MO(U)RNING

It isn’t Hyerim’s fault. Not even close. Perjury shouldn’t come easy to a girl who’s lived and died by untruths. Her mom lied. Her dad lied — still does lie, petty little lies that don’t fool anyone anymore. And Yena lies, too: that she’s fine, that she’s not hurting, that she’s chosen to be cruel. Hyerim knows enough about what happens to liars by knowing enough about Yena herself: that it helps no one in the end.

But lying to herself — that’s an addiction she can’t kick yet.

It’s beside the point anyway. She’s not looking for invalidation; not looking for anyone to change her mind. That’s the thing about her lies: she can see right through them, better than anyone else can.

She’s selfish. It almost killed him. And now it’s killing her.

Hyerim’s words hang heavy and low, like fog that blankets a city with no regard. She can’t see it but she’s in it, right in the throes of it, she breathes them all in. She talks about being loved — the unconditionality of it all — and it makes Yena smile, even knowing the ending of this story, of this childhood.

Sometimes you forget the world before the pain, but she doesn’t. If not for any other reason than the fact that it was when she was once happy, too.

“I’d envy me too. Sounds like a dream,” there’s no sadness there, just a sad fact. “A happy, unbroken family. If we were only so lucky.” The lull makes it easy for something to seep through the skin, to raise musings wild. She thinks of Hyerim, how Hyerim envies her even when she’s had to grow up half-hollowed and half-trembling, from a mother’s less than nothing and a father’s too much of something, and how Hyerim’s never had either. She wonders what she’d choose — an everything then nothing or a nothing at all.

“Do you blame him?” Him — she’s not sure who she means anymore. God, or Hyerim’s dad, or a her or no one at all. She’s curious, more for herself than anything: who’s fault is it that they’ve turned out like this?

there’s something about the darkness that makes demons come to life. there, on the back of her eyelids, they grin — shaped like nightmares, like the feeling of loss, hazy and formless but oppressive in force.

she finds it impossible to sleep in times like these. so she keeps herself awake late into the night, fighting against slumber because she knows she’ll wake up to a bad dream anyway; wake up to the sharp-toothed guilt gnawing at her throat like an animal.

it’s too painful to be alone — so she isn’t.

two am finds her in seokbeom’s arms like she’s always been there, tucked safely into his chest. he doesn’t question her about it — he’s heard her from her room, the heaving sounds she makes when it’s a particularly bad wave — just opens up and lets her cling to him like they’re five again and she’s scared of walking back home in the dark.

sometimes, he lets her kiss him to forget. other times he lets her use the seconds frivolously, when she asks him about his songwriting or his day and they end up talking until the sun shines through her hands.

one night, she says she’s sorry. “it’s hard to put up with me, isn’t it. i’m a mess, aren’t i,” she says against his lips, soft and scratching and with feeling.

he just smiles.  “we’re friends,” he answers. like it’s simple as that.

glasses clink and the air shivers.

she finds time with sera more precious than gold these days. acquaintances are built upon a foundation of exchanges and seconds intertwined, but it’s like all she gets from sera is silence and the feeling of unwinding. yena doesn’t think it’s anyone’s fault necessarily, that they haven’t spoken in ages — they’re two different people with diverging interests, and the only thing that ties them together are the memories of a time long ago. but she’s a force to be reckoned with and there’s nothing that says no to this disaster of a girl — even the most reticent moon sera.

so it’s settled: she comes, armed with wine or champagne or something stronger and a smile in her eyes, and sera can do little else but let her inside.

“i liked last time’s drink better,” sera says after sipping, face twisted into displeasure — yena’s already halfway through her glass.

“that’s because you’ve got no appreciation for hard liquor, sera,” yena responds with a quirk of her eyebrow, leaning back into the frame of sera’s bed. “but that’s alright — i’m here to teach you how to live the good life. that’s what friends are for, right?”

they weigh heavy on the tip of her tongue, the words she won’t say.

four am and she’s got the world in her hands, pressed against her like it’s the only thing keeping her afloat, keeping her conscious. it’s the ninety proof taken five times over that’s probably beleaguering her right now, but she can’t shirk this feeling — the sensation in her head, in her fingers, in the place between her ribcage that used to hold a heart. there’s a something there that she can’t grasp entirely. it slips past her so fast it’s almost a ghost, except it leaves her warm when she’s cold.

jinhai’s voice cuts through her reverie, clear where she’s hazy, and the sound makes her heart beat erratically. like it’s the first time again, like she’s never before heard a boy speak to her with a smile set in the tone of his voice.

