Work Text:
Ben Franklin once said there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes.
You’d like to add a third: that every year, without fail, on the day after Thanksgiving, you can always find Jeon Jeongguk hogging the staff microwave.
It’s the busiest day of the year for you, and every year, without fail, your half-hour break is always halved because Jeongguk is hogging the microwave. Most people would adapt, having sensed a theme, but not you. No, you’re stubborn, and instead of packing a lunch that doesn’t require reheating, you find a better use of your time to be lecturing a kid fresh out of college about proper office etiquette.
“Jeongguk,” you say, voice stern and exhausted, “honestly. This is absurd. There’s no way in hell you need to microwave whatever that is for ten minutes.”
“I do,” is all he says, not at all oblivious to your seething but choosing not to acknowledge it.
“You’re an asshole. Why do you do this every year? Why must you make me suffer?”
He turns to you, earrings twinkling under the fluorescent lighting of the staff kitchen, and smiles. It’s smug and taunting and far too pleased. It gives you heartburn. “Should’ve gotten here sooner. You know how much I love Thanksgiving leftovers.”
“Fuck off. You know I always take my break at this time. You saw me get up and ran in here so you could steal the microwave—”
Jeongguk squawks. “I did not!”
“You did so,” you insist, nose scrunched in indignation. “You saw me get up, ran into the hallway so you could cut in front of me, and then you shoulder-checked me into the wall like some kind of barbarian. There’s a dent! You posted it on TikTok!”
He snaps his mouth closed. “That doesn’t sound right. I’d never do something like that.”
With a scoff, you roll your eyes and pull out your phone to check the time. Seven minutes have ticked by. You pinch the bridge of your nose, try to steady your breathing. “I’m being serious. Nothing on earth needs to be microwaved for ten minutes.”
“Wow, what if I get worms and die because you made me eat raw turkey?”
“It’s not raw. It’s already been cooked.”
“To the appropriate internal temperature? You don’t know for a fact. I have to microwave it for ten minutes to kill off all potential bacteria.”
This is not a battle you’re going to win. Not against Jeongguk, anyway, because he takes great pride in being the world’s largest pain in the ass. Proctalgia, if you want to get technical about it, which you don’t, so you just huff and pay for a bottle of cold brew from the stocked refrigerators and grumble about why the station can afford weekly fresh food delivery but not a second microwave.
Truthfully, the microwave probably isn’t the issue. It’s just a scapegoat for the real problem: the holidays. Thanksgiving is stressful enough, because you’ve got to keep track of travel plans and takeoff and landing times and flight and gate numbers long before November even rolls around, not to mention all the extracurricular bullshit once you’re actually in the same city as your family. Then there’s keeping track of whose house to be at, when to be there, and what to have in hand once you are. Then, as if you haven’t suffered enough, you’ve got to deal with the mind-numbing conversations all your aunts and uncles and cousins rope you into, all while your brother gets to sit on the couch doing nothing as he nurses a beer.
Which is why you’d decided to pass on all of it this year.
Sure, spending the holiday alone was kind of a bummer, but traveling halfway across the country and taking a red eye back just for some turkey and mashed potatoes had stopped being worth it a long time ago.
(Two years ago, maybe.)
Because you’ve never been able to just enjoy it. Not ever, but especially not since you’d started working at the station, because they’d stuck you with the yearly holiday show once the old host retired. Santa-mental is the station’s pride and joy, raking in more advertising money than it sees the other ten months of the year combined, so there was no way they were going to let it die just because of a little retirement.
And it’s not like you hate it. True to its name, Santa-mental is just an excuse to expel all that pent-up festive energy and sentimentality. From Black Friday through the second of January, listeners call and write in to say what they’re thankful for, what their hopes are. Kids write letters to Santa and say what they hope to find under the tree on Christmas morning, and, thanks to all that advertising money, the station always mails back a neatly wrapped gift. On December 26th, the talk shifts to New Year’s resolutions, what changes people want to make in the upcoming year, what they hope will be different.
It’s exhausting, and it’s a lot of playing therapist, sometimes, because not everything is holiday cheer and light-up antler headbands and confetti from the ceiling when the clock strikes midnight, but you love it. Despite all the stress, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Which cannot be said for the motley crew you’re forced to work with.
In particular, one Kim Seokjin, who’s merely an older yet just as chaotic version of Jeongguk.
You’re barely back at your desk five minutes, half of your lunch still uneaten since someone decided to hog the microwave, when he corners you and Hoseok. “Ah, Hope and Joy, my favorite Santa-mental co-hosts!”
“We’re the only Santa-mental co-hosts,” Hoseok laughs, seemingly incapable of experiencing irritation. Hence why Seokjin had given him Hope as his on-air nickname without a modicum of irony. Yours, on the other hand…
You shove a forkful of stuffing into your mouth, trying not to cringe at how bland and rubbery it is. “What d’you want?”
“Impeccable manners as always,” Seokjin retorts. “I just came to check in since it’s the big day, see how everyone’s feeling. Are you sufficiently festive? Do I need to buy you two matching Christmas sweaters?”
You stare blankly back at him as you spear another piece of lukewarm stuffing. “You know what you can buy us? A second—”
“Wow, would you look at the time? You two are on in ten. Some of the sponsors for this year are new, so don’t forget to take a look at the final list. We’re already at 75% of our revenue goal and it’s not even December yet, so don’t fu—”
“Are any of those sponsors a microwave company?”
Seokjin just glares at you. “Don’t fuck it up,” he warns, “or else you’ll get coal in your stocking.”
Hoseok, the perpetual ray of resplendent sunshine that he is, smiles at you. “Wouldn’t want that, now would we?”
With another roll of your eyes, you mumble something under your breath that suspiciously sounds a lot like I’m going to write a letter to Santa and ask for a fucking microwave before Hoseok drops the sponsor list in front of you. Three minutes until showtime, so you gather your things and make yourself comfortable in the studio, mentally preparing yourself for five more grueling weeks.
Then there’s the countdown, the red ON AIR light flickers to life, and you hear Hoseok’s cheerful, familiar voice through your headphones.
“Ho, ho, ho! It’s finally that time of year again…”
December arrives before you can blink, and with it comes the snow.
It used to be a welcomed sight. Used to bring a smile to your face every time you stepped outside and the world smelled earthy and crisp. Waking up and seeing everything under a blanket of white—there was nothing like it. Those days you used to crawl back into bed, feet covered in thick socks, a warm body to fit yourself against.
Those days are long gone. Now there’s a pinched frown instead of a smile. Everything smells stale. The disgusting, brown-tinged slush is nothing but a hindrance. You wake up cold and alone in a bed that’s too large for just you.
December used to come not only with snow, but magic, too.
It doesn’t feel magical anymore.
And that’s—well, it’s not great. There used to be so much joy and infectious happiness. You used to look forward to digging the decorations out of storage, to knocking the days off the advent calendar. You used to bake cookies and ice silly reindeers and snowmen on top, laughing so hard you’d cry at how horrible they looked. You used to pour a glass of wine and put on Christmas music as you stuck ornaments on the tree.
You don’t do any of that anymore. Not alone. Not without Namjoon.
Now you wake up cold and alone and there’s a split second, right as you wake up and aren’t fully conscious, in which you forget. A split second where you feel tacky and warm, where there’s a phantom body heat on the side of the bed that used to be his. And after you come to, after that dream is ripped away from you, you drag yourself out of bed and paint on a smile.
