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hating funerals is completely normal, you think.
it’s normal to hate the thick blanket of sadness that covers the streets of your small countryside town.
it’s normal to hate the vain small talk with people you don’t particularly know or like that’s requested of those who attend the visitation of the casket.
it’s normal to hate everyone dressed in black head to toe; the old ladies with those dramatic hats, and the little kids running around giggling in those stuffy elegant dresses their parents forced them to wear.
and it’s all completely normal how much you hate yourself for not-so-unconsciously hoping that this grievous event could bring him back to you after so long.
when you were younger, around seven, the older kids you played with —with serious expressions and a hint of what could only have been childish jealousy— had branded the two of you as the best friends. Y/N and taeyong . inseparable from dusk till dawn, never bored of each other, and able to communicate through swift looks only.
back then, you had accepted the title with a certain solemnity, swearing on anything a seven-year-old can hold dear, that neither of you would ever be left playing games alone.
somehow you still remember the light of a setting summer sun filtering through the nicely draped windows of his grandma’s house, bathing the living room in a soft golden hue. the background noise of a disney movie playing on the old tv while you lay with your stomachs on the thick carpet, coloring outside the lines of a coloring book he got for his birthday.
you remember the fateful question whistling through the gaps the baby teeth currently hiding under his pillow left; an excited glint in his big eyes.
'best friends forever?'
'forever.'
'pinky swear?’
‘pinky swear.’
left to your own devices by busy parents for the most part of most summers of your childhood, staying true to the sacred pact never came difficult.
the absence of family didn't seem to matter; as long as you had each other, there was always a make-believe adventure right around the corner. oh , the journeys you went on in those carefree years. you were pirates, witches, and kings, fighting against sea monsters, dragons, and the boredom always looming around the crevices of your hyperactive minds.
when your bond remained unchanged even through the challenging times of middle school and when you still enjoyed each other’s company in the social minefield that was high school, you truly —naively, perhaps— started to believe that the two of you were indeed special. a bond forged in trust and unconditional love that someone from above was protecting from the harsh truths of the real world. truths that would one day bite you in the ass and truths that came to you in the form of an avalanche of bittersweet betrayal.
pinky swearing was a powerful practice, seemingly unbreakable but not strong enough for him to keep his promise once you both graduated.
you had to keep your tears from falling, a strained smile here and a shaky nod there, as you listened to his muffled voice breaking through your despair.
he was going to study abroad! on a scholarship nonetheless!
you had really wanted to be happy for him, but the guilt that had tried to hide behind his eyes told you that he’d known he was breaking you along with the old promise. you could not– would not be happy for him the way he wanted you to be. he’d have to leave knowing he'd left you to play alone when he’d promised he’d never do such a cruel thing.
you’d waved him goodbye as his body disappeared behind the automatic doors of the airport. you’d waved him goodbye even after that as you got into your car and drove back home. you’d waved him goodbye as you curled in a ball and cried in your bed that day. you’d waved him goodbye for years after that.
in retrospect, you don’t really know what you had expected the day he left. for him to abandon his dreams to stay with you and eventually rot in the small limbo of a town that birthed and raised you on the concept of alienation from the outer world? for him to choose you over himself? maybe for him to realize he loved you just as you not-so-discreetly did him; in glances too slow to be stolen and in smiles too fond to belong to friendship, even a ‘forever’ one.
hating this particular funeral is normal, not only because it’s your lovely elementary school teacher and neighbor who's lying in the casket, but also because it’s making sad, and arguably mortifying memories resurface from under the personal growth you’ve spent years working on.
you’re not that sad and wallowing in self-pity anymore, though. you’re an accomplished person. maybe not as much as him, but that’s relative. your job in the only bookstore in town makes you happy, you’ve traveled a bit, you’ve seen things, met people, lived a life.
and still, you wonder how many what-ifs would have made you happier, made you live more . if he'd stayed, would you still be together? or would you just be strangers with a shared childhood? blurry and long gone.
