#geuum

@geuum​

yeeun: ...i feel like I’m talking to myself.  i guess i kinda am. 

there’s a lot of noise in the background: late-night traffic, people yelling drunkenly in mandarin, children whining inaudibly to their distracted mothers, a stray dog barking excitedly at all the ruckus.  the walls here are thinner, and the city still leaks in through closed doors and windows.  still, it’s her voice that remains the loudest.  remains anchored in.

yeeun: how’ve you been?  are you being a good student?  did you check up on my plants? i hope they’re doing okay.  i know they’re in good hands, but I can’t help it.  make sure no one bullies them.  appa’s not too fond of the cactus.

she laughs.

yeeun: i guess you aren’t either.  i don’t know why you guys hate it!  she’s done nothing to deserve this.

a pause.  the sound of a siren fades in, then out.  and then it’s just white noise, the soft indentations of her breathing.  she isn’t at a loss of words, she’s just thinking.  wondering.  considering her words.

yeeun: anyways, i guess i’m not gonna be home for a month or so.  i missed traveling.  i wanted to let you know that...but if you have time- and i know you’re busy- maybe you could come visit sometime.  wherever i’ll be.

yeeun: i miss you.

from this

old friendships are reminiscent of july– warm, lazy, soaked with laughter and nostalgia. they’re comfortable, and often it’s the comfort she wants. it’s easy for her to settle into old routines; even easier to ring up numbers she’s memorized by heart.

it’s sometime in december when they first meet. the room is crowded, each turn presenting a familiar face and someone calling her name from another side, jisoo, jisoo. somewhere by the third drink in her hand someone says her name, but this time they tell her there’s someone they’d like her to meet. while they exchange greetings there’s a vague expression on his face, and she can’t tell if he’s sizing her up or getting lost in the haziness of the evening. if he notices her considering him, too, he doesn’t comment on it. somehow they’ll end up bumping into one another later that night. what she remembers is her skin prickling from the chill of winter, the wind whistling, rattling against half-opened windows. somehow she ends up telling him stories about herself, silly, stupid ones, just to watch his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly under the moonlight. she forgets to say goodbye but some part of her knows it isn’t necessary.

( sms ) are you awake?( sms ) there’s somewhere i want to go.

they settle into their own rhythm. a text here, a call there. there’s something easy about it that she likes, the feeling of something that can’t be put into words quite yet. instead, she associates him with sleepy river currents and grass still damp from morning dew, warm paper cups filled with cheap coffee, music intermingling with radio static. sometimes he just listens. sometimes they’re both silent, letting the noise of a faraway city filter in around them. 

(she likes it best, though, when he’s the one that talks.)

( sms ) i’m back.( sms ) welcome back.

it’s been days since she’s last heard from him, but all she manages is a slightly out-of-breath hello. but it’s not hard to see the big smile on her face that she gives him, in all its sincerity.  here, take my coat. she hadn’t anticipated coming out so abruptly; seeing him here, of all places. he shoulders it off and hands it to her, laughing aloud at the sight of her in it, far too big to fit properly. they walk back to the back door together and then before she can turn to say goodbye he’s gone, leaving her with his coat and words she’d forgotten to tell him.

it’ll be buried into her suitcase for a couple days, then hang on her chair for a couple more. she sends him a few pictures of it, but her phone remains untouched as the new year falls into place and they both find themselves getting busier. still, it hangs in the back of her mind. soon it’ll begin to look at home.

she’ll return it.

from here

(play)

today, a dark and heavy cloud hangs restlessly over the city. at mid-noon, she feels a sleepy lull wash over her, fingers pressed forcefully against her mouth to stifle an impending yawn. customers straggle in, but business is scarce– everyone’s in a hurry to head home in preparation for whatever rain may come. yeeun can’t blame them- she sneaks several glances out the window throughout the day, hoping to catch any signs, only to find the streets disappointingly dry. by closing time, still, nothing.