“noona,” the phone makes him sound gravelly — or maybe it’s the fact that it’s the dead of night. he was probably sleeping, she thinks in hindsight, though there’s a something in the back of her mind that makes her think that he’d been up waiting for her too.

the words are heavier now.

i miss you already. do you miss me too? what does it mean, to miss you so much?

but she decides: not tonight.

not to him.

“jinhai-yah,” the smile on her face is so brilliant that if he was here with her, she’d know it was a sham. “i just wanted to tell you i got home okay, is all. sleep well, okay?”

he smiles as he picks at a piece of meat. i’ll be herefor a while.

there’s a storm in the boy. she can see it in his eyes.

he’s a very kind boy — yena knows that well enough. it’s a little bitter to the taste, if she’s being honest with herself; he’s always been too kind and she’s always been too aware of it, taking as she pleases because she knows he’d acquiesce to it inevitably. she’s taken a lot from him like that over the years, grasping for the parts that make up the whole of him. it’s only fair that now she give back. it’s the least she can do, all these years later. besides, it’s not a burden at all — he's company when she's lonely.

he just seems torn. not between the choice of her sofa or her father’s bed (because he’s a kind boy that knows how she holds father close to whatever remains of her heart). he’s caught between the idea of having to admit that he needs to sleep somewhere other than the bed he already has. a rock and a hard place. yena doesn’t know why, exactly, it is he’s running away from, but it must be a lot if his peace has been disturbed.

seokbeom says he’s fine on the couch, but what she hears is that he’ll be staying a while. the smile she gives him says that it’s fine with her. “alright. but if you start getting back pains don’t come crying to me. i did offer. and my bed’s always available too, you know. i’ll even lend you my favourite pillow.”

she could never get mad at zhou jinhai. she likes him far too much to do that — so much so that it’s almost startling.

“you sure you want me to pour?” she asks, even as her fingers circle around the wine bottle’s spine, inches towards the empty glass she’d prepared just for him ( it didn’t matter, in the end, if he was going to say no — she’d have poured him one and needle him into taking a drink regardless ).  “remember last time i poured that soju and it ended up being a cup instead of a shot? oh, jinhai-yah, you never learn.”

but it’s not like she was going to heed to him anyway. tigers never lose their stripes, and son yena never learns to listen. the glass is near-full by the time she’s done with it, and the smile she gives him isn’t nearly innocent enough to mask the slyness in her eyes. “drink up, i poured it as much as i love you!”

so then she thinks: the night is still young.

and here, with her arm in his, she feels just a little bit less vulnerable; she feels safe. it’s a good feeling. a warm feeling.

“well,” the word slides off her tongue ceaselessly; a trainwreck that can’t be stopped. she surprises herself with how articulate she’s being, given her state, but it’d been this exact situation that’d gotten henry to take her home, so she supposes that it’s working out in her favour. “you could take me home and the night’d be over and we’d go to bed feeling empty that the dance turned out so lame. oooooor,” she draws it out for dramatic effect, eyes bright and grin wide, “we could do something fun!” because they’re young and the city’s heart still beats so strongly she can feel it resonate in her fingers and her chest, and if there’s anything worthy of the word ‘tragedy’ to son yena it’s a night that could have been spent in laughter being spent hollow instead.

“c’mon, kang henry, whaddya say?” she adds a little wheedling coyness to sweeten the deal, pressing against him and squeezing his arm and inching her face closer to his, lips cracked into a hopeful smile.

then, after a moment’s hesitation, she decides for him.

“too late, i’ve decided: we’re going to have fun!” she breaks away then, legs taking her in the direction she’s (almost) sure is the way to the part of the city where all the best things are open late, but then whirls around and reaches out to take his hand.

“who says i’m here to see you, kwon hyerim?” she counters, tapping on her cigarette one last time before entering her friend’s abode. first the dom on the floor, then the purse slung over her shoulder, and then she’s giving her friend a heavy-handed one-armed hug, kissing her on the cheek with flourish. “anyway, i figured that whatever you were doing, i’d insist on staying until you paid attention to me instead. isn’t that what a good friend does?”

the answer, frankly, is no — but yena and hyerim have never been very good at the best friend thing from the beginning.

“beer’s so drab at a time like this, hyerim-ah,” yena says, releasing her friend from her iron grip before turning up her nose at the sight of the cans on the table, opened and empty and gaping. “it’s the end of the year — doesn’t it deserve a better funeral than cass lite? i bought champagne today to celebrate with my dad, but the hospital wouldn’t let me pop it. even for a holiday; they’re so stingy.”

there’s an unspoken statement there. i couldn’t stay. i didn’t stay.