Work Text:
Restlessness. My eyes were fixed, once again, on the messaging app bubble with a single arrow on my last attempt. She never went unreachable; she was always responsible with her work. Even when I could see the desire in those deep brown eyes, she resisted and said no to my advances. More than twenty-four hours without even an insult for my persistence... it made no sense.
— Sha?! — Woon’s voice sounded distant, but the pressure she applied to my arm forced me to look up. I could feel my expression hardening. — Where is your head? I need you here.
— Have you spoken to Gorya lately? — I grabbed her wrist before she could pull away. Woon maintained an indifferent expression. — I know you said something to her the day you found us at my apartment. What was it?
She tried to look away. Involuntarily, my fingers tightened around her wrist, making her glare at me, almost offended.
— Woon, what did you say to Gorya?
She pulled her arm back forcefully and leaned toward me, her voice low and laced with mockery:
— That out of all the choices you had, she wasn't the one you’d choose for something serious.
— You said what?
My voice was a hiss, low and lethal—the kind of sound that would cause anyone to panic. I had to clench my fist tight before I did something reckless to that woman. That wasn’t me, but panic took over at the thought that those words might have infected the mind of the red-haired woman. Gorya was smart, but she always questioned my actions. Everything was being rebuilt after what happened with Kris; it wasn't as cold as the contract that once bound us, but it was still too fragile to be called a relationship.
She shrugged, but her eyes widened when I stood up abruptly, the chair scraping the cold stone floor of the expensive restaurant Woon always chose to flaunt a power that was no longer part of what I understood as my world. The voice calling my name with veiled desperation grew distant and faded as I walked out of the place that now felt suffocating.
I took a deep breath, as if I had just reached the surface after drowning, but I wasn't saved yet. I needed my safety, and now only uncertainty remained.
My head spun as I tried to calm my breathing. I signaled as soon as I saw a taxi; I needed to understand the extent of the damage Woon’s words had caused. I needed to understand what made my stylist disappear this time. There was no Kris, Claire, or Bambi in the way; everyone commented on how I wasn't the same anymore, and I didn't care, because I truly wasn't.
Everyone who had entered my apartment before was just passing through. One-night stands. Flings. Fun. But with Gorya, that lifeless space had become my home.
Home was the red strands of hair caught in my hairbrush. It was the colorful alligator toothbrush I bought because she didn't like the electric one. It was our shoes, side by side, with that comical difference in size. Just like our robes: mine, black and imposing, with the S embroidered in gold; hers, in that soft cream tone, with the G embroidered in wine red—almost the color of her hair. Everything was designed for her. Everything for her.
I gave the address to the driver with a shaky, nervous voice, while my finger slid across the phone screen, searching for that maddening woman's name. She couldn't leave me every time she felt insecure. She never wanted to talk, and I, out of sheer stupidity, didn't insist.
It was like that with Claire. She did enter that fitting room, but before her lips could touch mine, I pushed her away. She wasn't Gorya. Kris was just a friend, and flirting with her out of simple habit and fun wasn't the same as the teasing flirts with Gorya. Nothing would ever be the same with anyone else as it is with her.
The car stopped in front of the place I had visited only a few times, but which always made me feel good. It was the opposite of the life I led, but it seemed to be exactly what I needed now. I filled my lungs with effort and put on my sunglasses as I felt my eyes sting from a hopelessness that gripped my chest. I forced myself to fix the persona everyone knew onto my features; I had always been a master at hiding what I truly felt, and I wouldn't crumble now.
I thanked the driver for his patience and gave a payment much higher than necessary. It brought a slight laugh as I remembered Gorya’s indignant voice saying my name, scolding me for spending too much when it wasn't necessary.
— Shashasha!
I smiled at the warm way my name—pronounced wrong—came from that woman’s lips. She was so simple she didn't even know who I really was; she didn't treat me with fake kindness or interest, but with the best she had inside her: pure empathy. I performed a wai to greet her as a gesture of respect, but my smile widened when she waved her hands, brushing off the need for formality.
— We have the dish you liked last time today. Do you want it?
She didn't even wait for an answer; she walked off grumbling that of course I wanted it. I sat down, waiting not just for the food, but for explanations. I scanned the room for any sign of Gorya and her "thrift store adventures," but nothing was out of place. I tried to call one more time, but the phone didn't even ring; it went straight to voicemail. I was about to send a message warning that I would break into her room when her mother returned.
— Where is Gorya, auntie?
— Did she have something with you that she forgot to cancel, dear?
My glasses were pushed up into my hair; all the confusion I felt was written on every muscle of my face. What did she mean, cancel? She never canceled anything, even when sick; that woman was an unstoppable nightmare.
— Is she sick? — I asked, more worried than I should have been.
— Did she forget to tell you, honey? She caught a flight early this morning to New York.
A loud ringing sound echoed in my ears as soon as the words left her mouth. New York.
It felt like a punch to my stomach; it was as if all the air had been forced out of my lungs at once. I closed my eyes against the force of that pain and stood up abruptly, making the table shake and the silverware clatter. The world around me began to spin, and the heat of that kitchen was now suffocating me.
— Are you okay, child?