You go to work and you listen and you read and there’s a split second there, too, when you think this is it, this is the year all those holiday blues finally disappear, this is the year I’ll be okay.
Another dream that’s ripped away.
“Hey. You okay?”
Hoseok’s next to your desk, looking just as sunny as he sounds in a light-up sweater. HAVE A KOALA-TY CHRISTMAS! it says, right above a cartoon koala wearing a Santa hat.
You clear your throat, trying to remember what you’d been doing before devolving into yet another existential crisis. Oh, right—you’d been going through the comments on the station’s Facebook post (“What’s your holiday wish for this week? Comment below and we might make it come true!”), looking for anything you might be able to use for the show.
You’ll be taking it to your grave that I wish I didn’t have to shovel my driveway anymore!! was the post responsible for this downward spiral.
“Ah, yeah, I’m okay.” You hope your smile is convincing. Not likely, considering you’re trying to convince a professional smiler. “Thanks, Hobi.”
Hoseok doesn’t push. Not right away, at least. He at least has the audacity to wait a whole fifteen seconds. “You sure? Did Jeongguk post something inappropriate on the Facebook page again?”
You snort. “Not yet. Although if he promises one more person a PS5 I’m gonna murder him.” You point at the screen and Hoseok leans in, his face so close he starts to go crosseyed. “Look. All this person said was ‘I hope my banana bread turns out good!’ and he offered to send them a fucking PlayStation.”
A trickle of laughter comes tumbling out of Hoseok’s mouth. He always tries not to, tries to heed all your warnings about not laughing at the shit Jeongguk does, but there’s only so much he can hold back. Today, the limit is apparently a banana bread PlayStation.
“I’ll take over the Facebook comments,” comes his solution. “Why don’t you check the emails?”
Hoseok’s gone as soon as you agree, just the remnants of his expensive cologne lingering in the air. Smells like one Namjoon used to wear, which is not a thought you should be thinking when you’re only seconds removed from a crisis. Some things can’t be helped, you reason, typing the station’s email address and password into the boxes.
dontgivethistojeongguk
Immediately, you sigh. Seventy-six emails, and that’s low for this time of year. Seventy-six is you getting off easy.
Most of them are some variations of the same: promotions, raises, holiday bonuses; a day off, a flight voucher, debt erased; spending time with family, seeing friends. Sometimes the contrasts make you dizzy. A college kid wishing to ace their finals at the same time a single parent wishes for enough money to buy their kid some toys. Sometimes it feels wrong, feels like Seokjin’s playing God, deciding who is and isn’t worthy. But you also know there’s worth here. You know what you do is silly but important. It helps people, even if it’s just Jeongguk blindly promising gaming consoles.
I wish organic chemistry didn’t exist, one says. You snort in agreement.
I wish I could afford a flight to visit my parents. You forward that one to Seokjin.
I wish Taco Bell was open 24/7.
On and on they go, sent at all hours of the night. Unsurprisingly, the one about Taco Bell came in just before three a.m., and you can only assume the sender hadn’t been entirely sober. Relatable. You’d spent many nights pining after unattainable fast food during your college career. Going one step further and writing into a radio station to pine further? Also relatable.
However, just below it, sent at two-sixteen a.m., is this:
[email protected] | I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.
It strikes you someplace deep—a place you’ve tried really hard not to acknowledge, because there isn’t much you wouldn’t give to hear those words from Namjoon. Which is silly. There’s two years’ worth of time and distance between you now, and no combination of words is going to erase it. Nothing’s going to undo what’s already happened.
Still.
You stare at those eight words for a long time. Long enough for them to blur around the edges. Long enough for the cursor to hover over the reply button. Long enough for the voice in your head—the one meant to tell you how bad of an idea this is—to go quiet.
In all the time you’ve done the show, you’ve never replied to an email. They either get forwarded to Seokjin or read on-air. Turning them into correspondences isn’t a thing, because god forbid Jeongguk ever got ahold of the password and turned hundreds of people into pen pals and formed weird parasocial relationships with them. And you’re not keen on doing that, either, but—
Why can’t you? you type. You need to know.
Before you can overthink it, you hit ‘send.’
After two years and one month, you’re still adjusting to living alone.
The silence had been almost overwhelming at first. Same with all the empty space. Drawers that might’ve been Namjoon’s in another life are empty and clinging to the smell of old wood, the scent of fresh linen not having permeated yet. Lights he might’ve flicked on stay dark, and that darkness is at its worst in the winter when it seems to last forever. Just a few hours of light and then this inevitable, lingering darkness.
Perhaps that’s how the entire breakup has been, if you had to describe it.
It’s why you’re staring at an empty corner of your living room, thinking it might be a nice spot for a Christmas tree if you bothered to put one up these days. You’ve got your phone pressed to your ear, your mother’s voice a dull buzz as she drones on and on about whatever comes to mind, because she knows how you get this time of year and wants to help but is a bit shit at being empathetic and comforting.
Which is why she says, “Did you hear your cousin’s getting married?” and doesn’t consider it a bad thing to say.
Because it shouldn’t be. Two years and one month. Most people are over it in two years and a month, you think, so it’s not really a bad thing to say. “Hm,” you grunt, “had no idea.”
On the other end of the line, your mother tuts, tongue clicking against her teeth. “That’s because you’re not on Facebook.”
You make a face she can’t see. “I use it enough for work. Trust me, there’s nothing on there I want to see.”
She must be going through the mail. Every now and then there’s the sound of a page turning—a magazine or a circular. Your mother always used to call her sister or her best friend as she clipped coupons. Now it’s you. “You know,” she starts, and you do, actually, know where this is going. “I’m still friends with Nam—”
“Don’t.” She sighs, moves to protest. “Mom, seriously, I don’t want to know.”
Because what you also know is Namjoon’s five-year plan. The house, the marriage, the garden. Could’ve written a ten-novel series on it, the way you’d memorized it back when it was relevant to your life.
(Back when you were a part of it; when it included you.)
Maybe it’s petty, maybe it’s self-preservation, but you don’t want to know how he’s doing. Can’t know, because whether he’s doing well or doing awful, both are equally miserable. The thought of him moving on and loving someone else, being happy without you, is enough to take your breath away, but you still love him enough to want only good things for him.
Two years and one month.
You spend another fifteen minutes talking to your mother before the call disconnects and that silence is back. It’s almost enough to have you dialing her number again and letting her talk about your ex. Instead, you stare at the empty corner of the living room and imagine the Christmas tree you’d put up. How large it’d be, what color lights; if you’d buy new ornaments or use the old ones you’d inherited from your grandmother. Then there’s a thought, so brief and jarring it nearly steals the air from your lungs—
Namjoon would’ve put a plant there.
Working under Kim Seokjin, there aren’t many rules.
Hoseok had described him once as two children in a trench coat (“His shoulders are two children wide!”), and you can’t find any fault in that description. That’s what he is: an overgrown child playing at adulthood—and, really, it’s not that you mind. You’ve had far worse bosses than Kim Seokjin. Squeaky, honking laugh and incessant need to be the center of attention at all office parties aside, he’s a good station manager. A bit neurotic, especially where Santa-mental is concerned, but his only rule is solid:
Work stays at work.
Compared to your last gig, you’ve got it good. Not easy, because you experience ten months’ worth of stress in the span of two, but you clock in and leave on time, Seokjin has only called you after-hours once (ate questionable ceviche at his partner’s holiday party and sent an SOS from the bathroom), and you’ve still got to deal with Jeongguk. Leave work at work? You shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, yet here you are, face shrouded in blue light as you add the station’s email account to your phone.
