Remembering you is suicide

A faceless secret shadowing my way

“It’s freezing out here,” he says, voice trembling as he folds his arms tightly around himself, eyes darting across the dim, unfamiliar surroundings. Evening mist clings to the forest, thick and low, settling like breath on the still surface of the lake before him. Shadows of tall trees loom all around. The ground is soft with dark green grass. Silence hangs heavy — only the faintest trace of acacia lingers in the air. “No, Your Grace, you’re simply far too lightly dressed,” comes a mocking voice behind him, close enough to stir the hairs at his neck. Somehow, the entire forest seems to stir with that slow, honey-thick whisper. “Your arms would be enough to keep me warm,” he murmurs, without turning. His heart pounds high in his throat. He aches to look — to see — but fights the urge with everything he has. He knows what would happen: the illusion would vanish the second he turned. Only the voice would remain, fading into the trees. “I’m flattered. Still…” A heavy cloak settles over his thin shoulders, hiding the quiet shiver in his frame. “I…” he begins, steady now — just as long fingers slide over his back, smooth and slow. They draw forward, circling him, locking him gently against a solid chest. “…need you. Constantly. These brief moments — they’re not enough. I fall apart in your absence, and only come back to life when you visit me in dreams. I need you with me. Always, Myrai.” “I never meant to hurt you, my beautiful angel.” “And yet you keep leaving me to the mercy of fate? Is that what you call protecting me from pain?” Felix could hardly breathe. He wanted to scream — to tear the silence apart — but all he could manage were quiet, solitary tears. He never meant to invite chaos into his own mind, or to fracture the little utopia they had built — that fragile, magical place now threatening to fall apart at the seams. But he couldn’t bear it anymore. In his last dream, he’d seen a memory — warm arms wrapped around him, a voice whispering something about bound souls. And now… now no one dares to touch him. No one even reaches for his hand. His composure trembles on the edge of collapse. “Close your eyes,” a tender whisper brushes against his ear, soft as breath and sharp as fire. Felix feels himself being gently turned. Tears still run freely, and time seems to halt with the press of unfamiliar lips. If he had the strength, he would’ve written this moment in his journal — kept it like a relic, carried it through every wretched year, imagining it again and again. But his heart aches — locked in a vice. How cruel it is that by morning, memory will vanish into ash. He won’t remember those lips that burned like flame, that bloomed like acacia flowers across his scars. Grief crashes in waves, painting the sea red, and he lets himself drift — quietly, completely. The hands that had held him now slowly pull away. The shadow steps back. “Forgive me, my angel.” And Felix, with every aching thread of his damned soul, wanted nothing more than to question his beloved — to keep him there until dawn, pressing for answers, for anything that could give shape to the mess of thoughts clawing at him. But he knew all too well: once Myrai left, the day would come. And it would be his to face alone — in the real world. “Young master,” came a quiet voice. An older woman gently set a silver tray beside the slumbering Felix. He mumbled something under his breath, stretched out, and breathed in the sharp, sweet scent rising from a low crystal table. Acacia blossom tea mixed in the air with the perfume of fresh orchid branches nearby. “The Duke, your father, arrived this morning. He’s hosting a ball in honor of your birthday.” “What?” Felix muttered, still half asleep. He reached lazily for the porcelain teacup, already caught by its warmth and scent. “What ball?” The woman smiled kindly and drew open the tall curtains, letting in the unforgiving brightness of a spring morning. “The Duke wants you to take your wardrobe seriously. Many highborn guests will be attending tonight’s celebration.” Her words hit like a splash of cold water. Felix sat up, frowning. “Tell my father I couldn’t care less” And, truth be told, there wasn’t a single lie in those words. He hated when his father — a man mostly absent from his life — came storming in and started barking orders like he owned the place. Worse than that were the parties. The endless, gaudy gatherings full of smug aristocrats and their shamelessly flirtatious companions. Felix couldn’t stand the rich who thought of themselves as kings of the world, even though he was born into their ranks. He felt a deep disdain for arrogant people, and an even stronger repulsion for those who pushed their way in, trying every trick to win his favor. Felix hated the type of person who, unfortunately, would fill the entire ballroom