On the day of the funeral, Luhan doesn’t remember. “Why are we here, Zitao? Who’s this?” He asks insistently, holding his polaroid camera tight in his hands. “Oh Sehun,” Zitao replies. “He’s Oh Sehun.” Not a splash of recognition. Luhan walks over to the coffin, and takes a polaroid photo. “He looks like that guy I have tacked on my wall,” Luhan says, fanning the photo so it would develop faster. “Really familiar.” “He is that guy,” Zitao answers quietly. “He’s that guy you have shoeboxes of polaroids of.” Luhan shrugs, “I don’t remember him.
Again and again









