Ship/Member: jeongcheol Major Tags: breakup Additional Tags: first person Permission to remix: yes
***
"We could give it another shot," you say, and I laugh so suddenly it startles us both.
We're in your kitchen. Two weeks ago it was our kitchen; the possessive is still in your favor, so you feel comfortable flinching in an ugly way. I met you after you learned how to do that - live in the future half a second faster than the rest of us, so that by the time we think to look for the ugly crease at your forehead or the gargoyle snarl in your mouth you've smoothed it out into something pleasant, bland; discomfort, but in a non-offensive beige.
Letting the mask drop in front of me wasn't an act of love so much as a battlefield surrender. It's exhausting, you told me once, being me. I would have rolled my eyes if anyone else said something so stale. I still did, but in an exaggerated cartoon way that let you know I got the joke.
I look away from you (do you the courtesy of looking away), but that means I have to look at the kitchen, which is full of so much... much. There are boxes in the front closet and scrunched up under the bed, theoretically saved for our move into a bigger apartment. The thought of sitting on the floor of my new place unpacking boxes labeled by your hand (BATHROOM and LIVING ROOM and SEUNGCHEOL'S SHOES (BOX 1/200), how you managed to make handwriting sarcastic is another mystery I'll never solve), boxes intended for an apartment I will never set foot in again, where you will still a year from now find a spare sock scrunched behind the washer and wonder for half a second before it hits you at a place you thought had, if not healed, at least scabbed over-
I can't look at the kitchen anymore. I can't look at you, either, because you're looking at me, and the sting of my laughter is blanching your skin as white as if I'd just given in and slapped you.
Because you thought we could give it another shot. Because you thought we were strong enough to fix this.
Within our, your, the kitchen, without the mask, your eyes are red-rimmed and dark at the same time, which means you've been crying too much to sleep.
This is where I lean forward to wipe the fresh new tears from the corners of your mouth and then take your hand in mind, noting out loud or just with a look of concern how thin your wrists have become. This is where I hesitate to close the distance between our bodies, a new, distasteful concept, and satisfy that anxiety by keeping our hands linked as I tug you into our bedroom, your bedroom, the bedroom, where the sheets are still rumpled and my pillow sits untouched. This is where I put you down into the mattress, not to fuck or kiss or hold, but to lay down as I sit at the edge, your thighs touching mg back, and tell you, in a quiet, but strong voice, that if you sleep for a little while I'll be here when you wake up. And you say, "And then we can?" and I say, "And then we can." And neither of us quite knows how that sentence ends, but there's a we in it, and so at least the start is good.
The second stick by, and my hand remains at my side. In that other reality, which is a ghost now, maybe things become okay. Maybe the boxes stay in the closet; maybe you say the right apologies, and I know how to accept them in a way which doesn't require any further hurt.
I wonder if we're happy in that other reality. I hope we are. If not immediately, than eventually. I'd like that for you. Maybe someday, I'll want that here, too.
[FILL] the end
Major Tags: breakup
Additional Tags: first person
Permission to remix: yes
***
"We could give it another shot," you say, and I laugh so suddenly it startles us both.
We're in your kitchen. Two weeks ago it was our kitchen; the possessive is still in your favor, so you feel comfortable flinching in an ugly way. I met you after you learned how to do that - live in the future half a second faster than the rest of us, so that by the time we think to look for the ugly crease at your forehead or the gargoyle snarl in your mouth you've smoothed it out into something pleasant, bland; discomfort, but in a non-offensive beige.
Letting the mask drop in front of me wasn't an act of love so much as a battlefield surrender. It's exhausting, you told me once, being me. I would have rolled my eyes if anyone else said something so stale. I still did, but in an exaggerated cartoon way that let you know I got the joke.
I look away from you (do you the courtesy of looking away), but that means I have to look at the kitchen, which is full of so much... much. There are boxes in the front closet and scrunched up under the bed, theoretically saved for our move into a bigger apartment. The thought of sitting on the floor of my new place unpacking boxes labeled by your hand (BATHROOM and LIVING ROOM and SEUNGCHEOL'S SHOES (BOX 1/200), how you managed to make handwriting sarcastic is another mystery I'll never solve), boxes intended for an apartment I will never set foot in again, where you will still a year from now find a spare sock scrunched behind the washer and wonder for half a second before it hits you at a place you thought had, if not healed, at least scabbed over-
I can't look at the kitchen anymore. I can't look at you, either, because you're looking at me, and the sting of my laughter is blanching your skin as white as if I'd just given in and slapped you.
Because you thought we could give it another shot. Because you thought we were strong enough to fix this.
Within our, your, the kitchen, without the mask, your eyes are red-rimmed and dark at the same time, which means you've been crying too much to sleep.
This is where I lean forward to wipe the fresh new tears from the corners of your mouth and then take your hand in mind, noting out loud or just with a look of concern how thin your wrists have become. This is where I hesitate to close the distance between our bodies, a new, distasteful concept, and satisfy that anxiety by keeping our hands linked as I tug you into our bedroom, your bedroom, the bedroom, where the sheets are still rumpled and my pillow sits untouched. This is where I put you down into the mattress, not to fuck or kiss or hold, but to lay down as I sit at the edge, your thighs touching mg back, and tell you, in a quiet, but strong voice, that if you sleep for a little while I'll be here when you wake up. And you say, "And then we can?" and I say, "And then we can." And neither of us quite knows how that sentence ends, but there's a we in it, and so at least the start is good.
The second stick by, and my hand remains at my side. In that other reality, which is a ghost now, maybe things become okay. Maybe the boxes stay in the closet; maybe you say the right apologies, and I know how to accept them in a way which doesn't require any further hurt.
I wonder if we're happy in that other reality. I hope we are. If not immediately, than eventually. I'd like that for you. Maybe someday, I'll want that here, too.