tonight. “Perhaps you’d like to have breakfast with your father?” the maid asked cautiously, trying to ease the tension in the room. “No,” came the lord’s reply with a sigh. “Call my valet.” The servant gave a polite bow, immediately ringing her bronze bell. As the sound faded, she was met by the panting valet at the door. “I hope you won’t punish me for being late, my lord, the most magnificent of all lords!” he said, dropping dramatically to his knees before his master. “Don’t expect mercy.” The maid watched in horror as the scene unfolded, unsure how to leave without earning the young lord’s wrath herself. She hurried out, nearly running toward the rest of the servants. Felix glared for a few seconds, then burst into laughter, pulling his valet to his feet. “Well done! Now rumors will spread throughout the estate about how fearsome I am when I’m angry,” he said with a smile, wider than before. “And they won’t bother you about that stupid ball anymore,” the valet added, rolling his eyes with his master. “Hey! I asked you not to use titles when we’re alone, Jisung-a.” Jisung sighed in relief, looking Felix over from head to toe, taking in the sight of his master. “It’s time to get dressed!” he exclaimed cheerfully, but then caught the disapproval in Felix’s gaze. “I’ll take care of that myself. You should go and tell the stablemaster to get my horse ready for the evening.” Felix gave a small smirk as he caught the confused glance his valet threw at him before silently leaving the room. A couple of years back, Felix had already relieved Jisung of his typical duties — no more polishing shoes, keeping track of his wardrobe, or fussing over his appearance. He’d grown used to handling all that himself, even enjoyed picking out his own clothes. These days, he called on Jison mostly for the company — for long walks in the noble garden, for simple, human conversation. There was something about him — something light, something grounding — that helped Felix forget all the aristocratic nonsense. With Jisung, it felt like freedom. Even if just an illusion. His shadow drifted down the long corridor for a while, until he finally unlocked a tall door and stepped inside. The room was dark, but familiar. Moving slowly toward the curtained windows, he tugged them down in one motion — the heavy fabric hit the floor with a thud, sending up a cloud of dust. As he turned around, his eyes swept across the room: a row of gold-framed paintings, massive bookshelves, a narrow writing desk by the window and, in the shadowed corner, something that stopped him in his tracks. An easel. He stepped closer, dragged the easel into the light and froze. “Who is that?” he whispered, voice hollow and low. His heart slammed against his ribs, threatening to stop if he didn’t tear his gaze away. But he couldn’t. He was rooted to the spot, staring at the shape of broad shoulders, a slender neck, dark hair falling loose down a back that felt painfully familiar. And yet… His hand reached up, almost on its own, brushing across the painted face — or rather, where a face should’ve been. Blank. No eyes. No lips. Nothing at all. And still… something about the unfinished figure had him hopelessly mesmerized. Felix stumbled back, bumping into the writing desk behind him. He turned, dazed, and saw it — a journal. Resting perfectly still on the polished wood. “What’s this…?” He glanced around, confused, unsure how any of this came to be. He had loved this room since childhood — it held everything he cared about far more than any of his father’s priceless antiques. All his beloved tragedies, the quotes from long-dead writers that had shaped the way he saw the world. His own paintings lining the walls. Even the little burgundy couch with its curving back — the one he’d banged into more times than he could count. He remembered it all clearly. But this easel… this strange, haunting canvas — and the journal, with its chestnut cover practically begging to be opened — he had no memory of them. It was a paradox that sent a chill down his spine. Almost against his will, Felix reached forward and touched the journal. His fingers slid gently over the cover, and opened it — as if ready to uncover every secret it held inside. “You know… I think I’d agree to become the lowest of angels, if it meant I could see you, even for a moment. But what about you? What would you do for me? Nothing, right?” Felix frowned, not even sure who those words were meant for. He flipped through the journal again, stopping somewhere near the middle. “May 5th, 1883 — I swore I wouldn’t forget you, no matter what it cost. