RIGHT MY WRONGS

surely this isn’t a coincidence.

memory is rewound, replayed but never in a set order, never quite colored in sepia tones, never really fuzzed out by the touches of nostalgia. it returns to him in pieces.

piece one: the breakfast table had brought a recount of recent conversation with his mother (“busan?” “busan.” “busan?” “baby, it’s been years, come on.” “and there’s a reason why it’s been years, mom.”), neatly scrawled in delicate calligraphy: “three against one, kwon hyuk. busan for christmas break, and that’s that.” dean looks far from amused at this arrangement.

piece two: “you want one?” chin resting in palm, he turns slightly. “what?” the lecture up front is rendered into a single monotonous drone—in one ear and out the other.

“bertie botts—”

his eyes are back on the board. “no.”

“there’s no earwax flavored ones i pr—”

“no.”

piece three comes in a present tense dilemma: the very last set of classes come to a close and the halls burst into life in an instant, filling up the space with students hurrying their way out and about to things that are seemingly better than being stuck inside a common classroom. conversation is aplenty as they all move in packs, in a multitude of directions. dean and a few others have already settled into an already crowded corridor, backs against the windows. vague snippets of dialogue are all that he hears, one flies by mid-sentence:

“—yeah dean, you’re fucked—”

(right then and there, from the group of fifth years walking right past them: “hey, kim sejeong—”) 

he pauses, caught open-mouthed, like he’s been struck by lightning. words are lost to him. no. this is the most surprised he’s visibly looked in his entire life. wait a minute—glances up just to make sure and we’re back, in full circle:   

surely this isn’t a coincidence because seriously,