the small crowd of old ladies animatedly chatting while their husbands trail behind like bored shadows, settles on the audience of white plastic chairs in front of you, and the solemn silence that engulfs the living room makes you come back from the trip down memory lane that had you staring into the void for a good twenty minutes. the cinnamon tea your teacher’s daughter offered you stopped being hot and drinkable a while ago, and you resignedly sigh, excusing yourself from someone’s grandma trying to play matchmaker for her nephew —who without a doubt is one of your old classmates— and walking to the small kitchen, away from the sadness and the memories.
dirty plates and empty cups sit in the sink staring at you, and you can’t help the urge to start cleaning them as if the help could alleviate at least a fraction of the pain the family is going through. as if it could take your mind off things.
“they told me i could find something to drink here.” a voice that you’re sure doesn’t belong to any old lady, speaks from the door of the cramped kitchen.
hands in the soapy water, you don’t turn around, limiting yourself to adopt your practiced customer service pitch and answer over your shoulder. “yeah, help yourself. the tea bags are in the jar near the boiler.”
you hear some shuffling behind you as the voice speaks again. “are you a relative?”
a short chuckle escapes your lips. you might as well be one. mrs. kim not only saw you grow up into the person you are now, but she also acted as your stone, the ear listening to your worries and doubts, your voice of reason in the world of adulthood. she was there for you when he left and you were a total mess, too. so yes , maybe she considered you one, but it doesn’t feel fair to her real daughter to go around telling people you shared blood.
“nope. just a… friend… ? more or less…”
“then why are you doing the dishes?”
you’re grateful you’re turned away from the voice because the blush of embarrassment that creeps over your cheeks is definitely not a sight to behold. you shrug hoping it doesn’t look as awkward as it feels. “i- i don’t know… i guess helping makes me feel less… powerless in these situations. i know it sounds weird but i swear i’m not some creep who likes to pop up at funerals to do the dead’s dishes.”
“ pinky promise? ”
it’s not that you don’t remember what his voice sounds like. you could never forget him that much. but as daily calls started to turn into weekly calls and then monthly and then every major festivity calls, his voice had started to dance around in your memories, perpetually morphing, presenting a different him every time he came up in your mind. a seven years old child making a promise; a twelve years old boy ordering fried chicken on the phone; a seventeen years old wannabe -man screeching into a karaoke microphone.
the deep voice that asks you the weird question is one you’ve never really heard clearly or in person, only imagined in moments of weakness and dreams.
as you whirl around with wide eyes and mouth agape, water and soap splash everywhere.
“ you? ”
the boy — the man , you correct yourself bitterly— smiles at you so brightly you might cry. “me.”
“how– when –?”
“i landed this morning in the city… jumped on a plane as soon as mom told me.” he scratches his neck, his head tilted slightly downward. “i’m sorry for your loss.”
your shock turns into confusion as you frown slightly at him. “it’s your loss too.”
“yeah, yeah i guess it is. i just- i mean you’ve always loved her so much and you’ve been around her for all these years…”
you know he doesn’t mean it as an attack on your personal choices, on your life, but the arrow inadvertently aimed at your heart strikes anyway.
you’ll be grieving for longer than me. because you’ve barely left this town, because you still live two houses down from your elementary school teacher, and i’ve moved on from this place.
he clears his throat in a way that tells you he knows what you’re thinking. he’s always had that special power to read your mind like it’s his own. “how have you been?”
it’s been five years and this is the first time i see the man you’ve become. if you ask, the right word is miserable. that’s how i’ve been.
you chuckle somberly. “shouldn’t i be the one to ask you this? mr. big shot ? your mother was this close,” you pinch the air, your thumb and pointer finger basically touching, “from hanging flyers with your face on it around town!”
he laughs and you almost close your eyes to bask in the sound that you missed oh so much. the itch under your skin you felt when he first left —one that you were sure you had long gotten over of, one you did your best to forget and to bury deep down your mind— comes back hitting you full force. the itch wants you to forget the hurt and hug him close for he is the only one in the whole universe who’s able to do something about it. to scratch it and make it go away. forever.
you hope he doesn’t remember what pain looks like on your face because you’re not sure you have full control over your expressions when it comes to him. when it comes to the infinite distance that separates you even now when you’re standing in the same room.