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. March 7th, 1884 — That promise was broken.” His heart tightened. Each word felt like ice sliding under his skin. His breath caught, and he nearly collapsed, steadying himself on the desk. “It’s been five nights in a row without you. I can’t sleep. It feels like I’ve been thrown under frozen water — left there to die while the cold cuts through my chest, leaving wounds that won’t stop bleeding. I think I’d drown in it, in that silence and cold, and maybe the current would carry my body to shore. And maybe… just maybe, that’s where we’d meet again. But where are you now? Did you forget me? How ironic, when I still remember you.” “Young master!” A familiar voice cut through the silence, the chestnut-colored crown of Jisung’s head appearing in the narrow gap of the door. He called Felix’s name three times, but the young lord didn’t move — rooted to the marble floor, deaf to everything but the words before him. “Felix?” Jisung stepped closer, carefully placing his hands on Felix’s shoulders to turn him around. “I’ve forgotten something… something that meant everything to me,” Felix whispered, the realization hitting like a blow. He hadn’t even noticed the tears streaming down his face. “And I can’t… I can’t remember.” Han Jisung looked at him with quiet sorrow, not knowing how to help other than to simply hold him. He respected Felix, of course — by birth and title, Felix stood far above him — but he also loved him like a brother. Unlike the rest of the cold, dutiful staff, Jisung cared. He had compassion. He had a steady shoulder, and warmth when Felix needed it most. Perhaps that’s why Felix had chosen him in the first place. “Why did you come, Jisung-a?” Felix asked, his voice thick from crying, though his face had already begun to settle into its usual mask of calm — a mask with just a trace of apathy in his eyes. “The Duke wishes to see me, doesn’t he?” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Jisung said gently, giving his master a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “You should go get some rest.” “So that’s a yes.” Felix didn’t wait for confirmation. He took a few steps back toward the door, already regretting putting Jisung in this position. A missed command could easily earn him punishment. “You asked to see me?” he said in a flat, disinterested tone that made his father flinch behind his newspaper. “Isolde,” the Duke called out, eyes never leaving the print. The head maid, the same one who’d woken Felix that morning, appeared almost instantly. “Give the young master the guest list for tonight’s celebration.” “Why?” Felix asked, frowning, as the woman politely led him to the table and seated him across from his father, gently laying the list before him. “The son of a duke should be aware of the aristocrats his father associates with,” the Duke said evenly, sipping his tea without glancing up.“It’ll help you build trust with them — before you inherit the title. That is, before I’m dead.” “Did the staff not pass on my message?” Felix asked, arching a brow, settling into an unapologetically casual pose — arms crossed, one leg draped over the other beneath the table. “Because I couldn’t care less.” The Duke let out a long sigh and finally looked up at his son’s indifferent expression. He watched him in silence for a few seconds, then suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind — just as the valet appeared behind Felix. “Well, since you’re feeling so contrary, Your Majesty,” the Duke said in mock seriousness, nodding toward the space just behind his son, “why don’t we have your valet memorize the entire guest list instead?” “Father, I don’t want you punishing my staff just because of me!” “You’ve left me no other choice, my temperamental son. It’s this, or nothing at all.” Felix grumbled under his breath, clearly irritated, and made to rise from his seat — but then felt his valet’s hand on his shoulder, firm and calm, gently pressing him back down. “I’ll do it, my lord,” the valet said quietly. “I’ve a good memory. I won’t fail you.” By midday, it felt like nearly the entire household staff had gathered around the young master. “Sir, please, choose whatever catches your eye,” the Duke’s valet says calmly, gesturing with his palm to the maids who were displaying the glittering garments before Felix. Felix, however, was in no mood to appreciate the suggestion. His father had already crossed every line! Felix had reluctantly agreed to the foolish ball, but now he was expected to waste hours of his life in some ridiculous outfit? No, enough was enough. The Duke had had his fun dictating his whims, but now it was Felix’s turn to take control. With a confident stride, Felix cut through the crowd, determined to pick something from his personal wardrobe—clothing that would not only allow him to carry out his plans without hindrance but also appear magnificently elegant, thanks to the rich blend of colors. He pulls out a white tailcoat, adorned with silver patterns on the sleeves and delicate lace embroidery along the edges, cut to the knee with a large slit at the back. The sight