Chapter Text
I.
Toast.
Voices bubble and pop in front of you. You watch the sparks in your champagne dance along. Every part of the room is plastered in pastel colours, and yellow carnations peer from every table centre. You tap on your glass with a spoon, and the world murmurs to a halt. Each head fixes in your direction, excited expressions pinned to masked faces.
Here she is, the star of the show, the bride herself.
Hoseok's hand is locked firmly in yours. He feels cold against you. You clutch on more firmly, fingers intertwining, palms pressing. Your groom.
You skim your gaze down your table, and are greeted by the smiles of the six best men on one side, your closest friends on the other. But your eyes flit anxiously past them. Where is she? There! Sitting in a demure lilac dress, she has her hair pinned back, proudly exposing the wrinkles on her forehead. You catch her eyes, and find she's crying.
Your mother's crying.
Somewhere in the back row, someone drops a champagne glass. You hear the shatter, and then the clatter of chairs as people clamber to clean up.
She's crying. All your life, she's never cried, she's never cracked. Yet here she is now, with her crying, cracked face. It can't be her. It's someone else. Where's your mother?
Heat rushes up to greet you, and you find you have to steady yourself on the table, wrapped up in its stainless cloth. On cue, Hoseok presses his hand to your back, holding you up. His voice is warm as it drifts around you. "It's okay. It's okay."
Keep going.
"Ladies and gentlemen," your voice shudders, and you stop, and take a new breath, and begin again. "Ladies and gentlemen... First of all, I'd like you to thank you for coming. I know it's been a long journey for some, but I'm so grateful that I can look out at you all, and see the faces I love." You feel the tears splashing freely down your face, and your bridesmaid nudges your waist, a tissue tucked in her fist. You wipe your eyes, and try your best not to smudge the makeup that was so carefully applied this morning.
Blinking back the second onslaught, you try to battle on. "Sorry. Anyway, I have a lot of people to thank, so you'll have to bear with me as I get through this."
The crowd murmurs in approval, and the sound crashes into your ears. Your knuckles are porcelain-white as you grip the table.
"A-anyway, first off, I want to thank my mum." A wave of 'awws' is passed around the room. "I know she gave up a lot to raise me," you continue, "I've come to realise that being a mother is one of the hardest jobs there is. You have to give up everything you've ever wanted, and focus all your energy on this one small being you've created. I know-" Your trembling breath draws a pause, waits, and then tries it's best to continue. "I know my mum has had to sacrifice so much for me. I think I stole her life away from her when I was born." You see your mum in the corner of your glazed eye, her face crumpled, and a fresh wave of tears smacks you.
"Mum, I'm sorry."
You sink back into your chair, your face wet. You can taste salt. Outside of you, the room melts itself into a giddy blur, and it's all you can do to take deep, juddering breaths. Weren't there more people to thank? You try to stand again, but Hoseok's hand pins you down by the wrist, his complimentary wedding ring crushing against your skin.
"It's okay," he whispers in your ear, "You don't need to say anything more."
In a louder tone, he turns to his best men and asks: "Which one of you wants to give the next speech?"
The six men mutter amongst themselves, and the room expands with gentle laughter. Finally, Namjoon stands up, to a small splattering of applause.
"It's pretty strange to think that the Hoseok that chatted up Y/N on the bus, is the same Hoseok that's sitting here with us today. I know you've matured a lot, Hoseok, and we couldn't be more prou..." You slip out of focus, Namjoon's words turning to static. All you're aware of is your ring burning into your finger, and in your other hand, Hoseok's skin, which blisters against yours.
"Do you need a few moments to recover?" he asks delicately.
You nod your head, and he slides over his chair so you can get out with your billowing, white skirts.
As you exit the room, you hear the snatches of a side conversation:
"-so odd for a bride to cry this much at her wedding."
"You think? Jaeeun cried at her wedding too."
"But those were happy tears."
"And you think these weren't?"
"I don't know."
II.
Number.
"Sorry. I don't date."
He grinned at you from across the bus aisle, ignoring your cool tone. "I can change that." His smile was wide, and reminded you of warm, cosy nights in, with hot chocolate and melted marshmallows.
You replied curtly, "I doubt that," then folded your hands into your lap, and turned your attention to the world fluttering past the window.
When the bus stopped again, an old lady got on and shuffled in your direction, looking for free seats.
The boy immediately hopped up, offering his spot to her. Once the lady was seated and comfortable, smiling toothlessly out the window, the boy turned back to you. He held the rail above your head, and radiated his smile down on you. You looked his way, then turned back to the window pointedly.
"Aren't you curious what I could do to change your mind?" he asked.
You looked back, which was a mistake. His dark brown eyes were fly traps, and you had just flown right in. Against all odds, you managed to retort, "Take a hint. I'm not interested."
"Look, I get that you've probably had a lot of idiots trying to chat you up on the bus before," the boy said, "I mean, of course, you're gorgeous, but-"
"Flattery won't change anything," you interrupted.
"I'm not flattering you," he fought back, "If you'd just give me a chance, I'll explain why I'm different from them."