“no, but really. i heard you got an important job. as soon as you graduated, too.”
he nods bashfully. hands buried inside the long coat he wears. he truly looks like a man of the city; a male lead in a romantic drama you’re just a background character of.
“i have yeah. they- i guess they liked my work ethic in college and decided to give me a chance to prove myself.”
you speak before you can think of the consequences. “ you didn’t tell me though.”
silence falls over the kitchen and you swear you can hear the droplets of water falling from the dishes drying on the plate rack.
his smile is gone, replaced by a grave frown. one that looks practiced for this exact situation. one that, if you have to be honest, you didn’t want to know existed.
“i don’t regret leaving this place, Y/N.”
you flinch at the inevitable turn the conversation takes. again, he always knows what you want to say even if you try to hide it behind ambiguous questions.
you turn back to your dishes with a harsh turn. would you be able to escape the kitchen from the small window over the sink if you tried?
“ save it . i don’t want to hear how easy it was for you to leave everything behind.”
you hear him sigh from behind you. “i didn’t say that. stop putting words in my mouth because you’re angry.”
your head snaps in his direction and the grip you have on the counter is so strong your knuckles turn white. “i’m not angry and you stop telling me how to feel and stop treating me like a child and–”
“will you please listen to me?” he shakes his head and steps closer to you, eyes looking back to the living room once to check that your altercation is not disturbing the mourning.
you huff through your nose in frustration before throwing a small wave and a strained smile at the old lady that pops her head in the kitchen looking for the bathroom. “you’re doing it again! stop being so condescending!” you hiss through your teeth.
“if only you’d let me speak!” he whispers-shout back even if the woman is gone.
“ what !?” you feel your eyes starting to dampen. the fear of what’s coming next is too strong to ignore.
“i don’t regret leaving this place–
you close your eyes to try to keep the tears from falling. everything you thought you left in the past is coming back to you in waves: the helplessness you felt looking into his excited eyes that told you the news of his bright future, the anger directed at yourself for being so dumb and naive to think you’d always be together, the fear of being left alone clutching at your heart and making bile rise in your throat. it’s that day all over again. a personal inferno.
“ please ,” your voice breaks in a pitiful sob, “please, stop saying that.”
he ignores you, focused on choosing the right words. “i was so happy when i got the scholarship, and god , i was so excited that i’d already packed my things a week before my flight…”
you turn to the sink again, an arm hugging your body and a hand pressed firmly over your mouth to prevent the whimpers from coming out.
you hear him taking another step closer to you. you feel the heat of his body reaching for your shivering heart; the hem of his coat brushes against your tights-clad calves.
“receiving that opportunity was my dream. it always has been.” his arms come latching around you, effectively gluing your back to his front and you can’t find it within yourself to move him away. “and yet… Y/N, i hesitated. i stalled so much that the university almost withdrew the offer and i had to call them in the middle of the night to assure them that i hadn't changed my mind.” he feels you freeze against him and he knows you understand what he’s trying to say.
“for months i dreamed about you, Y/N. i spoke, acted as if you were still with me. as if i was still here…”
you feel him tremble slightly and his next words are hushed into your hair. a secret between you and him.
“you are my biggest regret and you always will be.”
you thought you had forgiven him a long time ago. you thought your pain was one of a child that didn’t understand, that still thought pinky promises were binding and unbreakable.
“ please understand that i needed to leave with or without you.”
he holds you impossibly close and you bury your face into the sleeve of his coat. in his smell, in his heat.
“please know that i never meant to ruin things.”
turns out even children need explanations when things are ripped away from them.
“to ruin us .”
turns out even you need closure.
you cry together in your dead teacher’s kitchen and you take him to the airport two days later. he hugs you tight and promises to call you more often. you don’t know if he will but now it feels different. it is different.