#thank you imène for pointing out this metaphorical transformation within sunjae

[sunjaesol]

soljae | final timeline, angst, comfort, canon divergence | prompt: transformation

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Ryu Sunjae was pretty sure he lost his mind.

He confessed his feelings to the scriptwriter of a movie he refused to participate in, he felt irrational amounts of anger towards a police officer, got nauseous each time a taxi drove by in narrow streets, and—most importantly—he felt like he stepped out of his own body multiple times a day.

It was akin his soul drifting above his body, watching his walk and talk, but feeling totally removed from it all. Instead, his soul yearned for something different. Something beyond his reach—beyond the scope of this universe.

Which was insane. Hence the losing of his mind.

It had to be exhaustion, Sunjae reasoned. He walked the streets of the bustling financial district, hands stuffed in his long, black coat. He hoped that walking here would ease his mind. Among the skyscrapers that loomed impossibly high, a person came to rational thought.

Sunjae sighed as a headache grew right behind his eyes. He pinched his nose. That also happened now: headaches, bordering on migraines, which he never suffered from in the past.

It all started because of that damned script landing in his lap. It was cursed.

His hand moved up to rake through his hair. Focus, he told hlmself. Focus on what he knew was real for sure. He knew he was thirty-two, a B-list actor, that his dad owned a restaurant. His mother passed away when he was ten. He swam competitively as a teenager. He has lived in Seoul his whole life.

The facts repeated themselves in his brain, again and again. But when he tried to dig deeper, he was stumped. Like slamming into a glass door, seeing that there was something, but the door was lcoked.

And then there was that damned song replaying in his head like a jingle. A ballad, to be specific, with lyrics he never heard of and a voice he recognised as his own. But Sunjae didn't sing; he hadn't picked up a microphone since his last year of high school.

Another wave of pain spiked behind his eyes and Sunjae groaned. His stride faltered and he lost balance. His hand shot out to lean against the frontage of a building.

What was going on with him?! His head was going to explode at this rate!

His eyes snapped shut to try and force the pain away.

"Ahjussi, are you alright? Do you need help?"

Cracking open one eye, he was met with a small, young girl that couldn't be older than thirteen. Her brows were furrowed in concern, one hand gripping her bookbag and the other a rolled-up, yellow umbrella.

Sunjae froze.

A rolodex of memories flickered by in place of the headache. Flashes of moments he didn't experience nor remembered but felt so intensely that his chest hurt. He doubled over, grabbing his torso, and the startled girl ran off.

Colours blurred and shifted together in a kaleidoscope to create the shapes of people and things. Pink lemonade in a sunlit park, a staggering bike under the moonlight, a ferris wheel, a necklace, a packed stadium with thousands of lightsticks shining at him, a bridge on a cold night, a video rental store, a yellow umbrella.

And her. Continuously, always revolving around and involving her.

Im Sol.

Sol-ah.

Sunjae gasped for air. Without realising, he had dropped on his haunches and was using his hands to steady himself against the pavement. His eyes were burning, his head feeling like his brain was about to escape.

It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible.

But his heart sang a different story. All these moments... were his own. Though not of him right now, but someplace else, some time else. His body and heart and mind, but different.

And Im Sol, the scriptwriter, was part of all these moments.

Feet pounded the pavement towards him. It was a police officer. The girl must've alerted the man after he doubled over.

He stretched out his arm in protest. "I'm fine, I'm fine!"

The police officer peered down at him, worried. "You shouldn't be sitting here if you're sick, Sir. Go home, yeah?"

Sunjae huffed. "I'm not... I'm not sick. I'm..." His words wavered, halting in his throat, and a tortured sob came out instead. Just like that, hot tears streamed down his face.

More memories intruded that blurred his vision and made the officer indistinguishable. Terrible amounts of grief sliced through his chest with each vignette of himself dying in different universes. He died. Again and again. Always young.

And finally, the rolodex ended on its final card. A tableau of himself as a teenager, frozen in awe, as a young Sol sprints towards him with cherry blossoms cascading from the trees.

"S-Sir...?"

Groaning, Sunjae used the wall to get back on his feet. He wiped his tears with a rough hand, but it was no use: they just kept coming.

"I need to go," he croaked. "I need to..." find Sol. Confront Sol. Explain everything to Sol. Hug Sol. Kiss Sol. Touch Sol. Make sure Sol doesn't die. Love Sol.

Before the officer could get another word out, Sunjae ran off. Where to, he wasn't sure, but at this point he trusted his heart to point him in the right direction.

There were nine million people in Seoul, but all of his paths have always led to Sol.