hold me ♡ minsung

32. i'll try

♡

JANUARY 27

what am i... bipolar?

   Lately, Minho felt as if he were two different people. During the day, he dragged himself through classes, feeling more or less like his normal self (just a bit more sluggish and miserable than what he used to be, maybe... or a lot more sluggish and miserable), but at night, when his red-rimmed eyes were glued to the ceiling because no matter how long and hard he tried, he couldn't sleep, he turned into someone scarily desperate. Someone willing to do something he would most definitely regret. 

    And today, amongst all the days he spent suffering like this on his own, something happened. Just one little thing.

   Jisung looked at him with those eyes again today.

    But... let's start from the beginning. Minho didn't wake up that morning, because, as previously mentioned, he never fell asleep. Instead, he waited, lying motionless on his side until about 5 AM to give up on getting any sleep, because his stupid brain never shut up. By then, certain embarrassing cravings had died down and he started to feel a little more like himself again— the person who couldn't stand the thought of anyone coming near him. He breathed a sigh of relief, because last night had been a close call.

    He felt sick the moment he stood on his shaky legs, walking stiffly toward the dresser to grab himself a set of fresh clothes to change into after what would likely end up being an hour-long shower. No one else was really up this early, so thank goodness he was alone as he stumbled down the hall to the bathroom.

    He was getting unfortunately used to doing this— taking very long showers, very early in the morning, because he hoped, somehow, he'd be able to wash off the serious sleep deprivation etched into his face. And that he'd be able to comb the tangles out of his hair that would get almost matted overnight with how much he tossed and turned. Maybe even that he'd be able to jump-start his fatigued body with a few minutes of ice-cold water pouring down his back at the end of his shower. But it didn't seem to help.

    Well, he was able to detangle his hair each time, but when he left the shower all he did was shiver (still, tiredly), and stagger to one of the sinks to stare at his face in the mirror. It only ever got worse. He'd been visibly tired for quite some time now, but today he prodded at the dark circles and dull skin and examined the immense redness of his eyes and concluded that he looked as if he should be limping around with his arms outstretched and groaning about brains. Yeah, he looked like a zombie.

   Then, he returned to his room, skipping breakfast since the thought of food was rather off-putting, and sat down to try going over some biology notes (keyword: try), until his alarm went off to tell him he had five minutes to get to his first class— speaking of which, he realized he really ought to change that to give him ten minutes at this rate. Five minutes was cutting it close when he walked like a zombie. A lightheaded zombie.

   It was a good thing he had the muscle memory to trust to carry him down the stairs, left, down the hall, all the way to the third classroom, because he honestly didn't even remember what his first class was while he was walking to it. Forgetting important things like that was becoming unfortunately commonplace, and yes, he knew it was because he was exhausted, but what was there to do?

   He just barely made it within five minutes, judging from the amount of chairs already filled, and he sunk down tiredly into the seat he picked solely because it was close to him when he got through the door, and there were a few empty chairs surrounding it on each side.