Across town, Seokjin just got a phantom chest pain and doesn’t know why.
On this side of town, you try to swallow the feeling of being too big for your body—that jittery thing that accompanies anxiety. Because it doesn’t make sense, the way you’ve latched onto a single message. Two years and one month and you’ve never projected this hard, no matter how wistful and depressing the email. Holiday blues are nothing new, yet this time it’s enough to send you spiraling.
“Idiot,” you mumble to yourself, free hand stuck in a bag of potato chips. “They probably didn’t even answer.”
That’s the problem with these one-sided relationships. You’re halfway to desperate and they probably feel stupid for even sending in something so personal.
It takes a bit to scroll through all the new messages, mind blanking on what question Hoseok had posed today. Jeongguk’s Facebook privileges had been temporarily revoked after a small crowd had shown up to collect their PlayStations, so the responses are more level today than usual.
Then the username appears, and it halts all executive function, potato chip growing soggy on your tongue as you forget how to chew. There it is, a new message at the bottom of the old ones, your heart thumping wildly in your chest despite there being no reason for it:
[email protected] | I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.
[email protected] | Why can’t you?
[email protected] | I don’t think she’d want to hear it.
Introspection has never really been your thing—not like it was Namjoon’s, anyway—but the response gives you pause. In the place of this imaginary woman, would you want to hear it? If Namjoon called you right now, stitched his heart to his sleeve and let apologies spill out of his mouth, would you listen? Or would you hang up the phone, all of it too much to bear?
That’s the thing about time. Everyone says it heals all wounds, but maybe all it does is give you clarity. Buys you enough time to do all that introspection you weren’t good at before. And, sure, maybe that’s healing. Maybe all someone needs to do is look back on something with a fresh set of eyes, see all the parts that didn’t fit, all the parts that used to taste sweet but turned sour, and it’s enough to begin moving on.
Time. You’ve had two years and you’re still not sure if you’d pick up the phone. And, if you did, would it be in the name of closure? Morbid, genuine curiosity? Would you call it selfless, giving Namjoon the space to say what he feels needs to be said? Or would it be selfish? Because it’s a double-edged sword. Maybe you’d give anything to hear Namjoon’s voice again, hear that apology, but you know it’d destroy you.
So, yeah.
You can understand this person’s hesitation. It’s hard enough being on the receiving end in your imagination; you can’t imagine the turmoil of being the one who wants to apologize but not knowing if they should.
If they can.
It’s unfair to latch onto this the way you are. You know that, but it’s easier to justify when you think it might be mutually beneficial. Maybe this stranger’s apology for someone else can soothe some of your scars, and maybe you can be a listening ear for someone who clearly needs to be heard. So you suck in a breath, swallow your nerves, and type:
[email protected] | What would you say, if you could?
Then you do two things: you press send, and you change the password.
“Seokjin,” you say the next morning, meeting him at the coffee machine in the staff kitchen. “The station email started getting some weird spam messages,” you lie, “so I went ahead and changed the password.”
All you get in reply is a grunt. “Okay,” he says, pressing the espresso button on the machine.
He doesn’t ask for the new one. Doesn’t tell you to share it with Hoseok or Jeongguk. Doesn’t do anything except lean against the wall with his eyes closed, stress and exhaustion oozing from his pores.
You know exactly why you’re relieved, but you pretend you don’t.
Jeongguk’s punishment—for lack of a better term, because Seokjin would let him get away with murder if he could—for the PlayStation debacle is, much to your delight, Santa Duty.
Usually, it’s Hoseok that has to suffer. Has to stay a few hours late and deepen his voice and take call after call from kids who are very excited and very vehement to tell Santa what they want for Christmas. Hoseok’s lovely, human sunshine and all that, so he never complains, but the stress of playing Santa on top of the rest of his duties is a lot.
Hence Jeongguk.
“Are you serious?” he whines, seconds away from pouting and stomping his feet. You’ve seen this song and dance before. Any second now he’ll deploy the twinkly doe eyes and Seokjin will fold like a cheap metal chair. “You’re really gonna make me be Santa?”
Seokjin’s fighting the urge to let him off the hook, you can tell. His face is all scrunched up as if he’s physically pained by making Jeongguk do something he doesn’t want to do, and his clenched fists twitch at his sides. A pathetic display. He would truly let Jeongguk get away with murder, and it’s you who has to suffer for it. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Hoseok had to take over the Facebook page since… the incident, so he’s too busy.”
Jeongguk is a brat, but not enough of one to argue. Pretending to be Santa on the radio is a much more palatable punishment than permanently losing social media access. “Fine,” he grumbles, though the undertone says it’s a bad idea. He knows it, you know it, and Seokjin probably knows it, too, but he’s not willing to take on the task, so Jeongguk it is.
Which turns out to be a horrible decision, of course.
Kids one and two are simple enough: one wants a Barbie Dreamhouse and the other one wants a new bike. Jeongguk hems and haws through both calls, saying just enough to keep them hopeful but careful not to over-promise now that he’s on probation. Seokjin’s watching him like a hawk, all five-feet-ten-inches of him managing to take up the doorway to the studio, arms crossed over his chest like a bouncer.
He’s gonna fuck it up, his eyes say.
I know, yours respond.
It isn’t until the third kid calls in that things start to go downhill. Jeongguk never wanted to play Santa in the first place so he’s bored, doling out half-assed responses. Sometimes he forgets to use the Santa voice and it’s just Jeongguk talking to kids, witch cackle and all. It’s… a stark contrast to Hoseok’s Santa, that’s for sure, and Seokjin looks incensed, steam practically pouring out of his ears. You’d spare him some sympathy if he ever bothered to buy a second microwave, but he still hasn’t, so he deserves whatever consequences come from this.
Turns out the sponsors aren’t, like, overly thrilled that Santa Jeongguk promises child number six a PlayStation even though he asks for a limited-edition Iron Man figurine, so Seokjin dumps even more work on you and Hoseok: Santa duties for him, regardless of whatever else he’s tasked with, and all social media accounts for you. Makes you feel like you’re drowning.
Somehow, thanks only to divine intervention, you make it to the weekend. You collapse face-first onto the couch and shut off your brain. No thoughts about what to have for dinner, about your car payment you haven’t had time to pay that’s now three days overdue, all the dog hair you have to vacuum—no, all that exists are the fuzzy blanket you’ve draped over yourself and the cringey Hallmark movie you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from.
And it’s… nice, you suppose, but it’s just a temporary distraction. Can’t be a stopper for all that stress and loneliness. Doesn’t do much to change the fact that the first thing you take off after a long day at work is your obligated smile. Doesn’t do much to ease the chill in your bones. Doesn’t do much to stop the reminder that, years ago, this is the type of day that’d have Namjoon pulling you into his arms, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck, thumbs working at all the knots in your shoulders.
Lingering on the past is dumb—you know this—but it just feels a little cruel that a D-list celebrity couple on a questionable television network can laugh and smile coyly and flirt their way through a Christmas tree farm and you’re sad on your couch.
Just three more weeks of this, you tell yourself. Three weeks until January 2nd. Three weeks until you can shrug off your fake holiday cheer and try to go back to normal.
You should call your mother.
