Eric had heard that hurt could kill people when it’s getting so bad. He’s thought it was yet another urban legend.

Now. he knew he was wrong.

He was so, so, so wrong.

He wondered, maybe the illness planted a seed of pain inside his body. It had been fed with his flesh and blood, attaching to his torso like vines attaching to a tree. It was sucking everything comfortable and sweet out of his body, leaving only unending torment and bitterness.

The pain attacked while Eric was walking up the stairs: today was the monthly overhauling day for lifts in the building.

For continuous interference of the pain, he walked really, really slow. It took him almost half an hour to get home. When he got in, Eric was panting and sweating. He leaned on the door frame to support his body, or he couldn’t even stand straight because he hurt so bad that his head felt splitting.

He put all his pills in several glass wishing bottles. The sun glinted off their shining surface, forming curious and charming halos around them.

Their eye-catching beauty hid the brutal truth of the pills.

He’d loved to collect beautiful wishing bottles since he was young. Now, all his collections were working as pill bottles.

His stomach was also aching. He knew he should take pills with warm water, but he was not in the mood. So, he gulped down a handful of pills with cold water anyway, then went to bed, trying to grab some sleep. He lay on his side, tucking his knees under his chin, curling up into a ball.

He believed he heard the water he drank earlier tinkling in his stomach.

John hadn’t backed home for 19 days. That was kind of a record: he’d never left so long. Only 19 days, but Eric felt as if he’d already endured a lifetime of loneliness and pain.

He reminded the day he went to get the examination. He did everything on his own, even bone marrow aspiration. Other patients were sobbing and moaning in pain, but Eric kept completely silent.

Through the entire process, he only asked at the very beginning if he could still walk after everything’s done. He told the nurse he lived alone; no one would come for him.

He knew he had an unusual obsession with this large yet empty house and didn’t know the reason.

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He thought, maybe, he looked at it as proof of John’s love.

Another wave of sharp pain cut through his head. Eric couldn’t help but whimper, grabbing the bedsheet forcefully.

He got off the bed, meaning to find something to soothe the pain. Wondering in the room for a little while, he opened a drawer of the desk beside his bed and took out a book.

It was a collection of Jane Zachary’s [fictional writer] essays and given to him years ago. Eric tucked himself deep in the soft sofa, starting to read it.

While reading, a gentle and sweet smile crept on his lips slowly.

The book was dog-eared, but notes he left in the past were still there.

Eric’s neat handwriting was lying on the title page, just a little under the author’s name:

“My love, you are in a Neverland that I miss so much but nowhere to find.”

It’s his favorite Jane Zachary’s quotation. By then, he wrote it down as an emo teenager, and now it was well suited to his miserable love life.

Eric still remembered that normal yet unbelievable afternoon: a cocky and handsome boy stopped him in school, handed him this book. He was blushing and apparently bashful, “I’ve heard that this Zachary woman is your favorite writer. So, I bought it as a gift for you. Hope you will like it. And, uh, hope you can have a cup of tea with me, later. Will you?”

Eric was laughing and crying for the memory of those golden days. He held the book close to his heart, burying his tear-damped face in a cushion.

This day, John was back. The click of his keys awoke Eric. He sat straight on the sofa, waiting for John to come in.

It was already late at night. The room and Eric were both dipped in the darkness. John thought Eric was already asleep. He tiptoed through the room, turned on the night light, and saw Eric looking at him, white as a ghost.

He nearly jumped out of his skin by sight, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Looking at Eric’s face, John was a bit agitated and embarrassed. He had been lived with his new toyboy recently. Eric’s sudden call reminded him that he still needed to go home and brought back his long-forgotten guilty.

“I just dozed on the sofa and was awaked by the door. Everything is done now?” Eric shrugged, putting the book gently on a taboret nearby.

John didn’t pay any attention to Eric’s condition or the book. He took off his coat, loosened his tie, and threw both of which on the sofa, “Yeah, sort of. And you, my dearest, you haven’t called me for days.”

“Are you losing weight?” John noticed Eric’s bony neck and hollowed eyes, frowning. “Eat something, for God’s sake. You look like a walking skeleton. That’s creepy.”

Eric’s chest was tight for John’s comment. He knew the exact word his lover really wanted to say was not creepy but disgusting.

After all, it’s already 14 years since they met, and John needed new stimuli.

He chuckled. Of course, he wasn’t losing weight.

He was just sick.

The breakfast cart’s owner and his wife, even his doctor, would show some care to him, soothing him with warm words and manners. And John, the man he’d called lover for over a decade, could only rebuke him for not looking good enough.

Eric had been with John Chapman far too long to know that this man could be gentle, caring, and sweet. But he would never show this part of him to those he didn’t care.

Now, Eric was also on the long list of people who were disregarded by John.

And there was nothing Eric could do about it.