each step gets considerably lighter as the shop gradually fades in the distance, replaced by rows of trees and people on bicycles, carrying a gentle, harmless current of wind as they pass. she only means to make a quick stop before heading home but a familiar figure catches her eye, chest swelling with an unspeakable feeling. jungkook.

home can wait.

a scene that’s repeated itself countless times already: his back against the bench, her elbows propped on her knees as she watches people pass, occasionally pointing some out (d’you see him? he looks like he’d be an artist, look at his hands! ooh, what about her? maybe the sous-chef at a fancy french restaurant.) it’s his phone that lights up first, chirping insistently until she urges him to peel away and make their way to the bus stop across the street. only then does the rain come, one tentative drop at a time until it becomes a steady downpour. soon, thunder rumbles in the distance.

should we just take a taxi?

no.

he doesn’t question it.

foot traffic has dwindled considerably. now, the streets only thrum with the constant influx of cars, accompanied by water pelting the ground with unnerving persistence. yeeun glances over only to find a wayward strand of hair, affectionately reaching up to tug at it before she pats it down. she’s pulling away when he speaks up, voice just barely audible above the noise. tell me a secret.

a secret…

she considers him, his groggy yet focused eyes, the elbow bumping lightly against hers when the response takes a moment too long. i believe in fate. more than i think i know. more than you know, too. and i think…i think it wants something good for us.

for us?

yeah.

by the time morning comes the rain has stopped.

from here

city #7 is a shitty hotel room and lukewarm beer. he barely has enough space to stretch his legs, back against the side of the bed as they observe the yellowed stains on the walls. it’s just for a night, so she doesn’t mind all that much. not even when she has nothing but a view of dull grey buildings and the grocery store from her window, or when the shower only runs on cold water in the dead of november.

this is what you see in horror movies.

don’t say that!

what?– y’scared?

yeeun huffs, elbowing his side. her face is warm but her mind is clear when she fiddles with the pull tab, a steady thunk, thunk, thunk. when’s your flight again? he thinks. seven. yours? nine. several feet away, her suitcase lies pitifully, propped open. its contents have yet to find their rightful place again, but for now she lets it be. did you really like it here?

(it’s cramped, this space, but somehow it’s just right.)

can we ride this one again?

again?– you don’t want to go on anything else before we leave?

but she’s already got her fingers curled around his wrist, striding purposefully towards the line. the day has passed by in a whirlwind of color– balloons swaying in the air, the gaudy merry-go-round, her bright yellow headband that he laughs aloud at (not that it lasts long– soon enough he’s forced to join her too, only managing a word of protest before she shuts him up with a single phrase: you promised!)

you said you’d say yes to everything just for today.

yeah, i did.

if he notices that she hasn’t loosened her grip he doesn’t comment on it.

(just for today.)

seoul will always be a second home.

when she breathes in, it’s not the ocean, but the salt and tang of street stalls. the roads here are concrete. even the sky seems to choke: too much smoke and too many people, who pour into the streets and pass her by without a second thought. but the vendors are kind and when they cover her hands with theirs, she’s reminded of her grandmother. you’ll find your piece of seoul, they tell her. and she knows that buried deep under this claustrophobia, the city lives and beats just the same.

around them people chatter at deafening volumes. yeeun has to strain to hear his next words, leaning closer to catch them. jeon jungkook to you is?– she stares into the empty bottle, a makeshift microphone and nearly goes cross-eyed.

a weed. he blinks. but then his phone is ringing and he’s forced to pull away, glass knocking against the chipped surface of the table.

(he never gets a chance to ask her, but she readies her answer anyways:

do not return to sender, @geuum

“for a very special boy,” she announces in a stage-whisper amidst the bustling afternoon crowd. there’s a brief pause before he peeks over the counter, just barely visible on his tiptoes. the apple blossoms aren’t for sale-- she’d haggled furiously just to steal a few in the morning, but they’re in the very same delicate white tissue paper, cinched tight with some leftover ribbon. when she walks around to greet him up close he’s grinning, holding onto them with both hands. 