caused quite a stir among the onlookers, as this garment was more suited for riding than for an upcoming ball. Beneath it, he wore a black waistcoat, cinching at the waist, which lent him an air of refinement and unmatched grace. These qualities were further accentuated by the form-fitting white trousers. And to top it all off, just to spite everyone, he donned black knee-high boots with decorative cuffs, causing the crowd to sigh in exasperation. Though they longed to voice their disapproval over his inappropriate attire, they knew better than to anger the young master, who, more often than not, flared with rage at the mere mention of aristocratic norms and rules. “My dear boy, let me have a look at you!” The doors of his room swing open, and a woman’s voice quickly approaches. “How you’ve grown.” “Aunt,” he says, his tone laced with a bittersweet kind of joy. She gestures to the servants, who immediately rush out of the room, hauling a medium-sized suitcase behind them. “I don’t even want to know what’s in there,” Felix grumbles, though he helps the woman bring in the bag. “Everything needed for the evening!” she says, settling her nephew onto a chair and opening the marvelous trunk. Before his eyes appears a collection of all kinds of bottles, tiny boxes, and a wealth of precious jewelry. “I was so happy when I received the invitation to your birthday. France has just worn me out!” “Are you staying long?” “No, I still love my homeland more than England!” she laughs softly, pulling everything out onto the table. “Where should I start? Maybe some powder?” Felix sighs heavily, shaking his head in refusal. His beloved aunt Arlette Avetisyan is one of the most renowned “face artists” in France, and she’s on a mission to spread and develop the art of beauty across every home. She’s fully convinced that her services are not only for women but for a significant portion of the male population as well. For her, gender is irrelevant, as she often says, “Everyone should have the desire to take care of themselves. It doesn’t matter who you are — woman, man, old or young — there’s no shame in it, only self-care.” “You’re right — your skin’s too pale. Add powder and you’ll look ready for a coffin,” Lady Arlette giggled, earning a sharp glance from the birthday boy. Felix had almost forgotten how odd his aunt’s jokes could be. “Then we have to bring out those amazing eyes of yours.” She plucked a fine brush between two fingers and dipped it into something dark and glossy, gesturing for her nephew to close his eyes. He obeyed with a sigh, trying to follow her stream of words — she was rambling about how she hadn’t come alone this time, and how maybe, just maybe, Felix would finally have someone decent to talk to. “How much longer?” “Oh, hush now. Beauty takes time!” she said, scanning the lined eyes with a critical artist’s gaze before nodding in approval and moving on to his lips. A touch of deep wine-colored lipstick — rare, from her Milan collection. And the final stroke came in a tiny glass bottle: the soft scent of white roses that settled gently on Felix’s neck. “This perfume cost a human life,” she said lightly, recalling how the bottle had been gifted to her by none other than the royal court’s master perfumer. The one who had begged her to carry not just makeup, but the art of fragrance into the soul of France. “Thank you,” said Felix suddenly. It made her pause. And from the look in his eyes, she knew — it wasn’t about the makeup. “…for stepping across my threshold.” “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she murmured, brushing her fingers through his pale hair, hands just slightly shaking. “I shouldn’t have left like that. But I was drowning in grief over Anette. I just… couldn’t handle losing her.” After the death of Felix’s mother — Anette Avetisyan Lee, born and bred in France — everything had changed. His father had started traveling more, disappearing for months at a time, chasing antiques, useful contacts, maybe even himself. He had loved her madly. How tragic, his love died with her — and no force on earth could ever bring it back. And then there was Aunt Arlette. For a while, she cared for him in the duke’s absence. But each time she crossed that mansion’s threshold, her chest tightened — reminders of her sister were everywhere. She had tried. One day, she just couldn’t take it anymore. She left for France without a word… and forgot about England for six long years. It’s strange — how adults let their pain take the lead. They forget about the child left behind. He was only fourteen. And all he wanted… was not to be alone. “Oh, I’ve lingered too long,” Avetisyan suddenly gasped, blinking away invisible tears. “I should go get ready too — don’t get too bored without me!” “I won’t,” the young man replied quietly, left alone once more. There was no one left to wait for. The boy who used