Jungkook p.o.v
it's hard,
--
The apartment looked as if it was bursting with life. Yellow and red and pink sticky notes were plastered among walls and drawers and closets. There was few furniture though, and a wide windowed door which led to the balcony. For someone who used to be a surgeon and earned loads of money, his apartment wasn't one of someone who would have blown money.
But that's Jimin. Was, I reminded myself.
He's changed, Jungkook. He doesn't remember who you are and what you meant to him.
No, now wasn't the time to gloat and mourn. It didn't matter whether Jimin had forgotten me and was completely changed, he was still Jimin and I couldn't ask for more. To be able to see his black hair and plump lips was enough for me to withstand the annoyed expressions he'd pass at me sometimes.
I watched him as he stood in the centre of the room, eyes slowly cascading over old photographs and items. I saw the way his expression strained, trying hard to remember what they were and why they were there. But the worn out face would soon come and he'd move on to look at something else.
He didn't like being stared at. I would feel the same if strangers looked at you out of pity or impatience when you were slow to conjure up ideas or words sometimes.
But I was here for him. I wasn't planning on sleeping much for these next four months. I wanted to stay awake and keep an eye on him. There was only one room in this apartment and I was setting up base to sleep on the couch from now on.
I heard an exasperated sigh and saw Jimin hauling up his suitcase and walking away. I followed him to his room and stepped right outside the door. I didn't know whether to step in as well as his mood was always a surprise, never knowing when he'd snap.
I peeked inside his room and took it all in; dozens of photographs were plastered among the walls. When my eyes landed upon a familiar boy in a familiar park taken two familiar years ago, I felt my heart race.
Two years ago, when Jimin had placed a blue flower behind my ear and hurriedly taken a photograph even when I told him not to.
I didn't want Jimin to be overtaken by anxiety if he saw me in that photograph. There would be questions and hard to speak of answers. There would be shock and anger and confusion and hurt. And for him to feel that when he couldn't quite remember any of it, it would tear him apart.
So while he was unpacking and grumbling to himself, I stepped inside and walked over to the wall. With shaking fingers, I snatched the photograph off the wall. Just as I was about to stash inside my pocket, he turned around.
"I never said you could come inside."
I hid the photograph behind me and stood up straighter.
"I-I am sorry, I'll leave."
"Don't."
I looked up at him to see him turn around again, scratching his cheekbone.
"Now that you're here, you might as well help me unpack."
I stashed the picture inside my pocket and knelt down beside him. He was rummaging through his clothes and messily placing them inside his drawers. I shifted a bit closer to extract the last few socks when I felt him stiffen beside me.
I turned my face towards his and saw his eyes trained upon mine, lips slightly parted open. God, he was so close.
He slowly leaned closer to me and I felt myself freeze.
He stopped just mere inches before my right cheek and sniffed.
"That scent," he looked into my eyes.
"It's. . . cherry blossom, isn't it?"
I nodded, too afraid to utter something of the past.
It's your favourite scent, Jimin. You love it because I smell like it.
"I-I like it." He stuttered.
And with that, he pulled back and continued to rummage through his next suitcase. By the time the sun settled, I was done helping him unpack. I barely unpacked my own things though.
I didn't know much about cooking anything fancy, but I was a decent cooker. So when Jimin didn't complain about the taste of the dish, I felt myself wash over with relief.
When the clock ticked 10 PM, Jimin mumbled a goodnight and retired to his bedroom.
And so, I lied down on the couch, pamphlets about Alzheimer's clutched in my hands. Mrs. Park had given them to me, telling me to read them when Jimin was out of sight.
"He's very sensitive to anything or anyone who talks about the disease." She'd told me in the cafe that day.
I flipped open the first one and read;
'Patients will often have a hard time remembering'
No shit.
'Patients will, however, have series of episodes where they will remember old events. Nostalgia is felt different by them, perhaps in a more painful way. If exposed to former surroundings or visuals, patients may recall memories. It is up to the severity of the disease for how long they may recall. If the visual was essential enough to them at one point in their life, the memory may bide for a longer period of time.'
Relief seem to wash over me. I wondered how important I was to Jimin. Whether if I exposed our memories slowly to him, he'd remember what we used to be.
I flipped to another page;
'Once patients enter stage six, persuasion is seen easier.'
Jimin was at stage five.
'They're more prone to agreeing to dangerous situations that, to ordinary people, are known as risky. Monitoring is essential to their care. Medications must not be neglected, although it should be monitored when it is been given to them.'
I couldn't read anymore. They described them as if they were no longer human. But I thought back to his mother pleading at me and I read the final pamphlet briefly.
'Other diseases, tumours, strokes are more prone for them to experience. If he/she experiences even a high fever, going to the doctor should not be neglected.'
The emergency contact page had his personal doctor's number. I hoped I wouldn't need to call whoever it was.
'At the final stage of the disease, stage seven, patients will lose the ability to speak.'
I closed the lights and tucked away the pamphlets in my suitcase. With my hand tucked under my cheek, I curled up on the sofa,
trying hard to stay awake,
trying so fucking hard,
to not run into his room,
and throw my yearning arms around him.
--
to hide.