“do you think she’ll like them?”

“of course she will!” the answer seems to reassure him. he spins on his heels, pausing as an afterthought to give her a hug before scampering out the door. yeeun watches him in amusement before rounding back to help another visibly overwhelmed customer. 

another day passes just like that, bouquets exchanged for a modest amount of money and some small talk. she hears about mothers and their troublesome kids, hopeful confessions, silly neighborhood gossip. just like that, the last customer leaves and the sun's already set. she locks up at 7. gets home at 7:30. by the time the clock reads 8 pm, yeeun is full and sleepy, almost forgetting to take a look at what she’d brought home. 

today’s leftovers comprise of several still-thorny roses and a mildly flattened marigold. there are a good deal of daffodils at the bottom of the bag-- she takes those first, and after some deliberation decides to go with the marigold too. 

“for a very special boy,” yeeun says again. this time she’s loud. shameless, like the way she crowds into his space and then back out again.  two waltzing steps put him at close enough proximity for her to thrust the flowers into his lap, right as he looks up with a questioning stare. the bench gives out a whining creak when she finally sits down, toying with her zipper (it's the first time her hands are empty and she doesn't quite know what to do with them).

“for me?”

“uh-huh.” 

for once she’s quiet. a yawn escapes, and she burrows deeper into her jacket, listening to the rustle of paper as he turns it in his hands.

(she lets the flowers speak instead.)

for @geuum​ 

(play)

a hand appears first, fingers wriggling as a greeting. then it’s the sky, a blurry blue-grey, gradually coming into focus. a pan downwards to reveal a cluster of cherry blossom trees and the quiet street, mostly clear of traffic. only an old man cleans the front entrance of a building on the right, the light scratch of his broom against the brick path accompanying their quiet steps.

oppa.

the sound of footsteps gets more hurried before the screen’s black, everything briefly muffled. eventually there’s color again, this time the soft grey of a hoodie. laughter, raspy, laden with sleep. soon, the top half of his body comes into view, too. he isn’t looking at the camera, but up ahead, pretending not to see it. it’s followed by a dissatisfied hum. the street is cobbled now; on either side, more trees. more footsteps. 

are you still filming? mhm.

he finally turns around, gaze past the camera. a mechanical whirr accompanies his face slowly getting bigger and bigger--

i can tell you’re zooming in on me.

the image lurches to one side and suddenly everything’s ablur again-- this time it's the sound of her laughter, dampened but irrevocably clear.

from here

it’s the second storm of the week– even worse than the first, so it’s no surprise that when she finds her way there the electricity’s been cut. when yeeun steps past the front door his apartment’s been plunged into darkness, barely lit by the candles dispensed throughout the kitchen. an inhale. vanilla. and something citrus-y, tangerines, maybe. (the gifts she’d clumsily pushed into his arms the first time they’d split ways, his flight number droning over the speakers, her breathless goodbye, not knowing it wouldn’t be the last time.) she stands for a moment, wet hair dripping all over the floor, eyes closed, breathing in, out. when she opens them, a tuft of hair behind the couch catches her attention.

“hey, stranger.” he’s sprawled out, facedown in a pillow he’d probably snagged from the far end of the sofa. even in the dark she can make out the tangled wires of his earphones, one dangling off his shoulder and in a muddled heap beside his phone.

please, let me listen to celine dion in the dark in peace. it’s a half-hearted attempt at shooing her away, an uncharacteristically lame joke, voice flat with exhaustion. instead, she grabs the towel hanging off the chair and settles down beside him. the carpet will still be damp once she gets up, but for now she lies on her back, eyeing the ceiling. her fingers search for that stray earphone, stealing it from his grasp.

“then lemme listen too.”

this time, when thunder rumbles in the distance, she’s not alone.