torn between 12 extremes
“Are you Do Kyungsoo?” The stranger asks, turning around just in time for the elevator to slide open.
“Yes,” Kyungsoo responds, hesitantly stepping out with the other after him, “Have we met before?”
“No, not really,” the stranger smiles, extending a hand, “I’m Oh Sehun. I was Kim Jongin’s editor?”
Something in Kyungsoo stirs, but not enough. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m kind of busy, so I’m just going to cut this short,” Sehun says, dislodging something bulky from his briefcase and handing it to Kyungsoo. It’s a notebook, Kyungsoo realizes, an old one weathered and dog-eared from use, smeared all over with runny ink and graphite, “This is Jongin’s last novel. Hand-written and everything. For you.”
Eventually Sehun disappears down the corridors and Kyungsoo finds himself sitting on the balcony, moonlight grazing the notebook in his lap. He flips to the last page on a whim, just to check if it’s a sad ending, because he doesn’t like sad endings.
“My name is Jongin. I’m the writer who lives next door. See you tomorrow, hyung. Don’t forget!”