Which is another dumb thought, because it’s not like she’ll understand. She’ll listen and coddle you a little, but she won’t get it. All she’s ever known is your father. She can’t relate. Never had that breakup. Never lost who she thought was her person. And it’s not like you’re about to confide in your coworkers, even though you’d begrudgingly consider them actual friends. Seokjin’s too stressed to take on your problems; Hoseok’s too cheerful, despite being the one who’d probably understand the most, so you’re not about to drag him down with you. Jeongguk was never an option.
Still, your eyes drift to your phone. There’s someone in it that’d understand. Seems to be going through the same thing. Someone you’ve been too overwhelmed to reply to, so now that guilt settles over you, too.
There’s comfort in familiarity. That’s how you excuse the calm that washes over you when you see the unread message waiting for you, a real water-in-the-desert situation. The proverbial light at the end of this week’s shitty, taxing tunnel.
Briefly, you read over the old ones—
[email protected] | I wish I could tell her I’m sorry.
[email protected] | Why can’t you?
[email protected] | I don’t think she’d want to hear it.
[email protected] | What would you say, if you could?
—and then your breath hitches as your eyes gloss over the new one.
[email protected] | I don’t know. That’s silly, isn’t it? I’ve had so long to think about it and I still don’t know. Or… maybe I know and I’m just scared. Is that worse?
I know I’d want to say I’m sorry. Even if it doesn’t mean anything, if it’s too late, I’d want her to know that. I’d want to say I miss her, that I hope she’s doing well and is happy. I’d want to ask if she misses me, but I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to actually do it.
I keep having this recurring dream about running into her by accident. Serendipity, I guess. Like, I bump into her at the grocery store or at a coffee shop. And, each time, I say the same thing to her: "I'm still there, in our house... it's lonely there without you. I never realized how lost I'd be with you gone, how empty our home could feel. I finally understand how you felt." And, each time, it’s somehow too much and not enough.
So, I guess I’d want to say that, too, just so I can stop dreaming about it.
My friends keep saying I’ll be okay soon, to give it more time. I guess that’s what you do with breakups: you just… wait, and one day it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. No one really tells you what to do until then, what to do with all the empty space. They don’t tell you what to do with the guilt and the hope, either, and that’s the worst part.
I’m sorry. I sort of just dumped all of this on you, but it feels nice to get it out. Even if I’ll never be able to say it to her, at least I’ve said it to someone. Thank you for reading it.
You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the screen, obscuring the letters, making them illegible.
I think she’d really like to hear that, is all you manage to type.
“God,” Hoseok groans, looping his headphones around his neck, “today is brutal.”
Across from him, you nod, lips wrapped around the straw to your extra-large cold brew Seokjin had bought you as a peace offering. “Mm.”
“It never stops,” he continues. Face-plants onto the table in front of him, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” no doubt making his suffering worse. “Look at it,” he whines, pointing at the screen. “There are sixty-seven people on hold. Sixty-seven!” A pained sigh. “You think those reindeer will run me over, too?”
You shrug. “Only one way to find out.” You lean back in your chair. “Jeongguk! Can you come in here and run into Hoseok at full force?”
Hoseok chokes while Jeongguk tosses back a huh? why? that has you snorting. “Ah, cheer up, Hobi. You know this day’s always the worst.”
“Okay, but why?” he continues to gripe. “Don’t,” he cuts you off. “I don’t need you to mansplain Christmas blues to me. I know why this time of year is hard for people, but it’s usually, like, because of money or people having shitty families, right? But this year it’s all bullshit. Just stupid stuff that absolutely doesn’t matter.”
“That seems a little harsh.”
“Is it?” he retorts. “If I have to listen to one more person complain about the price of wrapping paper, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”
“There’s a paper shortage, Hoseok.”
He pulls a face. “And that’s my problem? Stop cutting down the fucking trees, then! Did they ever think of that? Did they ever think that if they cut down an entire fucking forest, maybe suburban white women who put oatmeal recipes on Pinterest wouldn’t be able to wrap Christmas presents anymore? God, how selfish! Think of the children—”
Seokjin materializes out of nowhere, a bag of takeout in hand—the sort of boss who’s kind of a shithead but always seems to know what people need. “Eat up, bud, I got your favorite,” he says to Hoseok, busying himself with setting out the food. True to his word, he presents your co-host with a spread of all his go-tos and you watch, bemused, as Hoseok whimpers. Seokjin shoves a fork in his hand and pats the top of Hoseok’s head. “Okay?” When he nods, Seokjin tacks on, “Okay. Everything’s going to be fine. Just stay off the internet. This is your third rant this week about the environment and consumerism.”
“Okay,” Hoseok replies, cheeks bulging around a lot of orange chicken.
It takes a while for the color to return to Hoseok’s face, make him look alive again. You take the next few calls on your own, fielding rants about the state of Christmas in between rants about corporate conglomerates and the general demise of small businesses. Someone calls in to complain about the people complaining. Another person calls in to complain about this year’s mall Santa and how every single child that’s met him has cried. There must be a reason for that, the person drawls. Don’t you think it’s worth looking into?
Jeongguk cackles from outside the studio. Makes a show of grabbing his coat and keys and says he’s going to the mall to investigate. Seokjin catches him by his scarf when he’s halfway out of the building and shoves him back to his desk. Hoseok’s still shoveling broccoli beef into his mouth.
You’re starting to sound soulless when you take another call. “Hi,” you chirp, voice dripping with fake sugar. “Thanks for calling Santa-mental. What’s got you down this year?”
It’s another stupid tradition in a long line of stupid traditions. December 23rd is always set aside for those long-suffering Christmas blues, the day where callers can air their grievances and get them out of their systems at the last minute. Before they have to go to Christmas Eve parties and pretend; before they have to exchange gifts with people that have been wearing on their last nerve for weeks.
So maybe you’re starting to sound worn down, shouldering all this negativity temporarily, but you’re used to it.
“Yeah, hi,” a gravelly voice responds. “I’m calling to bitch about my best friend.”
Hoseok chokes on a forkful of rice. Begins to whisper, “Tell him he can’t—”
“That’s not a very festive word,” you snort, light enough that this caller knows it’s a gentle correction but stern enough for him to not use the word bitch on air again.
The man clears his throat, undeterred. “Right. Anyway, I’m calling to complain about him.”
“Why? Is he being a Grinch?”
“No,” the caller says, “he’s just lovesick. Had a bad breakup and can’t seem to get over it.”
“Oh. Well, breakups are hard, y’know.”
“Sure. And he’s not, like, unbearable. He still showers and goes to work, and he even has a therapist so he’s being functional and working on himself or whatever other bullsh—stuff. Stuff his therapist helps him with.”
You roll your lips, try to contain your laugh. Seokjin’s probably red-faced and white-knuckled in his office. “That sounds good,” you counter. “Productive. What’s there to complain about?”
The caller is quiet for a few seconds before he tentatively admits, “I miss him.”
“Oh—”
“He’s my best friend and he’s been so hard on himself. Blames himself for the breakup. Which, like, sure, maybe that’s true, but… I don’t know. It’s hard to see him like this, I guess.”
“How long has it been?” you ask, even though you’re long past the point in the conversation where you’d wish them well and play some tone-deaf Christmas jingle.
The caller hums. “Almost two years, I think.”
Play the song about the Christmas shoes, Hoseok mouths to you. Always says that about the really sad calls. Says it one-ups their sadness, and Hoseok’s not as much of a bastard as Seokjin and Jeongguk are, but he has that streak sometimes.
Fuck off, you mouth back.
