wolves

yheunsoo​:

what were the odds, really?

sure, the world’s small enough—for paths to be re-crossed, faces flickering into recognition, for nostalgia and memory to have the sway that they do over the plight of human emotion. a decade and then some is time aplenty to let bygones be bygones. but in this very moment, even the courteous space between the foot of his door and where she stood frozen suddenly feels painfully intrusive. 

so much for going the distance.

“…right.” if it didn’t seem like it was possible to be more caught off-guard somehow, then there you have it. eunsoo’s eyes rove over his face, the newness of the pleasant nonchalance and the years that have sculpted it. a newer realization strikes in the wake of it: the last either of them had seen each other was through the grainy blue wash of a monitor screen. life had briskly moved on since—the who-what-where-and-when’s of anyone and anything reduced to nothing more but trite gossip at the odd school reunion, then nothing completely. 

( ‘he got married a while back, didn’t he?’ ‘oh, yeah. that’s right.’ ) 

she shifts back by half a step, unsure of what to do and too certain of what needs to be done to escape this situation all at once. 

that what? her mind lags, then races, lightning quick. the wine. “no.” a single syllable that cuts too sharp, too fast. why are you lying? “uh, i meant–” what are you supposed to mean? that this was for the person over at #280? over 60 units down? she catches a glint of ceramic and with full, bludgeoning confidence announces: “–it could be.” gesturing to the vase, “trade rare item for rare item, how’s that sound?”

like you shouldn’t have said anything at all, goddamnit. 

in this peculiar case, he’s not sure of what to think—but seonho is almost sure that laughing (in the face of fate? irony? her?) is ultimately in bad taste. regardless, it’s obvious between the two who’s more surprised here. and so, spoils himself with a morsel (or more) of amusement at the price of kim eunsoo. 

it’s funnier than it is shocking. maybe that’s the effect of time. of days and weeks and months ebbing away at old heartache. in his mind meeting eunsoo again—a moment he’s occasionally thought of the follow weeks and months and maybe even a year or two of their break up—had always taken place in somewhere mundane, cliche, you know, the standard meet cute. in a random hole in the wall he’s stumbled on for sweets, in a hotel lobby for a work convention, on the streets somewhere. one day, somewhere, again. like the fated do. in dramas anyway.

but of course, this is real life. and in reality, seonho’s long let go of the ideation of meeting kim eunsoo again. somewhere between the long months of workload piled after workload and the longer years of being brandishing a ring on his finger. so, to see her again now, at the foot of his new apartment after running away from everything that ever made him park seonho that he knows, that she knows—it’s funny. tickles something in the crux of his chest. 

“no?” he parrots, brow raising high at her response, expression rightfully expectant for further elaboration. but who else would it be for? come on now... “ehh?” his head tilts, eyes lowering to his newfound favorite, now suddenly the subject in question. a trade? as if he hasn’t easily spent thousands on this—well, it wasn’t like she’d know—and gazing over the look on her face, it wasn’t like he’d turn her down either. 

“sure,” he relents with ease, offering up the vase without much of a second thought. favorites come and go, but seonho figures he can relish this moment for a while longer if he played along properly. “but,” he waits for her to take the vase to speak, eyes flicking over her face idly. 

loose ends

@yhpsh

(2-3 months prior)

she’s reached a point in her life where there’s nothing left to run from: no more proverbial monsters under the bed, adolescent insecurities, the uncertainty that plagues most after; reduced to nothing but bygones and the fine dust that settles in memory of such things. momentum is meant for the present tense anyway, to push yourself forward and onward.

naturally, there was no reason to think much else of it. the apartment next to hers, which had been vacant since a plump, middle-aged novelist had moved out and back to seoul, had been in the process of being reoccupied for the past week and a half. a face of a tenant she’s yet to see, but has already conjured up a mental image of from the movers’ hauls—furniture, décor, and the odd art piece that suggests wealth, refinery, and origins that are rooted far beyond yunhwa.

she keeps it simple, a bottle of ginseng wine from some local distillery and a card with words of welcome. had worked like a charm for the last eccentric, well-off spinsterly neighbor, so might as well. 

once at the door, she gives it a light knock, then waits. the pause that stretches after is long enough that eunsoo reconsiders simply leaving the gift there, but then the door creaks open. 

plastering on a smile, she starts with what anyone would: “hi–” 

only to freeze. the wide stretch of her mouth falters. what’s left of the spiel dies on the spot, leaving nothing more but stunned silence.

her grip around the bottle tightens. when she finally summons the energy to speak, her voice comes out far too small for her liking. 

“oh.” 

in the end—location never mattered. perhaps he was unrealistically optimistic to think that a change in location would improve his output. yunhwa, minuscule and quaint and miles away from seoul as it is, does admittedly little to distract him from the mounting headache (missed calls, emails, texts) from the state he left the house of park in. which is? the once proud park legacy in shambles with their sole heir nowhere to be seen. 

and the perpetrator? he lives not guilt-free and stowed away in a no-name town, wakes up to the same three unloaded boxes (written on across the sides: books (non-fiction), 2017, and her’s) shoved into a forgotten corner of his living room. there hadn’t been a plan—things to do after moving out of the big city and into some seaside town—there hadn’t been much of anything save for the loosening of the noose around his neck; the snipping of wire snaked around his joints and vertebrate. sure, for once in thirty-seven years, seonho knows little of what happens next, or even what to do. but at the very very least, every step taken from here on will be one of his own conviction. 

not mother’s. not father’s. not grandfather’s. rest his soul. 

but then what? what does a caged dog do in the face of liberation? 

the answer is laughable. possibly expected, even. like a robot, even with his strings cut, seonho moves systematically through what he knows best. gets a job and immediately pours his all into it. what else does he have to do? who knows. 

today, at least, sunday afternoon on a whim—he’s redecorating. contemplating the proper placement for his new addition, a rustic vase bid off an auction in seoul when a knock at the door steals away his attention. eh? it isn’t like he’s given his address out to anyone. so? who could it be?

he moves before he realizes, vase still in hand whilst reaching for the door. though, what’s to come is something seonho can’t possibly fathom. not in a million years.

introducing: blast from the past, name he hasn’t thought of in years, held hands, stomachaches, hole-in-wall eateries, shared notes—kim eunsoo. college girlfriend.

he almost wants to laugh.

“i should be the one saying ‘oh’.” seonho speaks with ease, deep timbre rich with amusement at all that he could read off her face. thankfully, at this exact time and space, eunsoo’s reactions hold more weight than his own. something to cling and harp on (not the most chivalric gentleman are you?) over his own surprise. but more importantly—his gaze drops to the bottle in her grasp, brow arching as he points a finger.