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Clumsy

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Min Yoongi was always the clumsy one at school.

He came every day with a new bruise visible on his pale skin.

I was curious about him. He was always alone, never getting too close to anyone. But I was scared. I didn't want to lose my current friends or status, so I took far too long to talk to him.

I regretted it.

I regretted it the day I forget my bag in the classroom, and returned to find him crying alone on his desk.

I regretted it when I invited him to a sleepover, and woke up to him screaming because of a nightmare.

But most of all, I regretted it the day I found the note on the roof, held down by a pair of old sneakers worn down from hours of playing basketball and torn from where they caught on the pedal of the old piano in the music room.

Min Yoongi was always the clumsy one at school.

I followed him home one day, curious as to why he would never say anything about his private life. There were rumors floating around school, but I wanted to find out for myself. I followed him home two weeks after we met. Far too late.

I regretted it.

I regretted it when he opened the door to his house to be immediately met by the shouts of his drunken father and the absence of a mother.

I regretted it as I stood stock still, frozen as the door slammed shut, the silence quickly broken by the sound of shattered glass and the frightened yells of the boy I had grown so fond of.

But most of all, I regretted it when I ran, terrified of what could happen if I had been found.

I left him there, alone. Because I was scared. I regretted it.

Min Yoongi was always the clumsy one at school.

I was beginning to doubt that statement.

Sure, he would occasionally trip and fall. What seemed an easy fix became an impossible task for him.

But as I watched him carefully put the finishing touches on our group project, or run his fingers up and down the keyboard that he loved so much, I felt as though it wasn't so.

When I finally began to look a little closer, I noticed the forced expression, the stiff shoulders, the simple catch that so easily escaped him.

He was forcing it. But I noticed far too late.

I regretted it.

I regretted it as I fell to the ground, clutching the small paper in my hands.

I regretted it as I stood in the church, tears threatening again.

And I'm regretting it still, sitting here in my room, staring blankly at the box in the corner.

I received a call that day, and although I ran as fast as I could, I was too late. The call consisted of only two words.

'I'm sorry.'

When I arrived, I fell to my knees. My hands trembled as I unfolded the unassuming piece of notebook paper that threatened to ruin my world.

"Hoseok."

It read. My body was shaking.

"If you're reading this, then that means I'm ___________."

My eyesight was blurry.

"I wanted to say thank you, for everything you've done for me."

The first drops fell.

"But I'm sorry, I just can't do it anymore."

Drip. Drop. They fell, more and more.

"I wanted to tell you something for the longest time, but I never had the courage. I love you, Hoseok. But you deserve someone better."

I shook my head. He just didn't understand.

"Don't get hung up over me. I'm broken, and I always have been. Find someone who can care for you better than I ever dreamed."

I felt weak.

"Find someone who you can love. Goodbye, Hoseok. I love you."

Hot tears streamed down my face.

"I'm sorry."

I doubled over, my entire body shaking with pathetically repressed sobs. He just didn't get it.

"You fool," I mumbled. "Don't you get it? I love you."

Min Yoongi was always the clumsy one at school.

He broke hearts without ever meaning to.

Those were the thoughts running through my head four months later, as I sat on my bed, memories of him still dominating my mind.

I glanced again at the cardboard box sitting so meekly in the dark corner. Inside were his belongings.

His father had packed them up and thrown them out at the first news. His son's death was but a minor nuisance to him. Simply the loss of a punching bag. I was revolted.

The vile man had not even the decency to hold a funeral, so our whole class pitched in and we did it ourselves. Despite his quiet nature, he was surprisingly well liked, and not a single person was left without tears at the news.

But now, four months had passed, and I had yet to open the box. I was scared. As though looking through it would solidify that fact. That he was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

I took a shaky breath. This was stupid. Sitting here moping was the last thing he would want me to do.

I took another breath, before forcing myself up and over to the box. I kneeled down in front of it, and closed my eyes. I gulped, then reached out and opened the box.

There were few things inside. A camera, a book, and... I grimaced. Tossed haphazardly, as though they were toys, were three razor blades. I felt tears spring up again as I reached down and removed the blades. A single drop rolled down my face as I caught sight of the dark stain on one of them, before I quickly set them aside.

I pulled out the camera next, smiling as I remembered the pale-haired boy snapping photo after photo. It seemed as though the camera was a part of him. Just like basketball and the piano.

I set it aside as well, and pulled out the book. I opened it and gasped. It was filled with countless polaroids. I chuckled slightly as I turned the pages. I smiled at the memories. They were good memories.

I set the book down. Something else caught my eye. One last thing was left in the box.

I reached down and pulled out a polaroid that must have fallen out of the book. I turned it over, and my heart caught in my throat.

It was the very first picture we took together. We were both smiling, back when I was unaware. When I thought everything would be okay. I ran my finger over the wrinkles where it had been wet with tears, my own now joining his. My finger caught the accidental slash mark caused by a razor and brushed the crusty red drops that rested on the surface.

I held the photo close to me and mumbled quietly.

"You were always a clumsy one, weren't you?"