bad religion

"I never wanted kids, actually." Maybe it was a stray thought between the madness in her daily routine. These are words from the same woman that raised him alone. But maybe that was the problem, she was alone for so much of it. Life had always been a little difficult and no sure sign that it could get better. "Is that why I'm an only child?" he jests.

By allegiance of his family, Hanbin’s views should have aligned themselves to sympathize with his father or those seeking to understand Hanjae's behavior. However, his relationship with his father was thwarted upon the strikes he passed to his mother. In attempt to to come to her aid, the boy was attacked as well. “I’m doing this because I love you,” Hanjae had told him. It became a daily reminder. Everything he did seemed to be because he “loved” Hanbin—though it seemed to rework itself into anger and confusion when his mother leaves home. In times of joy, the Choi family would be one of joy, but as soon as Hanjae put a hand on alcohol or simply grew agitated, porcelain would fly and skin would bruise. Worse happens when Yubin's divorce papers show up in the mail. Hanbin hated his father because he told him there was love when there wasn’t.

Are you hopeful? It's a recurring question since Jeongbin's death. Yang Hyein sits beside him on the piano stool (he makes room for her and extends his arm to reach the key at the beginning of the case). Though it's not like it's any good. Jeonghwan's fingers stutter over the ivory and his palm stiffens. He's a thing of tired bones but the bones in his hands are no longer his own.

Sometimes, when his exhaustion is a too loud to ignore, he thinks back to when he was a kid and his brother wouldn't stop shouting no matter what he did. Jeongbin was always a little too angry all the time. He’s exhausted like when his brother still left him despite all he did, and it was suddenly too quiet. He’s had hope before. It's like holding a light, but the thing with light is that it's not real. Not in any way that matters, at least. He tries his best to not treat it that way, tries his best to pretend it wouldn't slip out from between his fingers at any time. Breathing too hard feels like a grand mistake (and any mistake could send that light away).

Byungho takes a backseat in most of his interactions. Around most people his age, he acted as a mere shadow—some things were not worth his engagement. However, for those who are able to peak his interest, they find that he is effective, stealthy, precise—all traits that garner praise. Before rising to the occasion, he made the time to proceed with proper judgment. It left room for negotiation and strategy, which ultimately ensured that he would rarely ever be the one who carried out the punishment. Initially, Byungho felt displaced in Namgil’s company and pastime activities. He wondered how the two were friends to begin with; he was if anything, a stark contrast to the prodigal Jeon son. I’ll think about it. Because before he was his own man, he was his father’s. So when Namgil first drops into a casino with Byungho trailing behind, the Nam son considers the three common vices that Byungchul (his father) believed to be the potential downfall of any man: gambling, smoking, and women. It’s outdated.

2012. Admiration is a selfish thing. It belongs to the observer, not the person who is looked at. When Park Jeonghwan thinks of everything that could have been, it feels like his time lamenting on events and people of the past is selfish. In many ways, it is. 

His own existence served as a sort of reminder.

He reminisces in private, to the point where his wine runs past the rim of the glass. the VCR scratches and recoils at the replay. There were times where he dusted off his violin case and played with the bridge of his violin. It starts as excuses: the string snapped, the tuner is struggling, and he’s always too distracted. 

"No," he admits. It's meant to be a thought but truth leads in Hyein’s presence. It’s subconscious: his desire to seek her forgiveness for all of his brother’s wrongs. It’s not like he knows what to expect or how he’d even begin to repent for his brother. But he starts with bearing what he can of himself to the Yang daughter. That was the difference between him and Jeongbin—his other half was never afraid to take up space. He took up so much space that Jeonghwan practically disappeared. There’s nothing like living so far within oneself that they’ve managed to lay claim to the backseat of their own life.

Jeonghwan feels afraid to take anything from Hyein, even if she offers it. But hungry dogs are still dogs. The Park boy leans one cheek into her palm. In these moments, he wonder if Hyein’s care is from a place of sympathy or pity. He decides that the two can coexist—he is after all, a sorry example of a Park. The second son of the second son. He allows himself to linger at her touch. He'd likely die like that: devastated and in the palm of her hand.

