The hem of Taemin’s sleeve slipped up. Underneath was a myriad of thin white lines, crossing each other numerous times.
Someone called out to them, questioning the existence of those scars.
Stoically, Taemin brought theif hand up. The hem fell further down, revealing the marks in their full glory.
“Oh, these.” There was disinterest in their voice, as if speaking of the weather. “They’re scars.”
The enquirer knew, asking why they were there.
Taemin shrugged nonchalantly. “I was curious.”
“When a person is wracked with grief, they take it out physically. I fail to understand and process human sentiments. I also cannot feel pain.”
“So, I wondered — if I feel discomfort in my chest, does that mean I’m feeling grief? Would that be a good reason to cut myself?”
“Yet, as I drag the blade across my skin, I felt nothing. I know I’m hurting myself, yet I don’t feel what people normally call ‘pain’.”
“Better yet, the tight feeling in my chest never went away. It still settled there, uneasy and uncomfortable. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I know it’s not a good feeling.”
“I can’t express myself, yet I can’t release all that pent up emotions through pain. So how else am I supposed to tell a person that I’m not fine?”
The enquirer was speechless.
Taemin smiled, an expression with no emotions. Their eyes were empty — no mirth, no sadness, nothing.