Chapter Text
The Golden Honmoon was a lie. I sit pondering this thought outside my window, staring into the streets of Seoul below me. The Honmoon glows rainbow now, iridescence shimmering with a subtle hum. I can see it still, if I concentrate hard enough, but that’s all. Rumi gave me a pointed look when I mentioned trying to manipulate it. I didn’t think I would be able to anyway. I still felt the distrust in her eyes, like she thought I might turn into a demon and destroy it on purpose. A flock of birds passes my window, and I get up and head to the kitchen.
I take some ramen out of the cupboard and start the kettle. Jelly hops onto the counter and stares with her yellow eyes. “You know you aren’t allowed to have any ramen, it’s not good for you,” I tell her, scratching behind her ears. “Plus, you’re getting fur near the stove again.” She jumps down and begins pawing at her empty food bowl. Jelly was a rescue cat that Rumi gifted me. She felt bad for keeping Derpy and Sussie, given that I wasn’t around for a week. She thought I wasn’t coming back, and Mira and Zoey already loved having them around. I didn’t mind, they’re having a good time with the girls. I think Zoey even made Sussie a new hat, but it likes the old one more. To make up for essentially stealing my pets while I was gone, Rumi picked up this little grey tabby with yellow eyes from a local rescue. She said the big eyes reminded her of Derpy. She also mentioned something about a “normal” emotional support animal instead of a spirit. I still get to see Derpy and Sussie, and they can visit whenever they want of course, but I admit having a normal sized cat has been nice.
I reach for my phone to check if I have any notifications when my kettle starts whistling. I grab the water and pour it into my bowl. I like eating instant noodles in a regular bowl; it helps me feel less boring, I guess. I walk to the couch and turn on the TV. Play Games With Us is still fun, even after everything that happened. Tonight’s guests are some drama actors I haven’t heard of or care about, but it’s nice to sit in front of the TV with a steamy bowl of ramen and try to forget. Plus, the noise keeps the voices from coming back.
After the final Saja Boys concert two months ago, I woke up on the streets of Seoul. None of my band mates were anywhere I could find them. I don’t know how or why I survived, or was brought back, or whatever happened to me, but I’m here now. I have a second chance at everything. I still hear the remnants of Gwi-Ma, but every day his voice fades into someone else. Sometimes I hear Rumi, or the other Saja Boys, but most of the time I just hear myself. My own voice, my own mind, yelling, screaming at me to give in. Telling myself that I don’t deserve to be alive again, that I wasn’t meant for this. I tell myself I’m used to angry voices echoing in my head, and I keep myself distracted so I don’t have to face them. Gwi-Ma is defeated, the Honmoon is stronger than ever, and I’m alive whether I like it or not. Life goes on.