Missing Violinists (1/1)

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It's the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”

― Lois Lowry, The GiverLuhan. Yoona. Missing Violinists.It's daytime, but the darkness in a vodka-drowned room on the sixteenth floor of an apartment block begs to differ, and so does the uncrossed calendar that marks days from 2 years in the past. A man sits at his table, all caramel hair and white angles of skin and bones, flexing his fingers because he's trying to get used to the feel of them being empty, untouched. His name is Luhan, but anyone who utters the two syllables of his name might as well have acknowledged a ghost, because the person mattered most in the mattered in the history of people that ever mattered is gone, and she isn't there anymore to whisper Luhan, Luhan, Luhan against the hollows of Luhan's palms, and so Luhan has told himself that his name doesn't exist. It's not his anymore.Hands shake as he tries to pick up the pen sitting in front of him again. The ink glides over the page even though the words are less than capable of gliding on tongues, but after two sentences, Luhan reaches out and crumples the paper into a ball. It's not working for him, this isn't working for him, nothing's working for him, and he's sorry. Sorry for everything. And it's not enough.Luhan's vision starts going blurry, but he tells himself that he's not crying. He doesn't cry; Yoona never used to cry.Again, he tells himself. One more time. So, jaw set, Luhan picks up the pen again. And he writes: dear yoona, i have tried writing this letter so many times that my eyes water with tears i did not shed, i'm strong, aren't i, because my mind knows that sometim