"Go on then." You folded your arms, feigning impatience, but you couldn't hide the smile that had sprung to your lips.
He faltered, unsure what to do now that he had got this far. "Well – I – I give pretty good hugs."
"That's it? What if I'm not the hugging type?" you asked.
"Then you'd be lying, because everyone loves hugs. Some people just can't admit their weakness."
The bus hit a bump. He was thrown forward violently, and had to catch onto your shoulder to stop himself from falling into your lap. His face was that extra bit closer to yours. You couldn't look away from his chocolate button eyes.
"Sorry," he murmured, removing his hand, and standing up as tall as he could.
"It's okay." You cleared your throat. "So go on. What else makes you different?"
The boy looked up at the railing, then down at you, then up at the railing again. "I don't know," he admitted at last, "I guess I'm just the same as everyone else, after all. Only, I saw you when you stepped on the bus, and saw the way you smiled at nothing in particular, and I saw us together." He turned his gaze back on you. The bus hit another bump, but he stayed upright this time. All the same, something inside you fell over just then.
He smiled. Hot chocolate and melted marshmallows. "I just wanted to try my luck with you. Sorry."
A voice cut in. "Don't you give up on her now, lad." The old lady behind him gave him a poke with her walking stick, "Go on and give her your number."
The boy tried to object, but the lady was quite insistent, so he offered you an embarrassed smile, as if to say: 'Oh well, what can you do?', and then proceeded to scrawl his digits on a coffee stained receipt he had found in his back pocket. It was quite a feat, considering the bus was surging down a rickety street at the time, and his hands were off the railings.
He held out the paper to you.
You paused. Then you took it.
The people in the seats around you cheered, and the boy grinned at them, sticking up his thumbs.
You shuffled down in your seat, pulling the neck of your sweater up over your chin and nose - partly to escape the embarrassment, partly to hide your schoolgirl grin.
You delved into your bag, to tuck away the receipt with the number, and your fingers brushed against your sketch book. Rich and leather-bound, it was a gift from your mother – an encouragement to follow your dreams.
"We'll see your work in the art museums in Paris one day." That was what she had said, when she gave it to you.
Your smile trickled off your face.
"I don't date."
III.
Flowers.
Your mother was standing in the garden, the winter sunlight spiking around her.
"Mummy?" you reached up, and tugged at her hand, "Mummy, what's wrong?"
She stared up at the blank sky, her face blank too.
"Mummy?" More desperate pulling. "Mummy, are you sad?"
She smiled down. "I just can't draw them anymore. The flowers. I used to be able to... but now-"
At the bottom of the garden, the purple hyacinths curled up their petals.
"Is it my fault, Mummy?"
This brought her back to the now. "No, sweetie! No, no, no!" She scooped you up and balanced you on her waist. Clutched in her other hand, you could see her leather-bound sketch pad, filled with vague shapes.
"Is it Daddy?"
"No. Nothing's the matter sweetie." Her lips on your forehead felt like strawberry laces.
You thought for a bit. "When I grow up, I'm not going to be a mummy."
"Why's that?"
"Mummy smiles a lot in old photos. I think Mummy was happier before she met Daddy."
"Your mummy's very happy now," she said softly, "All I need are you and Daddy."
When the two of you went inside, you still didn't want to be a mummy. When you grew up, you'd paint flowers for your mother instead, and she'd be happy again. You wouldn't find a prince to fall in love with, because you'd be too busy making the queen smile.
IV.
Love.
The wedding dress lies, ripped off, on the tiled floor. You sit on the edge of the bathtub, and in the full-length mirror, your naked body stares at you, trembling. There's that birthmark mapping out your right shoulder, the dips and folds around your stomach, the scar on your knee - all so familiar, but it belongs to someone else now. That someone is married. She has a Mrs. tacked to her name, and a ring glued to her finger.
Hoseok knocks gently on the door. "Baby, you okay in there?"
"Just give me a minute," you call through the wooden frame. You can hear him walking away, can hear sheets ruffle as he lays himself out on the bed. He's waiting for the moment when you come out and join him. He's waiting for the moment when his body collides with yours, and galaxies are birthed.
A sob breaks from your chest, but you cover your mouth, and repress it. This was never meant to happen. You were never meant to love. You know where tonight will lead. You've watched it play out already with your mother and father. Hoseok lied. He promised an escape. But he didn't take account of your heart strings binding themselves around him. Tonight, you'll give him a lie in return. That lie is you.
You crack the door open, and there he is, tie undone, shirt unbuttoned. He can still make your heart stumble when he draws out his dimples. With his hair messed from the party, sitting on the lusciously draped bed, he looks like a scandalous prince, on top of a silken throne.
You're hyper aware of your nakedness, so when he walks over to you, and draws you to the bed, the first thing you do is slip off his papery shirt, and begin to work on his belt buckle. "You look so beautiful," he murmurs into your hair. The belt comes undone. He falls back, and you fall with him, and the silk sheets swallow you up. Here, under covers, the other world ceases to exist. What is there now? There's his body. And there's his taste. There's his hair. There's his skin. There's his breath, and his sweat, and the darkness.