“I had a tough breakup of my own not too long ago, so I understand your friend’s struggle. I’m gonna play something for the two of you. Happy holidays.”
Maybe you play it for them, but you play it for you, too: “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” probably a too on the nose choice, but it helps distract you long enough that you miss the questioning stare Hoseok sends you before he stares past you and catches Jeongguk’s eye and sends him the same look.
You also miss the voice in your head that says you know that voice, the one on the line. It’s a little rougher than the last time you’d heard it, two years and one month ago, but you know it.
For now, you let Darlene Love croon away. Hoseok wordlessly hands over his egg roll.
They’re his favorite.
Christmas is quiet.
At six, you blink your eyes open and check the weather. Bundle up and put those little boots on your dog’s paws. They put too many chemicals in the de-icer these days, your mom had said. I can’t believe you moved to a place that snows so much.
(You can’t either, sometimes, but you would’ve gone a lot farther for your relationship. For Namjoon, specifically, because you’d dated a few people in the first year or two of college you couldn’t imagine moving down the street for, let alone to some pin-prick town on the opposite side of the country.)
By seven-thirty, you’re eating a breakfast you’ve managed to scrape together with the last of your groceries. Eggs, a slice of toast, some cut-up fruit. Not bad, considering all you’d managed to choke down last year had been half a Nature Valley bar that you’d cried over after it covered your bed in crumbs you didn’t have the energy to clean up.
Your mother FaceTimes you at ten-thirty, just like she’d promised. She scolds you first, chastising you for the millionth time about not coming home this year for Thanksgiving and Christmas, but lays off once your dad redirects her. She flips the camera to your brother and his wife at the breakfast bar. You suspect she’s pregnant but that they’re waiting to drop the news and suddenly you’re thankful you’re not there.
You like your sister-in-law; really, you do, but you don’t think you have the energy for something so big and important.
By noon you’re back in bed, your dog curled up by your feet and A Christmas Story playing nonstop on TV. You contemplate making a drink but decide against it. Somehow it feels like progress to be sad sober.
That plan goes out the window by three. It’s snowing again and the snow always makes you think of Namjoon, of all those nights in college where he’d drag you out of your shitty student apartment with your awful roommate to pelt you with snowballs and kiss the warmth back into your cheeks. Makes you think of graduation and heat-slicked skin and Namjoon next to you on the couch, limbs rigid with anxiety as he asked where do we go from here? even though he meant do you still want me now that this part of our lives is over?
And you had just smiled and said I can’t imagine living somewhere without snow now even though you meant of course I do, sometimes I’m scared that I want you forever.
So, the snow makes you think of Namjoon and you miss Namjoon something terrible so, yeah, you’re drinking by three.
An email comes through at 3:48. A digital gift card from your brother, because that’s when he realizes he’s forgotten to get you a gift. You send him a quick thanks but leave off the asshole. You wonder if things between the two of you had always been this strained or if they’d gotten worse after your split from Namjoon. They were fast friends, closer in five minutes than the twenty-something years you’d had with him. You wonder if they still talk; if your brother blames you.
Doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Not all siblings have to be close.
But now you’re thumbing through the rest of your emails. Personal combined with work in one singular inbox, so there’s a 10% off coupon for the pizzeria by the station sitting on top of a response from the stranger you’ve been corresponding with.
[email protected] | I think she’d really like to hear that.
[email protected] | Hm, I’m not so sure, but I’ll take it into consideration. The New Year is coming up. Maybe my resolution will be to say all these things I’m too scared to.
You snort derisively. Yeah, you know a thing or two about fear, know a thing or two about all the times you've picked up your phone, intent on reaching out—not just to Namjoon, but to anyone—only to lose all your resolve. And where has that gotten you? Now you’re stuck with all these feelings and no one to talk about them with. Alone in a room full of friends. That’s no way to live, you can hear Namjoon say. The king of emotional intelligence except when it mattered most.
Being vulnerable is hard; perhaps the hardest thing there is, if your stunning lack of enthusiasm towards it is anything to go by. And it’s not like you’re opposed. Until things fell apart, your and Namjoon’s relationship was a masterclass in effective communication, and that doesn’t happen if both parties aren’t willing to be vulnerable. It’s just… hard—hard to pick yourself up and get back on that particular horse when everything in you is screaming to stay off.
But there’s an opportunity here. If this stranger can pluck up the bravery to do—and be—better, maybe you can, too.
[email protected] | That sounds like a really nice resolution. Maybe I’ll do the same.
[email protected] | Have some things you can’t bring yourself to say, too?
[email protected] | A lot of what you said really resonated with me. I had a rough breakup of my own a while ago. A lot was left unsaid. I’ve spent a lot of time convincing myself it isn’t worth reaching out as opposed to thinking about what I’d say if I did.
[email protected] | And? What would you say, if you could?
[email protected] | I guess… I guess I’d ask if it was worth it. Not in a snarky way, just genuinely curious. Because there were problems, of course—it isn’t like the relationship ended for no reason. But it feels worse now, alone, than it ever felt together.
I’d say that I’m sorry. I’d say I wish I would’ve tried harder. I’d say there’s an empty spot in my apartment that would be perfect for a plant, but that I haven’t put one there because I’m scared I won’t be able to take care of it. That maybe that’s some kind of metaphor for our relationship—or me. I’m scared of ruining all these things I grow to love, and I don’t know how to let go of that fear. I don’t know how to accept that sometimes things end, and maybe it’s no one’s fault, even when it still feels impossible to breathe sometimes.
Sometimes I wonder if I should be over it by now, so the thought of asking that terrifies me. What if I’m the only one not over it? What if I’m hanging on to something that’s long dead?
[email protected] | I don’t know anything about your relationship, but if it’s anything like mine was… love like that, it doesn’t just go away. It’s too big, too important. Just because there’s time and space between the two of you, it doesn’t erase the love that was once there.
Or maybe I’m just projecting?
[email protected] | If you’re projecting, then so am I.
Although… if your resolution is to be brave, maybe I can be brave, too.
[email protected] | Hm, like a pact? I think that would be nice, actually. I think I’ve felt complacent for far too long; content to leave things as they are instead of saying what I want to say. Maybe it’s selfish to reach out after so long, but I’ve still held on to this small thread of hope that if I do… maybe I won’t get rejected. Maybe there are some things she’s left unsaid as well.
[email protected] | You’ll never know if you don’t try, right?
[email protected] | Right. If nothing else, there’s worth in being brave and no longer having to live with the uncertainty and what-ifs.
[email protected] | Let’s do it, then.
[email protected] | Let’s do it.
After your first day back to work, post-holiday, Seokjin takes you out to dinner.
Hoseok and Jeongguk are invited, too, but both decline. Hoseok’s eager to head home and loaf in front of the 85-inch, ultra high-res television he splurged on with his Christmas money, and Jeongguk’s off to the mall to, in his words, “finally investigate that sus mall Santa.”
So here you are, sat across from your boss in a tiny Italian restaurant. A candle flickers between the two of you, flames dancing wildly every time Seokjin sticks his hand in the bread basket. He’s suspiciously quiet, and it’s not just because he’s in an enclosed space. Much like every other restaurant in this podunk town, Seokjin knows the owner, so he’s not concerned about his volume or the speed with which he puts away five buttered dinner rolls. No—this is beyond. This is genuine concern he’s looking at you with.
