Chapter Text
Sometimes I wish I could take my brain out of my head, put it into some tupperware container and stuff it in the freezer. That way maybe it would shut up and leave me alone. Or maybe I could pluck out my eyeballs and stuff them in a pickling jar so that they'd stop blinding me. You know what I could do without my ears too, possibly even my nails - they dig into my palms too sharply - even better yet my sense of touch completely.
But then what would be left of you?
The answer is nothing. That's what I would be. Nothing. Just a capsule of dispassionate flesh and bone. But that's not much different than what I am right now.
"That's a lie." His voice jerks me out of my stupor and my head spins to look at him in the passenger seat.
"Eyes on the road." He says pointing forward, not looking at me.
My hands shake on the steering wheel causing the car to swerve ever so slightly, and he throws his head back and cackles. Not a bad cackle, good cackle, comforting.
Where are we going? Why am I driving? Where to? When did we leave?
"We're headed to your therapy appointment."
Why?
"For your anxiety."
"I swear you're reading my mind. How do you do it?" He just hums, a sweet, light tune that I know he's just made up. The silence stretches, but not the gut wrenching quiet that makes my palms sweat and head spin, it's comfortable like a warm mug of tea on a cool autumn day.
Turn right
I do. I turn right. Sharply. Too quickly. The car skids, swerving. My knuckles turn white and he puts his feet down from the dash, curling them onto the seat, knees to his chest. If I wasn't driving I would want to do that. My breathing is ragged, my body racked with those stupid shakes or muscle spasms, I can't tell the difference.
Now pull into the clinic on your left
I'm still shaking as I turn my left indicator on and park. My head hits the steering wheel. Hard. My vision swims, blood rushes in my ears. There's a soft hand on my shoulder, pulling me back to the car.
Put it in the box
I do. I put all the stupid feelings in the black box in the middle of my gray mind. The hand squeezes. Once. Twice. I open my eyes. When did I close them?
"We're gonna be late." He's putting his forehead on mine now. Gentle breaths rustling my fringe. It blows my thoughts away, pushes the box out of my head, lifting the impossibly heavy weight that sits on my chest, on my heart.
~
"You missed your appointment."
The voice on the phone is harsh, abrasive. It makes me want to cry, curl into myself and never come out. Never. Ever. I feel like throwing up.
"Are you even listening?" She pauses, heaving a laboured sigh. "Why do I even try?" It's not really a question. The line goes dead and I'm left with the monotone buzz. It stings through me like an electric shock.
I do end up throwing up. Not that I had anything in my stomach to get rid of. So it burns. He holds my hair and rubs circles on my back. I sob and sob till nothing comes out of my eyes and my throat is scratched raw.
"How do you do it?" We're curled up in my bed, an anime playing softly in front of us, our empty cheesecake plates stacked on the nightstand.
"Do what?" He's still playing with my hair. It's grounding.
"Stay so calm, even on stage, performing in front of thousands of people. Putting your music out there. I just…I don't get how…how…" words fail me. They do that a lot. My stutter makes it hard to speak sometimes, for people to have the patience to listen to me. I despise it. A lot.
"I don't. I don't stay calm all the time. I crack and break and cry. A lot. And I'm scared up there but I have people. People who help. I have my friends. I need them."
I don't have friends. Not since I was little. The stupid box stops me from making friends, going out, meeting new people.
"I don't have people." The confession makes me want to throw up again.
He doesn't care. He's not even here. Stop being a freak .
Han Jisung doesn't care about you.
It's right. The voice in my head is finally right. But I don't want to listen. I always listen. I turn left when it tells me too, I park and I buy the groceries and I cry when it says things that I can't stomach even though I'm aware they're not true. I hear it and I obey. Because if it doesn't tell me what to do then I will become what it tells me I am.
"I'm not actually here, I'm off in dance practice most likely or maybe even in my studio writing lyrics for songs you may never hear. But I still care, the me here cares."
I don't have words again but they do not catch in my dry throat, scrape at my lungs. They are simply not there. I think it's for the best. I can just cry and he will hold me. Hold me till I wake up alone and cold because that's how I've always been.