calamity physics

sera brings back memories of childhood. sand between her fingers, specked on her knees and palms; gap-toothed smiles and lilted laughter; her skin stretched and tan from days spent under the sun. it’s like she’s a girl again, freckled and awkward and fleet of limb, gangly where sera’s always been small, roughly hewn where she’s always been dainty. memories of two girls playing pretend wash over her like a faint wind — and even now, far removed from the ocean, she tastes the salt in the air.

it used to be that they could see the horizon and imagine the rest of the world. but for now, taechon’s flower garden seems enough.

“yah, yah, moon sera,”she points out one flower in particular — pink with many petals, “what’s that one called? what’s it mean? it’s so pretty i want to paint it.”

really, she wants to press it down amongst the pages of a book and preserve it for eternity, but she figures that sera wouldn’t like that done unto her precious children.

“ you’re old enough to have a boyfriend, aren’t you ? why don’t you ask some guy from your school to go with you ? ”

she should know no shame. it’s all her doing, this trespassing into another person’s private space without regard; she should bear the brunt of consequence like a medal of honour. but she’s still a girl, standing at the precipice of adulthood, and it’s only natural that her skin colour pink at the sight of his dishevelment, sheets bundled strategically for modesty’s sake. she’s determined to shake it off, bringing lenders fingers up to hide her gaze as her cheeks stretch into a wide grin. “ah, my innocence is ruined. i even knocked to warn you!”

it’s a lie, of course — whatever innocence she’s had has shed from her bones a long time ago. it shouldn’t affect her, but her blush remains. odd.

“the problem, oppa,” she stresses every syllable like she’s teaching a lesson to an unruly child, “is that you don’t run on a proper schedule. i’m helping you out! and the day’s so nice too. it’ll be fun! you wouldn’t let a princess roam the streets alone would you?”

“i need you.” the phrase is succinct, matter-of-fact. doyeon’s got no problem looking into his eyes as she says it, head tilted to the side and lips puckered into a small pout. it’s true enough: jinah’s busy with the cafe and her brother’s not the right fit for what she needs. minseok’s the only person that is 1) available, and 2) fitting for companionship. “so stop whining and dress up, okay?”

she steps outside then, humming a tune from a song she’d heard on her aunt’s radio the night prior, waiting for him to heed to her ( just as he always does, he’s far too nice not to ) and join in on her outing.

she doesn’t have to wait long.

one of the errands she runs as part of her job is to do the neighbourhood’s newspaper route a few times a month; today is one of those days. she’s lucky, she supposes, to do it on a morning as clear as this one, all blue sky and snow-less road. the past few weeks had been close to a nightmare outside, so she’s glad for the small blessing of a warm, breezeless sun.

she’s nearly finished her route when she comes across a familiar-looking gate and grins, slowing down her bicycle at the foot of it and disembarking with a light hop. papers in hand, she tucks them neatly into the appropriate mail slot before crouching down by the gate and cupping her hands to her mouth. “강아지!” she whispers into the air, waiting for the tell-tale sound of paws shuffling her away.

doyeon is rewarded for her patience when a sharp yap! comes from the other side of the gate and she sees the tufts of fur hurrying towards her. “cutie 강아지, did you miss me lots? i missed you too,” she sings, reaching past the gate’s bars to pat her friend behind its ears. “ah! i brought you a treat, pup! but you have to sit first, okay? siiiit. siiiit—“ but persistent as she is, the dog won’t listen to her.

she’s not normally so rude — though her mannerisms are apt to be eccentric, so doyeon figures that seokbeom won’t mind too much at her disturbance past daylight hours. besides, the struggling artist doesn’t mesh well with an early night, so he’s probably up anyway, creating magic with some instrument or another.

it had only been a few minutes prior that she’d stumbled onto news that an up-and-coming band they both liked was playing at a hongdae club — playing their new material, too. and it was one thing to hear a song produced and perfected, another to hear it in the flesh, raw and real and in her system.

her fingers hadn’t hesitated to dial his number.

the tone cuts off and she’s offering up a flurry of words before seokbeom has the chance to breathe. “oppa,” it’s puckered and purposeful and commands attention, “remember that band we were talking about the other day in the music room? they released a new album recently right? oppa, they’re playing tonight at a club and i’m going to go! you should come too, okay? i’m going with or without you so don’t leave me alone to listen to them! i’ll be at hong-ik station in a few minutes. okay? okay, bye!”