“Can you just spit it out already?” you prompt, anxiety needling along your skin. Would he really bring you to an Italian restaurant to fire you? You’ve been having doubts about playing the Christmas shoes song, but you hadn’t thought it was this bad.
Seokjin’s hand pauses centimeters from his mouth. “The bread?” he asks, words muffled around a mouthful of soggy roll. He swallows hesitantly. “Is there something wrong with it? Where would I even—”
You gag. “Ew! You’re sick. Why would I be talking about the roll?”
“Because I had a mouth full of roll! What else would you be telling me to spit out?”
“Whatever it is you’re clearly trying to figure out how to say! You’ve been looking at me weird since we sat down!”
Seokjin adjusts his posture, spine ramrod straight against the uncomfortable wooden back of the chair. “Oh,” he says, tone caught out. “We’re just concerned about you.”
You cock an eyebrow. “Concerned about what?”
“Nothing serious,” he replies. He toys with the stem of his wine glass. “Hobi and Jeongguk were a little concerned to hear about your breakup. None of us had any idea.”
“Ah, well, you forgot to ask about it during my job interview.”
Seokjin levels you with a pointed stare. “You didn’t really have a job interview.”
“And whose fault is that?”
The waiter appears, dropping off a plate of fried calamari that Seokjin immediately has his hands on. Oblivious to the look on your face, he retorts, “We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
Are you? That’s a bit of a loaded question. After two years, you’re well past the worst of it, so you’re not exactly lying when you answer (“I am. It wasn’t recent.”) but it almost feels like you are. Because you are okay, but you still have bad days. Not the kind of days where you break down crying and feel like you can’t get out of bed, but days where you feel worn down. Days where all your limbs feel heavy with what-ifs and a little bit of guilt.
“Okay,” Seokjin relents. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You shrug. “If you want to talk about it.”
He laughs. “It’s not an interrogation. Really—I’m just making sure you’re okay. You don’t talk much about personal stuff. Not like Hoseok does, anyway.”
You scoff. “Hobi would give someone his social security number if he liked them enough.” Seokjin doesn’t react. In fact, he’s quiet for a long time—long enough for the silence to be replaced by the clanking of dishware, of the chefs barking out orders in the kitchen. “Tell me he didn’t.”
“He… might’ve done that, yeah.” Awkwardly dabbing his napkin at his face, he quickly adds, “But Jimin was able to get it sorted! Everything’s fine!”
“If you say so.”
Over two massive dishes of pasta, and perhaps slightly fueled by the carafe of wine that never seems to go empty, you wind up telling Seokjin about your relationship. How you’d met Namjoon during the spring semester of your sophomore year in a shared chemistry lab—you, a bright-eyed and probably naive nursing student; Namjoon pre-med and too smart for his own good. You tell him how you’d only taken organic chemistry at the recommendation of your advisor and how it didn’t make a lick of sense to you; how Namjoon had offered to tutor you, which was standard at first, but found the two of you going on coffee dates by Valentine’s Day and official by Easter break.
You tell him how happy the two of you had been. All the conversations you’d had about what would happen after graduation. How you promised Namjoon you’d go wherever he went. You could get licensed anywhere, so as long as the two of you were together, you’d be happy. So that’s what you did: followed him to another big city, passed your boards and got licensed, found a cozy apartment not far from the hospital and campus. Two years of that before you outgrew it. Found a small house to rent in the suburbs. Namjoon used to wake up early to catch the train and text you pictures of the sunrise.
Life was good. The two of you were twenty-five and exhausted but so, so horribly in love that nothing else mattered.
And then, like most good things inevitably do, things fell apart.
It was gradual. Blink and you’ll miss it. The opposing shifts, the burnout, the days off spent catching up on sleep rather than each other. The meals eaten alone, the gray mornings that found you waking up to an empty bed. The first morning Namjoon had taken the train and didn’t send you a picture. The evenings spent in silence in front of the television. No conversations, no touching, just existing alongside one another like the ghosts of a love gone stale.
You’d smiled in Namjoon’s graduation pictures. Kissed him on the cheek and showered him in endless praise about how proud of him you were, not a lie to be found, drunk on the hope that maybe things would be better now that another chapter was behind you.
Then he dropped the bomb. His residency was on the opposite side of the country. He’d matched into his top choice, the best one in the country for his specialty, and he wanted you to go with him. I know that’s selfish, he’d said, and you couldn’t figure out why he’d say that, why it’d be selfish for you to go. You’d asked him why he’d waited so long to tell you, and the air was knocked from your lungs when the answer was that he knew you’d say no.
You tell Seokjin that Namjoon had been right. A string of tearful conversations, the mutual decision to call it quits, put an end to the proverbial suffering and let go of a dying thing. I guess that just happens sometimes, you tell him. Life gets in the way.
You tell Seokjin how you couldn’t bear to stay in that house in the suburbs anymore. How you quit your job and moved to this tiny town, adopted a dog, applied for any job that was hiring. How you’d never worked in a radio station before, but you’d liked Seokjin the moment you met him. He’d said you had a voice for radio and they had an opening that needed to be filled immediately, so when could you start? You don’t make anywhere near as much money as you used to, but you have time to breathe. The stress, the exhaustion and the burnout, are gone. You have enough.
Now here you are, two years later.
So, sure, you’re okay in the sense that there’s scar tissue where the worst of it once was, but you’re not sure how to shake the knowledge that Namjoon was your person. You’re not sure how to reconcile that, of all the decisions the two of you had made together, you’d chose wrong on the most important one.
[email protected] | I finally talked to someone about it today. My relationship.
[email protected] | How did it go?
[email protected] | Probably would’ve gone better if it’d been a therapist instead of my boss, but… it was nice. Talking about it means it was real, you know?
[email protected] | Yeah, I feel like that, too. It’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what her voice sounds like, how she laughed. I’m scared I’ll forget more and then it’ll be gone completely. God, that sounds pathetic, huh? It’s not like she died. But you cling to those sorts of things when memories are all you’ve got left.
[email protected] | No, it’s not pathetic. It’s hard to feel like the person you spent so much time with is just a stranger now. Like, what are you supposed to do with all the space they used to occupy? I had all this love for this person, and now I can’t remember what their laugh sounded like.
[email protected] | Can I ask… if you’re still planning on reaching out, what are you hoping for? I’m trying to temper my expectations (preparing for a rejection and/or to be ignored) and I just have no idea what to expect.
[email protected] | Honestly? I’m not sure. I’m not expecting anything, especially not any sort of relationship. I’d say the most I could hope for would be a cup of coffee, but I don’t even know where he’s living these days. Or if his number is the same. I could reach out and get told I have the wrong number and to fuck off.
[email protected] | Wow, coffee. That sounds really nice. I’m really hoping for that for you.
[email protected] | Thank you. I hope you find what you’re looking for, too.
[email protected] | I guess we’ll see, huh?
You decide you’re going to text Namjoon on New Year’s Eve.
It’s fitting, you figure. Symbolic. You can casually text him at 11:59pm and have an answer. If he tells you to fuck off, you’ll have a clean slate for the new year. You haven’t really thought about what’ll happen if he doesn’t. Getting your hopes up is dangerous, and you have enough self-control not to let yourself go down that road.
But the wait is almost torturous.
Four days. That’s all the time you have to both muster up the courage and figure out what to say. Whatever you’ll wind up saying, you’ve decided you’re going to keep it simple. It’ll be far less embarrassing to have your ‘Hi, Joon’ go ignored than some over-the-top paragraph. You might be doing something scary and brave—or extremely idiotic, depending on who you ask—but you still care about your pride, at least a little bit.
