On the day of the funeral, Luhan doesnât remember. âWhy are we here, Zitao? Whoâs this?â He asks insistently, holding his polaroid camera tight in his hands. âOh Sehun,â Zitao replies. âHeâs Oh Sehun.â Not a splash of recognition. Luhan walks over to the coffin, and takes a polaroid photo. âHe looks like that guy I have tacked on my wall,â Luhan says, fanning the photo so it would develop faster. âReally familiar.â âHe is that guy,â Zitao answers quietly. âHeâs that guy you have shoeboxes of polaroids of.â Luhan shrugs, âI donât remember him.
Again and again








