folie à deuxfolie à deux (n); a delusion shared by two individuals  At first glance, Kim Jongin is the typical high-school jock ... well, perhaps not the splitting image of typical, but as close as one can possibly get. He isnt exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, by how much his IQ exceeds double digits is questionable to his peers and a popular discussion topic among students. To them, the blank look that often clings to his smooth, handsome features is sure evidence that even though the lights are on, theres nobody home.In a sense, theyre right. No one is home. Theyre currently visiting some faraway land in the deepest recesses of Jongins mind that has been fondly dubbed KaiWorld and will not be returning to what others consider reality in the forseeable future.  Oh Sehun, what do the students know about Oh Sehun? Well, other than his name, not a substantial amount. They know he has no friends, they know that he has turned down a impressive number of girls that had wanted to date him. They know that he doesnt talk, that he is cold and has the emotional capacity of a table and considering his absolute inability converse normally, his status as a human being is questionable. No one goes near him--it is better than being glared at with those sharp eyes of his that make any normal person feel like a speck of dirt; or like a peaasnt that doesnt deserve so much as to stand in his shadows or bask in his majestic presence. Its no wonder that hes earned himself the very befitting title of Stonewall. Fate is meddlesome by nature; it ensures life remains chaotic and unpredictable. It governs the occurrences of coincidence and the uncontrollable--it brings Oh Sehun and Kim Jongin together. No it does more than that; it handcuffs them to each other, throws them blindfolded into a maze and expects them to find their way home.  Forewordand I am waitingfor the storms of lifeto be overand I am waitingto set sail for happinessand I am waitingfor a reconstructed Mayflowerto reach America—Lawrence FerlinghettiOh Sehun always finds himself in this closet, in its oddly warm darkness amidst the shadowy clothes that hang slightly higher than his head. The floor of the closet is lined with boxes and after a little clumsy searching with his tiny hands, the four-year-old finds himself an unoccupied corner in the further recesses of the giant space. The wooden doors are shut but he isnt scared. In here he can wait until the storm outside passes—until the booming voices die and hes convinced it’s safe to return to the outside world once again. He resumes the pose he always withdraws into, hugging his knobby knees close to his tiny frame and buries his face into the small crevice formed between his legs and torso. The first few instances when he sought comfort in his little sanctuary, he had cried, his slightly chubby face lined with wet tracks of tears and his shirt saturated in saline liquid. By now, he is accustomed to the frequent clashes between his parents and is reassured by the fact that by the time he emerges from his hidden position in the closet, the surging sea and crashing waves will again be veiled by the pretence of seeming calm—the very calm that is so coveted by his parents, but missed at the same time.He doesn’t know—not yet—what the highs signify, or that the tranquil that reaches him after hours of unrest is only a front. Still young, still innocent, still naïve; he believes the beasts have been chased away. He does however know that even if the tides pass, even if the air clears, it is only transient. As surely as the sun rises, as the seasons cycle through the years the anger and resentment will return and he will seek solace in the closet again, pressed against a corner of the dark space, trying to quell his panic.Sehun realises tonight is different.The voices are present as they are always—the shrill one his mother’s, the raging one his father’s and two others that he vaguely recognises but his four-your-old memory can’t pin a face to them. There’s a different sort of anger in their voices tonight along with the exchange of words that Sehun cannot comprehend. Despite his inexperience, Sehun knows deep down it’s different; they’ve never been this angry before. They’ve never had other people over when in the midst of arguing. They’ve never argued with other people before, only between themselves. He concludes tonight he’ll stay in the closet and sleep with the multitude of clothes and shoeboxes for company.“… —no, we’re calling the police and that’s final, you—” “When will you learn?” The tone is like the one his father uses when his mother suggests something called a ‘diet’—scoffing, mocking. “Your threats don’t scare me.”The night blurs into a puzzling myriad of exchanged insults that Sehun cannot wrap his mind around and eventually sleep lulls him into its gentle embrace. When he wakes up, it’s to the smell of something metallic and coppery permeating the air and the growling of his stomach. His cries break the deafening silence of the empty room.Nobody comes to comfort him.