The station’s email slows down considerably. Nothing new from your penpal, either. You figure they’re gearing up for the same thing. You hadn’t specified when you were going to reach out, but you both seem to have come to the same natural conclusion. There’s just something inspiring about New Year’s Eve.
However, what you’ve lost in written, electronic communication, you make up for in Hoseok and Jeongguk.
“You’re really gonna text your ex?” Jeongguk asks, his ass perched on the corner of your desk as he litters it with cracker crumbs. You sweep them into your hand and dump them on his jeans.
As he squawks indignantly, Hoseok tacks on, “Damn, do you think I should text my ex, too?”
“No,” you and Jeongguk say in unison.
“Wow. Why do you get to text your ex and I don’t?”
Jeongguk throws a grape at him. It pegs him in the forehead and falls pitifully to the floor. “Because your ex stole your dog, dude.”
“And your identity,” you add.
Jeongguk nods. “And, like, half the shit in your kitchen. You got your stove stolen, bro. Who the fuck steals a stove?”
“Hobi’s ex, apparently.”
He chuckles awkwardly, voice high and strained. “Hey, come on now, I’m feeling a little targeted here.”
“Her ex,” Jeongguk begins, pointing at you, “is, like, a whole ass doctor. Your ex is a thief. A good one, I’ll admit, because how the fuck do you even get the stove out of a third-floor apartment, but a thief nonetheless. Incomparable.”
That’s how it goes for four days.
And you want to be upset about it, the prodding and unsolicited advice (“Just send him nudes,” Jeongguk suggests at least six times a day) but it helps to settle your nerves. They settle even more when Jeongguk gives up on your ex and focuses all of his attention on Hoseok’s, if your work chat is any indication of his current hyperfixations.
Jeon Jeongguk > did u know hobi’s ex also stole all the tubing for his washer and dryer lmao
Jeon Jeongguk > he had to use the laundromat for 2 months
Jeon Jeongguk > jimin just told me hobi’s ex also stole an entire window
Jeon Jeongguk > who tf did this guy date
You > why is jimin telling you this stuff? doesn’t hr have some patient-doctor confidentiality or whatever
Jeon Jeongguk > ??? jimin loves me, he’d never keep secrets from me
You > pretty sure that’s not how that works
You > …find out more about that window though. the curiosity is gonna kill me.
Jeon Jeongguk > k
Jeon Jeongguk > according to jimin
Jeon Jeongguk > it was his bedroom window
Jeon Jeongguk > landlord was pissed lmao
Park Jimin > You better not speak a word of this to anyone
You > i’m not scared of you jimin
Park Jimin > What
Park Jimin > Why not :(
You > ???
By the 29th, you’re ready to come out of your skin. The anxiety alone has you in such a chokehold that you’re sure any moment your heart is going to beat right out of your chest, that you’ll get fabric burns on your palms with how often you have to wipe them on your thighs, that Hoseok will pop his head over your cubicle divider and find you face-down on your keyboard, dead.
(Jeongguk promises he’ll take care of your dog if this happens, and just the thought of your pure, innocent baby being tainted by his influence has you surviving on pure spite alone.)
On the 30th, you spend your lunch break in your car. Seat reclined, radio off, staring up at the cloudless sky through your sunroof. You should not be this anxious, you tell yourself. It’s just a text message. The worst that can happen is, quite literally, nothing—and at least that’ll give you an answer. Namjoon doesn’t owe you anything, especially not after two years of silence, so the anxiety makes sense. No matter how you spin it, it’s a pretty selfish thing you’re gonna do. It’s not Namjoon’s problem that you have some regrets, some lingering guilt. For all you know, he’s spent the last two years getting his shit together and moving on, and who are you to interrupt that?
You nearly call your mother for all that Facebook intel she’d been so eager to tell you before.
This is a bad idea, you tell yourself over and over. He doesn’t want to hear from you. Right? If he’d wanted any kind of contact, he’s had two years to reach out. A non-answer is still an answer. Silence, sometimes, is loud and clear.
When you return to your desk, there’s a massive box sitting atop it, wrapped in ridiculous paper with a bow. Seokjin stands to the side with a smug look on his face that only twists your stomach more.
“I got you a gift,” he says, gesturing at the box.
You blink owlishly. “Yeah, I-I can see that.”
“Are you gonna open it?”
“Be pretty rude not to,” you answer, fingers popping a seam along the top. “You wrapped this? It looks way too neat to be your work.”
Seokjin scoffs but his ears turn red nonetheless. “Wow, that’s a really fucked up thing to say someone who just gave you a gift.” You just stare. “Anyway.” He coughs. “Hoseok wrapped it.”
It’s a microwave.
Seokjin gives you a fucking microwave.
“Are you serious.”
“Figured it was about time I got you that second microwave,” he replies easily. Shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “It’s voice-activated. Very fancy.” At your hesitant look, Seokjin tacks on, “And Jeongguk is not allowed to use it.”
You open your mouth to say something—a thank you, a why did you give me a microwave five days after Christmas, anything—but nothing comes out. You’d just been on the verge of a mental break, so it’s all a bit overwhelming. Feels like too much, even though you’ve been harassing the poor man for a second microwave for eons.
But Seokjin sees the open-shut-open-shut of your jaw and knows. Says, “Speaking of Jeongguk, he’s going to fill in for you tomorrow. Take the day off.”
“What?” you manage to choke out. “No, Seokjin, don’t be ridiculous, I can—”
He holds his hand up, silencing you. “Not up for debate,” he says, and then he’s gone.
You should’ve gone to work.
You need the distraction. You need something to think about that’s not Namjoon. You’ve already deep-cleaned your apartment and sorted through your closet. Made DONATE and TRASH piles. You give the dog a bath even though he’s not dirty, but he always fights you on the nail trim so it eats up an entire hour of your afternoon. You call your brother and finally ask if you’re going to be an aunt because you can’t stop wondering.
(You are. You cry a little. So does your brother.)
When two-o’clock rolls around, you tune into the station on your phone and listen to Hoseok and Jeongguk. They’re an absolute trainwreck together, absolutely no finesse or chemistry, and you laugh so hard you cry. Seokjin texts you at 2:03 and asks what he’s done, if it’s too late for you to come in. You thank him for the day off and laugh some more.
You eat a late lunch; something light, because even if you’re less anxious than before, you’re still not confident your stomach can handle anything heavier. You watch a few episodes of trashy daytime TV. Take a nap on the couch, the dog curled up at your feet, and hope you’ll wake up just before midnight.
Nine is close enough. You walk the dog before you lock yourself in the bathroom. Maybe you can’t scrub away the doubt trickling in, but you can exfoliate the hell out of your skin. You can use your overpriced deep conditioner on your hair and shave your legs and use the fancy lotion you’d stolen from your mother the last time you visited. You can put on fuzzy socks and make yourself feel good like this, on the outside, even when you don’t feel nearly as good inside.
Candle lit, you crawl into bed and try to read a book. Some self-help bullshit your father had sent you passive-aggressively, because it’s been two years and he still thinks you’re an idiot for leaving your cushy hospital job to work at a radio station. Because of a breakup? he’d asked incredulously, because he didn’t understand. All he’s ever known is your mother, so now he sends books instead of patronizing you out loud. Your mom had given him hell the last time he’d done it, and maybe he doesn’t mind pissing you off, hurting your feelings, but your mother’s exempt.