I couldn't answer. The pain left me mute, deaf, and blind. I walked out and headed down the street. When I spotted a park where I could sit and recover the oxygen that was no longer reaching my brain, I didn't see the car coming toward me. By pure, wretched luck of fate, it didn't hit me, but my knees gave out along with the tears. There, on the ground, I surrendered to the pain of abandonment.
The man got out of the car and tried to support me, asking if I was okay. Like a cornered animal, I recoiled and moved away, sitting on the curb of the sidewalk. The expensive, exclusive bag lay on the ground as if it had no value. I was the same: the expensive, exclusive model, abandoned and worthless. That was all I was: a disposable object that, once its utility was gone, was forgotten and left behind without a single explanation.
Hot tears streamed down my face; the salty taste mixed with the bitterness rising from my stomach. That woman, whom I felt was my reconstruction, had led me to ruin. But I wouldn't let myself collapse there, public and vulnerable. Once again, I had to be strong for myself. Once again, it was me for me.
I wiped the tears with more force than necessary and pulled the bag by the strap, feeling the expensive material scrape against the dirty asphalt of the gutter. I grabbed my phone to check my state before calling a taxi. It was a mess, but nothing compared to my interior. I tried to repair the cold facade before standing up, as if seconds ago I hadn't been slumped on the edge of a suburban sidewalk. I raised my hand with elegance and entered the car as if it were the most expensive limousine. I gave the address with a firm voice and maintained my arrogant pose.
When I reached my building, I again paid with a bill much higher than the fare—not out of generosity, but because it was the easiest way and I could no longer sustain the mask. I needed to break down. I needed to let out what was killing me.
The elevator ride had never been so long. In fact, everything after that news was lasting too long; time seemed to stand still, as if her absence had paralyzed my day. I picked up my phone again; the screen flashed with thousands of messages and calls from Woon, but nothing mattered now. I just wanted a safe place.
The pain grew even greater when I reached the apartment door; even that reminded me of her. I remembered how I cornered her against that wood when I received that idiotic proposal of a "friendship with benefits." I wasn't wrong when I asked what the benefits were and who would benefit. Because when she told me it was just sex, no feelings, I didn't believe it. I already knew what I felt, and it wasn't what should exist inside my "stony heart." It should have just been fun, but now there I was, walking barefoot on the cold floor because I refused to take off my sandals and place them next to hers.
It was a damn contract, with rules and limitations, but now I felt as if everything had lost its meaning. I didn't care about Woon’s theft that I couldn't prove. I didn't care about the missed appointments. I didn't care about anything. The pain was tearing my organs apart; I had to rush to the kitchen sink when I saw the can of green tea I had bought just for her.
Everything inside me came out, except the discomfort in my chest—that tightness crushing my heart and lungs more and more. My racing pulse agitated my throat and I succumbed. I let my body slide to the floor and cried, trying to tear out of me what the vomiting hadn't managed to take. They were raw, painful tears that would leave me looking deplorable.
I never allowed myself to cry. Even in pain, I put a smile on my face; that’s how I learned. Crying gives you wrinkles, and I couldn't have wrinkles. I couldn't feel. I couldn't create expectations. I couldn't love. I couldn't get attached.
I couldn't.
I couldn't because everyone left as soon as their contractual obligations ended. I gave her everything I knew how to give: a contract, a job, professional tips. And still, she left. Because I wasn't able to give her the most important thing: certainty.
How could I give certainty if I didn't know what that was? my whole life was shaped by uncertainties. I never knew if I would pass the auditions, if I would maintain the ideal weight, if wrinkles wouldn't destroy my perfect face. I always had the false conviction that people wanted me, that they esteemed me, that they would choose me. But it was all interest. Woon wanted my money. My mother... maybe the fulfillment of her own dream.
And Gorya was also a false conviction.
I believed when she took me into her world. I believed when she let me peek through the crack of the door to a new world. I believed when she looked at me with understanding and empathy when I confessed that, as much as it seemed, my life wasn't the best in the world, nor was it perfect or complete.
But now there I was, lying on the floor looking deplorable. The phone vibrated, and I didn't want to look at another message from Woon complaining about my disappearance. My body curled up like a defenseless child; my arms hugged my knees and I let myself cry more.
I cried for all those twenty-five years. I cried for every time I had been in that situation and was only allowed to be strong. I cried for the entire facade I had spent years building, which had shattered with a single phrase.
New York.
I will go to the end of the world after that small, devilish woman. How could she carry so much contempt for me in that tiny body? It wasn't possible that I didn't even deserve a “see you soon.” But maybe that was exactly what she wanted to avoid: she didn't want to be pulled back to stay anymore.
I sat up and grabbed my phone to send one more message, when my blurred vision focused on the pixelated name of the woman who had left me in that state.
“It’s not final”
I blinked, trying to understand what she meant. What wasn't final? The two of us? The trip? The goodbye?
“Take care”
So her anger never turned into hate, but it didn't turn into love either. It was a message from a worried friend. And that was it. A friend who didn't want my presence. A friend who didn't desire my company.
I left the phone on the counter and stood up to take a shower, washing away the hideous traces my collapse had left. If she wanted me to take care of myself, that’s exactly what I would do—until the day she came back to me.