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It is on an ordinary morning before all the others wake up that Yoonchae, sitting at the kitchen table, finally allows herself to think about it..
She’s drifting away. “It’s okay,” you tell yourself. “It was inevitable.” For after two months (it’s amazing it was even that long), she’s finally taken back her own bed; no more in need of your embrace.
Perhaps it was selfish to think you could keep her. To be the only one who was always there and to be what you knew she deserved. Until one day she would finally choose you and only you. But, perhaps it was instead just foolish.
Silly Yoonchae.
When she had first taken residence in your bed you didn’t question it. Whatever reason she had was hers alone and you knew better than to ask. It was only for that night, after all. But then she was there the next day too. And the day after that as well. She didn’t ever ask anything of you, but intuition dictated she was in need of a cuddle and a tender caress. So you complied and held her as she pretended to sleep.
Once or twice you offered a word of support. A murmured, “I’ll always be here for you,” or a, “you can tell me anything.” You knew it would be in vain, but as your father always said, “you’ll never succeed without trying first.” On one occasion you thought she might respond, her mouth open with a shallow inhale as if about to speak, but after a few moments of anticipation, the silence remained pervasive.
So instead of talking whatever it was over, the two of you just lay there. The strong desire to fill the void likely reciprocated, but never satisfied.
She never brought it up during the daytime. Instead, acting as though she rose from her own bed, in her own room, with nothing amiss. Megan never asked about it either. Maybe she didn’t know where she was sleeping (unlikely), or maybe, just like you, she knew from experience not to inquire too far.
The two of you kept up the charade for a short while, everyday wondering if you could be doing something more for her. You wanted to tell her the entire history of the world and how that meant it would all be okay. But, it was just too difficult for the moment.
One day, though, it changed, and all of a sudden her hands were in your hair with your hips pressed together as your tongues entwined, seeking simple pleasures from one another. It had come as a surprise, and under different circumstances it would have been a pleasant one, however this wasn’t how it should be and you knew that.
“Megan,” you whisper between kisses. “You don’t really want this.”
And she stops, just for a moment, to look at you. Her gaze drops to the sight of your pelvis thrust towards hers, and the way your fingers gently grip her torso. She flicks her eyes up just quick enough to catch you looking at her lips and her slight grin lets you know your mistake.
Her hand slides under your shirt and you flinch at her touch, too weak to resist the sensation.
You want to tell her to stop, really you do, but you can’t. Especially not once her hand creeps beneath your waistband.
“It’s okay to be selfish,” you convince yourself. “After all, that’s what she’s doing too, isn’t it?” Even if she wasn’t, the notion was enough to suppress Hamlet’s Madness at least long enough to enjoy the final climax.
And it feels good. Even better than you had imagined. But you can’t help but feel a lingering bitterness after the fact.
You decide that saying nothing is best and to leave her uninfected by your habitual self-analysis.
When she tries the same again the next day, however, you muster up the confidence to refuse. To which she replies with a blank stare, confused at the implication you didn’t enjoy it before. And as she pushes herself off the bed to leave, you call out, “Megan,” and she stops just before the door. “Please, just talk to me about it.”
Her head turns to look at you, the moonlight reflected in her fresh tears and you shoot back a smile hoping to be comforting. It works. She crawls back into your arms, now weeping uncontrollably, still not sharing with you her feelings. But it’s okay. It’s a step forward.
You would never admit it, but the situation made you feel useful. After how ever many months of being told, “you’re getting the steps wrong again, Yoonchae!” seeds of redundancy can start to be planted inside of you. Sure you can say you’re Missy paramo, the member slash visionary, but it doesn’t make it true. So this, being the person someone leans on, is nice - in your own twisted selfish way.
Eventually though, she begins to let up and tells you about her family. Some of it you knew, some you didn’t. For instance, you knew she was closer to her mother than her father, but you never knew why. This went on for a while, you couldn’t think how long, maybe an hour, maybe two, it didn’t matter. It was a side of her you rarely saw and so when you did it could feel so incredibly precious, moments for only the two of you to share.
And then she said something that caught you off guard. It was only in passing, mentioned so casually, but it stuck out. “She tried to kill herself?” The question was circling in your mind, over and over again. The idea seemed surreal, sure there was a time you too ideated in that vein, but that’s you. You deserve to feel that way, she doesn’t.
Then you realised she was still talking, and tried to put what she said behind and instead indulge in her being so open. None of what she said really answered why she was in your bed, nor why she had fucked you last night, but it gave you the gist. She was looking for an emotional outlet, and whereas before she sought that in strangers she met in a bar, now she looked to you. But, you didn’t mind. After all it serviced you too. So as the following days went by you gave her what she wanted: letting you feel good so that she could too. Some days she told you more, and you listened with intent, occasionally sharing your own anecdotes to let her know you relate. It wasn’t the healthiest symbiosis, but it worked for a time.
But, one day, after you had grown accustomed to the greedy joy your nightly sessions gave, she came home with someone else. Taking him to bed, and seeking the pleasures you thought you gave her. And it would be a lie to say it didn’t hurt, because it did. It really fucking did. Yet you told yourself it didn’t matter. “In fact, good for her. She deserves it.” Not very convincing, Yoonchae.
So when, the next evening, you see a familiar face on your pillow, you’re filled with relief and can’t wait to wrap your arms around her.
“I missed you,” you want to say. But you don’t. She doesn’t need to carry your neediness around with her. Instead, you stroke her arm as before, lightly peppering her shoulder with kisses, wondering if she missed you too. Though, probably not.
Over the years you’ve come to realise that you feel just a little bit more than most, and that’s okay in most cases, but this isn’t like most cases. The last time you felt this much of a discrepancy between your feelings and that of others’ was just after your cat died. Your sister was sad, sure - who wouldn’t be. But you were distraught; feeling as though you had been made to grieve for the sake of everyone.
“How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!” Hamlet’s words rang too true. And although he echoed your torment, you found solace in his speeches, aligning yourself with sardonic follies.
However, this time you had no escapism, and the fruits of your foolish labour were lying there in your arms.
You don’t deserve her, and you don’t deserve to comfort her. But for now you can just pretend to, until maybe, just maybe, one day you can finally be everything she deserves. And then she can be happy. And perhaps so could you.
Gradually, though, your nights of lust became fewer, and your talks on the past were lessening. Until, that fateful day when she returned to her own room, leaving a beautifully shaped void in your bed.
“It’s okay,” you tell yourself. “It was inevitable.” And inevitable though it may have been, it wasn’t any less agonising. She had grown out of any need of you, and thus the sown seeds of redundancy were now blooming.
“I’ll get over it,” you say. As if there even ever was an it to begin with.