He laid in bed, all his energy drained in the form of tears.

His eyes hurt, bloodshot, but they were dry.

I would, he reminded himself, I really would do it all over again. He likely wouldn't have been able to recover if Yeosang died under his care. His whole life, he felt that was his vocation: protecting his little brother.

As a child, his friends would call him overprotective, but he failed to see this as a negative. It soon became part of his self identity: a protector.

It was not until nineteen that a therapist told him this was likely a trauma response. Makes sense, he thought, but it's a little late now.

Dragging himself out of bed, he decided to take a shower; he always felt better after a shower.

Alone in his apartment, the steaming water soon bathed him in yet another layer of solitude.

He stayed a while, allowing the water to beat on his back and neck. He smiled. He should have appreciated showers more during his life; he should have appreciated water in general more, being submersed in it, surrounded by it.

Water is the zero gravity of earth: the immersive hug: the balance between life and death.

Through waters he entered this world, and through waters, he decided, he would leave it behind.

Droplets rolled from his chest as he double-tapped his phone. He had many birthday well-wishes. 17:01.