There’s something arguably vain about the way Jeonghwan hurts. He laments, people pity him. They use their self-control, he loses his self-control. Grace was something he felt entitled to. His lighter burns to the flick, flick from his thumb, and then he decides that Jeongbin’s laughter is hard to forget. It’s the most conscious thought he’s had since the funeral. Nam chunja’s death reminds him of many things. The loss of a loved one in particular, even if they weren’t all that close. He used to visit her estate to play music for her; she was enthusiastic about classical music and allowed him to dabble in jazz. Jeonghwan was now left with the lingering thought of: I owe everyone a little more. See, he came across a crumbled letter in the home office. It’s addressed to Jeonghwan of all people, requesting that he played for Chunja’s service. That explains his mother’s gruff demeanor that morning. He tries not to think much of it.

yijue is the dutiful son. he calls his father nearing his mother's anniversary, he spends most weekends with his sisters, he's the last minute driver for the event he isn't attending. sometimes, it's on the other side of town. hard pills to swallow are gorged because it is necessary. in the haze of the celebration, he suddenly resolved to smother the parts of him that he didn't take to. even if he passed out from the hurt of it, he would put a blunt end to his wrongs, the dumb things he's said, the miserable things he'd done, and make it look like an accident. he reflects on the time spent in the past year—his efforts in a connection that was if anything, a whirlwind of emotions. there were nights where he'd settle into her company and she would tell him: "i can't do this. this is the last night." he wouldn't do it in front of her but he'd let her go home before he would let himself cry. call it a change of heart but iseul rings him the second she gets home. they talk, they cry. yijue often got on his knees to pray. he prayed so hard that he could taste his tears and his own breathing grows unbearable. his heartbeat followed no patterns and he passes out with the thought of losing her heavy on his mind.

no one should ever have that kind of power over you. their actions are not a reflection of your character.

"i love you" is a generous statement and yijue is a generous young man. he would tell iseul that he loves her in the morning when he hands her, her coffee. he told her in between her classes—she called less over time so that acted as a reminder that he'd still pick up on the first ring. "i love you. good luck on that test." he woke up early those mornings to pack her some food. and when he would see her in the afternoon, he held her with a sure smile. he whispered his love to her in the crook of her neck. most of the time she said it back. sometimes when he fell silent, she would tell him a little too much. she spoke at him. everything else stayed put. she hardly did much of anything (she was always a little too tired).

you can love someone as much as you want but if your actions do not align with your words, then that love means nothing. please love your loved ones in ways that they understand.

"you don't understand how much i would lose." iseul usually had some reason as to why she didn't show up. "listen, i'm not good for you." yijue felt her eyes heavy on him but he does not look in her direction. his hand would dig into the pockets of his denim. iseul had a way of making his heart drop to his stomach. a heart breaking is one thing. he at least understands that he has to pick up the pieces. moon iseul grips his heart and pulls him in a thousand different directions.

take things for face value. when someone tells you they won't be good for you, believe them. they already made the decision to not be good

"i miss you," she tells him. yijue counts down the seconds until the new year (they've got days to go). "i miss you too." it sounds helpless out loud. sincerity is especially scary when iseul looks like she has more to say. yijue cuts in before she can. "i apologize in advanced for my absence." because taking space is necessary. "happy early new year. i think i just need space sometimes. this really hurt me and i accept your apology but i need to figure out how to heal from it." he adds, "i appreciate you telling me hard truths regardless of the consequences." yijue has the conversation fade out with small talk about what they might eat the next day. he said everything he needed to say.

letting go is difficult but holding onto something or someone that does not nurture you is harder. attachment without love is a dangerous thing.

when the clock struck something that he couldn't tell (blame it on the party), yijue puts out his cigarette. he presses it square on the ledge of the rooftop garden's railing. the ash fall and flutter down to his shoes. "it's so cold," he hears. "yeah, let's go inside," he tells them. "—okay, whenever you’re ready." it's a smile earned from his friend and more than enough to tell yijue that he did not hate what he currently felt. he made the hurt mean something. he returns the smile and gives their arm a squeeze.