she’s ended the call before she hears his reply, already on her way out the door.

a closed door and an empty corridor — though it’s to be expected at the odd hour on a weekend afternoon. she figures that everyone else has something to do, caught up in the throes of a new month; work and business and play and people to attend to. doyeon has a to-do list, too: math problems and dark colours in the laundry, maybe a visit to jinah’s cafe to save her friend from the woes of serving coffee one-handed.

but she’s thrown out the list just as her knuckles clamour on minseok’s door. she finds that she no particular reason to bother minseok this much, especially as he’s told her ( half-heartedly, she thinks ) countless times that he’d rather her leave him alone. but she’s doyeon and it’s unfathomable for her to believe that anyone enjoyed being stuck inside a dark, frigid apartment all day.  she’s doing him a favour.  “hey, minseok-oppa,” she calls, and her voice rings out in the hallway. “i know you’re in here. stop being a recluse and come out with me!”

the knock is an act of decency; a warning signal that they’re both used to by now. she’s got the door swinging on its hinges a moment later — god forbid he ever locks his door on her — and she’s at the entrance of his apartment like it’s her own, grinning at the mess. “hurry up! the stores aren’t going to be open forever, you kno​w. they don’t run on your schedule.”

her blood looks black in the wane of the moon.

0117.

she can’t breathe just yet.

breathing will disrupt the balance - but of what, she finds herself grasping for. the e.r. waiting room is certainly spinning; her knuckles are taut and white against the chair’s arms but she still feels like she’s slipping, moving against her accord. maybe it’s the fengshui she’ll disturb, and her exhale will cause a tidal wave of discordance that wouldn’t bode well for the fragile harmony in the operating rooms.

maybe, if she breathes, she’ll fall apart. 

it’s the most likely possibility.

jinah’s mother had called her some minutes ago, voice as tremulous as she felt. we’re almost there, is she okay, is she safe. is she alive, she’s asking between the lines; that answer, the one she needs, doyeon couldn’t give. part of her feels responsible, irrationally so - it’s not her fault jinah’d gone to busan, or crossed without looking, or didn’t slow down when doyeon had told her to stop.

but. there was that thought, endless in her mind, growing like her shadow on the clean, white walls.

could she have done anything else?

jinah would say no; jinah would be adamant. but she’s ahn doyeon, and in the end there’s this: that everything is ahn doyeon’s fault.

it’s the most likely possibility.

she breathes out in 3, 2, 1 - “are you here for a jeon jinah?”

.

jinah is groggy and aching and her heart feels detached from her body, but even she is brought into consciousness by the flurry of a girl that enters her bedroom as soon as she’s allowed to sit up. it’s all she can do to keep herself from falling back by the sheer force.

doyeon’s lips taste like salt and sorrow, cement on her own.

“you’re alive,” she says after.

she didn’t know she needed that answer, too.

“they met at a party and it was instant. you know, one of those movie magic moments where they spot each other across a crowded room and everything goes dim other than them? i think that’s what happened. i don’t know what happened to them after this, but i’d like to think they’re happy.” he pauses, squeezes her palm weakly. “it’s a nice sentiment, right?” 

looks are deceiving. it’s one of the many lessons her art has taught her — the presence of a distinction between what’s seen and what’s real. the way silk on a painting is carved perfection, like a storm. the way bright ultramarine swirls hid a tumultuous mind. and the way his hand is warm and gentle, when all he’s ever told her is that he’s cold.

she doesn’t know, yet, what’s real when it comes to kang taeil — kang taeil and her fingers tied in his own — but she thinks it’s something close to this.

( but what does she know about the process of coming to love a boy? nothing — nothing at all. )

hair tucked neatly behind her ear falls out of place as she tilts her neck from side to side, taking in the painting to distract herself from the feel of his hand grasping at her own. it’s easy to almost forget him - but never possible. “it is nice,” she says, “to be happy.”

“but why do you think it was instant? i don’t think so.” she shifts closer then, steps into his space; leans her head on his shoulder and points with her own free hand at the painting’s focal point. “look at their faces; they’re so content. like their love was a slow-burn love, where the feelings came naturally. and that after this they went home and got into bed and kissed each other to sleep. i think he’s the little spoon,” she lifts off from his shoulder then, maneuvering to show him the grin that wrinkles the corners of her eyes, “like you.”