to wait — he was long gone. By the hour of the celebration, his grumbling father was already escorting him through the halls, clearly unimpressed by the unusual makeup on his son’s face. But as they reached the tall doors — framed in gold filigree and ornate detail — a smile crept onto the duke’s lips. While the servants pushed the heavy doors open, the man did what fathers often do: he offered last-minute advice. “And above all else, Felix — keep your composure. There’s no need to show off your apathy or disdain so obviously.” “No promises,” Felix murmured. His father sighed and in that moment, Felix added, “But I’ll try.” And he pulled on a faint smile, as required. One of the evening’s golden rules — just as the blinding light of luxury spilled in through the widening gap of the door. The ballroom was lavishly decorated, practically shouting of the noble blood that ran through this estate. The ceilings soared — scandalously high — with crystal chandeliers tumbling down like frozen rain. All along the hall, thick white columns stood proudly, their forms wrapped in golden spirals like coiled ribbons. Every mirror caught the glow and multiplied it, giving the room a dreamlike echo, as though time itself had paused to admire the setting. Statues reached out, delicate hands and marble folds whispering of Victorian Age. And all along one wall, floor-to-ceiling windows opened their arms to the night — moonlight pouring in like milk and stars glittering like crushed diamonds scattered across the floor. It was a room meant to impress. And it did. “Silence, please,” the butler called, clapping his hands together, then motioning grandly toward the top of the stairs. “It is my honor to present His Grace, Duke Maurizio Lee and his heir, Felix Avetisyan Lee!” Applause filled the room. Gentlemen raised their champagne in salute, and elegant ladies let out dreamy sighs at the sight of the handsome young master. The hosts descended the grand staircase arm in arm, pulling every gaze toward them like a tide. At the final step, Felix released his father’s arm — only to be swallowed instantly by the well-meaning chaos of congratulations and relentless wishes. “Long life.” “Strong heirs.” “A beautiful bride.” The usual nonsense. Felix smiled through it, nodding like a wind-up doll, grinning politely at every passing debutante — doing his best to hold it together. “Stay here and entertain the guests,” his father said, pausing to snatch two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. He handed one to Felix. “I’ll go greet the others.” A faint, practiced smile lingered on his lips — red as blooming lilies, full and soft — but it faded the instant Felix caught sight of the crowd… or rather, someone just beyond it. Tall. Dark-haired. A stranger. And in that moment, Avetisyan could’ve fallen to his knees and confessed the truth: he couldn’t look away. Those black eyes — cold on the surface, almost too composed — held something quietly priceless beneath. He was frozen, completely undone by a face so devilishly beautiful it robbed the room of sound. The aristocrats’ laughter, their hollow chatter — it all disappeared, not just to the background, but into some unreachable void. Nothing mattered anymore. Just that one man in the crowd — who, with a single glance, had unknowingly become the most valuable thing in Felix Lee’s world. “Sir?” came the uneasy voice of his valet. But Felix didn’t answer. He was trapped in a fog no one else could see — a haze of unseen thorns and century-old willow roots holding him still. His chest ached with a heartbeat too fragile, too loud. The air felt thinner. Pain curled in his ribs, burning slow and deep, as though his soul itself were being stripped bare — just to behold a beauty so ruthless it shattered everything he thought he knew about life. And in its place, there was only him. Every nerve screamed danger. But Felix wasn’t afraid. Every inch of him wanted to dive in — headfirst — into this unknowable, aching mystery that had waited for years in silence just to finally meet his eyes. «Perhaps I’m a madman — a fool who’s lost his grip — chasing the scent of freedom in this cursed hall that’s always been my exile. And what sparked it all? Could it truly be… the invisible thread that led me straight to your dispassionate eyes?» “Sir, are you alright?” A loud whisper, close to his ear, sharp enough to pull him from his trance. “I…” He faltered, lost for words. How could he possibly convey to Han the storm inside him — this strange fusion of disorientation and… revelation? For a brief moment, he absorbed Jisung’s worried gaze — then, without thinking, turned his head toward the crowd, searching for the dark-haired stranger. But he was gone. Not even a shadow remained. For the first time in his life, Felix Avetisyan Lee felt the choking grip of despair — a quiet defeat that coiled tight