiety tightening with each passing moment. Through the dusty truck window, a face stared back at him… Camry’s face, or an unnervingly close copy.
It was the dead of night. Inky darkness pressed against the windows like black tar, seeping through every crack of the rundown house—if you could even call it that.
Johan straightened up from his hunched position over the low desk, his shoulders catching the faint, pale-blue hallway light that slipped through the cracked door like frost. The room was all sharp angles and harsh lines, shadows slicing through it like surgical blades, stripping it of any warmth or humanity.
Seojun felt a sharp, electrifying thrill race down his spine, igniting every nerve. His heart pounded so loudly it felt like it might burst free. Sweat slicked his palms as he gripped his arm, desperate to quell the tremors wracking his body. The sensation was familiar. A dizzying rush that both exhilarated and terrified him. It was a feeling that could make him scream with excitement or tear the world apart just to savor its intensity. But freedom wasn’t his. Not yet.
Seojun’s feet moved forward on their own, like a ghost had taken control of them, pulling him along without a care for what he wanted. The door creaked open, its rusty hinges groaning into the silence.
The CCTV camera’s lens shone with an obsessively polished gleam, reflecting a pair of dark, pitch-black eyes. If the camera had been installed after the typhoon, that left a new troubling question:
Seojun jolted awake with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving as though he had just surfaced after being held underwater for far too long. His body convulsed, limbs thrashing wildly against the rough, dusty floor beneath him. Gradually, his senses returned, and with them came the disorienting realization that he had finally escaped the grasp of the past.
Why was Seojun the only one bearing all the weight when there were two brains between them? The realization hit him like a stroke of genius, and he clapped his hands, a small swell of pride rising in his chest. Sure, the burlap sack and gloves muffled the sound, but he wasn’t about to let that ruin the moment.
Seojun’s face stiffened at the Wizard’s teasing words. For once, he was actually grateful for the rough burlap sack hiding his expression. He never thought something so annoying could bring him comfort, but here he was, oddly relieved by it.
The Wizard’s words clung to Seojun like a thick glaze of honey, sweet at first but quickly turning sour. “Lucky for you?” The words felt wrong. Seojun had never considered himself lucky, not even once in his entire existence.
Seojun stared at the slightly crumpled last page of the journal in his hands, the creases and folds hinting at someone’s frustration, maybe even anger. But it wasn’t the condition of the paper that threw him off. It was the message written on it: a love confession.