You stare at the cover. Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, it reads. If that’s not a dig, you’re not sure what is. You wonder what your dad would think about mono-dot-persona at Gmail dot com. Then you wonder why you even give a shit what your father thinks about anything.
Eleven-thirty rolls around before you’re ready. Quarter to midnight comes even quicker. You unlock your phone and create a blank text message. Start typing Nam— because you’d deleted all his texts after the breakup. God, you hadn’t even taken that stupid crab emoji out of his contact name, so there it sits, just Namjoonie with a little crab that makes your chest hurt.
Maybe you are an idiot; maybe your father’s right.
Then you just stare, thumbs hovering. There’s a lot you want to say and even less you think you’ll be able to. Twenty years wouldn’t be enough time to talk yourself up for this. You can’t get the image of Namjoon out of your head, sitting on his couch, arm thrown around someone else. Smiling into their neck, their hair, as they count down the seconds until midnight and share a kiss. He won’t even hear his phone vibrate. Won’t see your text until much later when his brows knit together, confused, and he shakes his head as he deletes it.
A shaky exhale. You back out of your texts and thumb to your email.
Maybe I can be brave, too.
I’ve still held on to this small thread of hope.
There’s worth in being brave and no longer having to live with the uncertainty and what-ifs.
I hope you find what you’re looking for, too.
Your phone vibrates in your hand.
Jeongguk [11:56pm]: good luck broski
Jeongguk [11:56pm]: just remember if it goes bad it’s never too late to send nudes
Jeongguk [11:56pm]: hobi is already wasted but he says good luck too
Jeongguk [11:57pm]: i had to hang out with him tonight to make sure he doesnt drunk text his ex. low key hoping he does so i can put it on tiktok
Jeongguk [11:57pm]: ill let u know what happens
Yeah, you’re going to be fine.
Hi, Joon, you type. Delete immediately because it sounds too familiar. Are you still allowed to call him Joon? Hi, Namjoon, you write instead. Blank on what comes next, those two words seemingly taking all your brainpower. Maybe they’ll be enough. Reaching out is the hardest part, right? It’s probably better to keep it simple, anyway; gives you less space to say something incriminating and stupid you can’t take back.
At the last second, you start to tack on an apology. Sorry for texting out of the blue, you want to say. But you’re halfway through when your phone vibrates in your hand again, startling you, so what you wind up sending is—
You [11:59pm]: Hi, Namjoon. Sorry for tecgt
—and you kind of wanna die a little. A lot.
You’re going to murder Jeongguk for two reasons: one, you assume the text is from him, updating you on the developing situation with Hoseok’s ex; and two, Jeongguk is usually to blame for anything that goes amiss in your life these days. But when you thumb backwards, there’s nothing new from him.
There is, however, a little blue dot next to Namjoon’s name, the hint of a response. And then several more.
Namjoon [11:59pm]: I’m so sorry for reaching out like this. Please tell me to fuck off if you want, I just… if you’re open to it, I really like to talk to you? God, that sounds so lame. I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking lately and holy shit did you also just text me
Namjoon [11:59pm]: Oh my god you did
Namjoon [11:59pm]: At the same?? Time??
Namjoon [11:59pm]: Sorry for the triple text, this is just doing my head in right now
Namjoon [11:59pm]: I’ve been trying to talk myself into doing this for months now and you just… texted me at the exact same time?
Namjoon [12:00am]: Happy New Year (sent with fireworks)
Namjoon [12:00am]: Can I call you? Is that weird?
Namjoon [12:00am]: Of course that’s weird, you haven’t even replied
Namjoon [12:00am]: Oh my god I am so sorry
You [12:07am]: You can call me
Your hands are shaking so bad you can barely swipe across the screen to answer the call. Two years. You haven’t spoken to Namjoon in two years, haven’t heard his voice. Will he sound familiar to you, or will he sound like a stranger? Will his voice sound like returning home after a long time away, or will it settle in your gut like deja vu—something you can place if you think hard enough, but ultimately slips through your fingers like sand?
“He-hello?”
A sharp intake greets you. “Hi. Wow. Shit, hi—”
“Namjoon.”
Both of you are stunned into silence. His voice soothes over you like a balm; you’ll never be able to forget the sound of it. You’re a fool to think you could. The same voice that made you hushed promises, detailed how loved you were; the same voice that cracked when everything fell apart, that spoke apologies around lips wet with tears.
“It’s so good to hear your voice,” he says. “I—Happy New Year? God, this is so crazy.”
You swallow hard around the lump in your throat. “You’re telling me,” you say, voice thick. “How are—how have you been? Are you—you said you’ve wanted to for… months?”
“Yeah. This is gonna sound stupid, probably, but I… I wrote into this radio show? I don’t even know what it’s about, Yoongi listens to it around the holidays sometimes, and I wasn’t expecting a reply. But someone answered, and—I don’t know, I just… spilled my heart out. Whoever answered was basically going through the same thing—”
You can’t breathe. “Namjoon.”
“—and we made this, like… pact? That sounds dumb. But I guess we both had a lot of things we left unsaid—”
“Namjoon.”
He pauses. “Yeah?”
“Namjoon,” you say again, vision blurred from the tears stuck to your lash line. “Namjoon, that was me. Fuck. What the fuck? Fuck—holy shit, Namjoon, you were talking to me.”
A long silence stretches between you. “What.”
“That was me.”
“Yeah, I heard you, I just… what? Why are you answering emails for some radio station?”
“I work there. After the—after we broke up, I quit my job. I was so stressed and burnt out and I just couldn’t do it anymore. You know some crazy-high percentage of nurses quit within the first five years? I just… quit. Moved even farther away from the city to some even smaller town and applied for whatever jobs were open and adopted a dog—”
“You got a dog?”
You laugh. “Yeah. He’s an American Eskimo. His name is Doug.”
“Doug? What kind of name is Doug?”
“The shelter gave it to him. It kind of suits him. He acts like a Doug sometimes.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Wait—how did you even—you heard the show? I thought you moved for your residency?”
Namjoon clears his throat. “Yeah, I was going to, but I stayed here. Did one a little closer. Leaving didn’t feel right, you know? Like, the thought of losing you and leaving the house… I couldn’t do it.”
Your stomach knots and roils. “You’ve been here the whole time?” you whisper.
“Yeah, I have. That was really you, though? On the email?” You hum. “What the fuck. This is really nuts.”
“Are you upset?”
“No,” Namjoon insists, “not at all. Baby, no, I’m not upset. Everything I said was true, so it saves me so much talking. Which—thank god, honestly, because I feel like I’m gonna throw up. I was just so scared, you know? Of so many things. Mostly I was terrified for you to actually know how much I still miss you. Is that wrong? Am I being selfish? Overstepping?”
All those tears spill over, unbidden. “No, Joon. I—me too. I miss you, too. So much.”
You can hear Namjoon’s smile when he exhales, breathy and soft. Unburdened. An entire universe stretches out before the two of you and you have your pick of what comes next. Words are just words—you’re not naive enough to think this solves anything, that there aren’t countless conversations you and Namjoon have to have. But, for right now, this is enough. It’s security, and that’s all you can really ask for.
The knowledge that, a long time ago, you’d given your heart to someone that’s still keeping it safe.
Of all the decisions you’ve made, that’s the one you’d gotten right. And it’s one you’d make a million more times and never choose differently.
“Hey,” Namjoon says after a while, “how about that coffee?”