around his throat. How could it be? Why, among all these earthly faces, was the unearthly one gone? Why had anxiety pinned him down with such unbearable weight? Why did his heart insist — with cruel certainty —  that this man had stepped straight out of the pages of his own journal? Han managed to catch his wrist just in time, noticing — to his growing concern — the strange agitation pulsing through Felix, so unlike him. For Han Jisung remembered well a time when Felix’s composure was unshaken, even in the darkest hours. But now… something had knocked him off balance. “You saw him, didn’t you?” Felix asked quietly, almost urgently. “That stranger, behind the crowd… who was he?” Jisung released his wrist slowly, frowning in confusion. “But… there was no one there.” Felix’s eyes stayed fixed on the spot where the stranger had been, like his gaze could summon him back. He didn’t look away — even as he spoke, half to himself, half to Jisung. “I just… need a moment,” he said quietly, passing his glass to the valet and slipping off through the crowd without another word. He moved fast, sidestepping smiles and small talk, until the air finally shifted — cool and quiet — on the terrace. He moves like a stray beam of light lost in the dark, drifting down the stone steps, his pace slowing. It feels like he’s running from something — some phantom creature only he can sense, breathing down his neck. He glances back once, uneasy. And then, there it is — salvation, maybe — in the stables, where his stallion waits in stillness, loyal and steady, ready to carry Felix far away from whatever shadows chase him. “My good boy,” Felix whispered, his voice softer now, fingers brushing through the horse’s dark mane. “Well, Crow… how about a midnight ride?” The stallion nuzzles closer to his owner, who carefully opens the gate and leads him outside. He commands the horse to stand still, fitting him with his tack. Apparently, Jiseon got lost on his way to the stablehand, failing to deliver the order. But Felix doesn’t mind — he takes care of his companion himself. The leather bridle tightens around the horse’s head, the reins attached, and, of course, the saddle elegantly adorns the proud animal’s back. Felix steps to the left, swinging his leg into the stirrup, and swiftly mounts the horse, adjusting the reins. The animal comes alive in an instant, charging toward the open exit, forcing Felix to pull back hard on the reins to steady him. “Easy now, easy,” Felix murmurs, leaning forward and gently stroking the stallion’s neck with his free hand, “we’ll take it slow first, and then, I’ll let you run free.” At a steady pace, they cross the entire estate, heading down the empty path that leads into the thick forest. Felix’s back arches forward, his grip on the reins loosening. The horse understands — it’s time to pick up the pace. Slowly, it breaks into a canter. Felix can’t help but feel a sense of freedom he’s never experienced before — escaping the suffocating world of aristocrats, leaving the dull ball behind. His hair flows in the cool wind, and the solitude feels like a breath of fresh air. He loved these evening rides with all his heart, though he rarely had the chance to escape and enjoy them. But when fate did smile on him, he’d race into the forest he adored, drawn to its silence and the absence of any other soul. He realized too late they had gone too far. They’d long since left the path behind, now surrounded by towering, dense trees. The horse slowed down, feeling the tension in its rider’s grip on the reins, but it didn’t stop, gracefully avoiding the obstacles posed by the forest oaks. “Maybe we should turn back, Crow?” Felix asks cautiously, straightening up and squinting into the distance. To his surprise, something glimmers out there, sparking his curiosity. “Let’s just take a quick look, then head back home.” Ahead of him, a crystal-clear lake sparkled, reflecting the bright moon’s rays. He sighs in awe, leaving Crow to admire the view by a tree, and steps closer to the shore. He had never been this far before, yet it felt as though Felix had been here a thousand times. He breathes in deeply, savoring the fresh air, catching the faint scent of acacia. But it doesn’t matter much; he’s still lost in the beauty of nature. If only he had a blank canvas and fresh paints on hand, he would capture every detail, so that every time he looked at it, he would feel like he’s not in a room but by the lake’s shore. In an instant, the temperature dropped by several degrees, and a wave of cold wind swept over him. Felix almost felt like the forest itself had held its breath, the rustling leaves fell silent, and an eerie stillness settled in the air. “It’s freezing out here," “No, Your Grace, you’re simply far too lightly dressed," a quiet voice comes from behind, making Avetisyan jump in fright and instinctively turn around.