Some nights he lies awake. Not because he wants to, or because heās not tired. Heās always tired. No, itās because he canāt sleep. He feels like heās about to fall apart and collapse with the fatigue, but he just canāt fall asleep - his mind is awake. Itās so awake that it hurts, so heāll push himself from the confines of his bed, the action taking more effort than it should, to go and retrieve painkillers to rid himself of the incessant pounding inside his skull. But it never really helps. It doesnāt still the twitching of his fingers, the pounding of his heart, the guilt that was so much a permanent part of him by now that he simply canāt split the guilt from him - itās a part of him, that he canāt imagine himself being without, as much as he wants rid of it.
Itās like a constant ache, and heās not even sure what it is anymore. Maybe itās still just the guilt, maybe the self-loathing slipped through by now, or maybe the fear or the feeling of being so very alone had started messing with him too. Itās so easy, putting on his ābetter-than-youā front, making people believe he thinks heās amazing, beautiful, intelligent, justified. God, if only they could see how every single one of those is a lie.
So maybe Sungjong doesnāt think heās ugly, in fact he doesnāt think that at all. But he knows heās not good enough to be a model, heās not good enough to catch the eye of anyone and make them want to know him. All he ever wanted was attention - the attention he was deprived of while growing up, the attention that his sister received. It makes him feel ashamed of himself, wanting people to look at him and compliment him and tell him just how much they like him and how he looks, because being an āattention-seekerā isnāt something to be proud of; Sungjong knows that.
He was never stupid, he knows that too, but he wasnāt smart enough to be top of his class, never enough to be patted on the back and told heād done well. All his life heād been normal enough to get by under the radar when all he wanted was to have eyes on him constantly, praising him, looking after him, telling him he wasnāt alone. Loneliness was something Sungjong knew like a best friend - it tormented him constantly, to the point that having people to talk to and lean on felt too different. It was unfamiliar and made him want to turn tail and run, give up on trying to rid himself of that loneliness, because what would he be without it? It consumed him, flooded his veins with a chill that no amount of sweaters or blankets could rid him off.
In the end, he realised he was neither nothing, nor something. He was somewhere in between, in the puddle of middle distance, someone people looked right through until he tried harder to get them to notice him. Everything was ātry harderā, or ādonāt try as hardā, but Sungjong could never find the in between, the just enough, but not too much. Heād only ever be normal, imperfect, just not good enough.
But that was all heād ever wanted - to be good enough.
So he comes home after a day of college and work, he studies, and he goes to bed. He lies awake and tries not to think about the darkness he can feel eating away at him from all directions like the darkness that starts to creep into the corners of your vision when you start to lose consciousness. Itās got a chill to it that Sungjong finds heās already familiar with, as if itās been there all along, lingering in the background, and heās only starting to notice it. It doesnāt yet terrify him, but piques his interest. He wonders what it is, what caused it, whether itāll consume him altogether, or if itāll just go away.
He doesnāt think heād mind if it devoured him, though.
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