And there's this.
yes. this. now. this.
yes yes yes
V.
Coffee.
"I thought you didn't date."
"This isn't a date. It's just two grown-ups getting coffee together."
"So you dress up this fancy every day of the week?"
You glanced down at your blue striped shirt, your tight black skirt and complimentary tights, your silver dipped bracelets, the delicate flowered stitching on your coat sleeves. Pink flitted across your cheeks.
"Why are you so against dating anyway?" Hoseok set down his coffee, and leant forward in his seat.
You picked at a crumb of sponge cake with your fork.
"If you don't want to answer, it's fine..."
"No, it's okay," you said, "I gave you all that trouble on the bus. The least I can do is offer an explanation."
Hoseok was silent, waiting. Around you the café burbled with ten other conversations.
You took a breath. "I know it's clichéd, but I don't ever want to get tied down." Hoseok shifted in his chair, his eyes running over you, questioning, probing. "I've always felt that being a girlfriend, and then a wife, and then a mother, is the worst way to go. I've watched my mother do it, and I've seen her suffer because of me, and my father. I'm not repeating her mistakes. That's why I'm never having children. That's why I'm never falling in love in the first place."
Tears had pricked your vision, but you managed to stop them from escaping.
"I'm sure your mother knew what she was doing when she married your father," Hoseok said at last. The café stirred about you, a canvas of moving shapes, and splashes of laughter. Hoseok seemed to take great care picking his next words, like how you had picked out cake in the display case. At last, he made his decision: "Dating doesn't ever need to hold you down. I'm not asking you to marry me, or have my children. I'm just asking to see you a couple of times a month, and maybe hold your hand."
"I just can't, Hoseok. I'm sorry. It was a mistake to come today." You got up, disrupting the coffee in your cup.
"No." Hoseok got up too, but you sidestepped out of his reach, and made for the door. You reached for the handle, the bell tinkled above you, but you couldn't step outside. Hoseok's hand lingered an inch from your skin. "Just give me a chance," he said, "If you ever feel trapped, we can just give up. You'll always have an escape."
The bell chimed as the door closed again, but you were on the wrong side of it. You were on Hoseok's side.
"Fine. One chance."
VI.
Signs.
You lean over the toilet, and another retch shudders through you. Nothing comes up this time though. It's over. You flush away this morning's coffee and sink to the floor. It's just sickness. It doesn't mean anything. You slip a little lower, and your head finds the frozen tiles on the floor. You want to cry, but you can't.
"Baby?" Hoseok runs into the room, breathless, "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine," you smile.
It's just sickness. It doesn't mean anything.
VII.
Kiss.
"Just close your eyes." He was so close you could practically taste his breath on the snow-stained air. There were his freckles, and his eyelashes, and the lines striking along his rose-kissed lips; all up close, magnified for you.
Normally you would have argued with him – said no and laughed, pushed him away. But that night you had adopted the 'f-ck it' attitude that sometimes overtakes you. So you let it happen. You let your lids slide shut.
His lips were up against yours, tentative at first, asking questions. But your body responded to his, igniting on impact, and when your lips pressed back he gave up all pretences of chastity. He was so rough, so hungry for you. His teeth clashed on your lips; on your lips his tongue burned. And you kept leaning in, like you could douse yourself in him. He was a thumping, thrashing wall of heat, and you needed to be a part of him to escape the cold.
It was your mistake. There had been doubt before, but now it was certain. He loved you. His thirsting kisses and his wandering hands screamed of how much he needed you, though he would never allow himself to say it. You had set up that rule. He kept the four letter word bottled up, as long as it made you happy - content to rest your head on his shoulder without it meaning anything, without it needing a commitment. But now it was all welling over, seeping out of him in every touch. He never let it escape his locked-up throat, yet it leaked from every pore.
So you decided to end it for him. You cadged yourself and threw away the key for him.
"Hoseok, I love you."
You felt his lips curl up around yours, his kisses cracked by his smile. "I love you too, Y/N. So, so, so much."
When you parted, your cheeks were wet. Just the snow, melted. But it tasted of salt.
VIII.
Choice.
"If you don't want it, then just get rid of it."
"I can't."
"Why not? It's your body."
"I just... can't."
"Well fine. F-ck it. It's your choice." Your friend stands up to leave.
"Wait," you catch hold of her sleeve, but you don't know what to say, and she pulls away, leaving you sitting alone.
In the corner of the coffee shop, where no one notices you, your hands fold themselves across your stomach. No. You can't get rid of her. Her? Somehow you know it's going to be a her. It's going to be a girl – your daughter.
IX.
Anniversary.
The fading light of the Parisian sun added the subtle shades of scarlet you needed for your painting. With one light touch here, and another stroke there, you were finally done. You took a step back, running stained hands through your tied up hair. It wasn't perfect, but that was what made it – imperfection added a human element, made it sincere. As the sky above began to darken, pulling on its cloak of stars, a soft breeze passed around you, whispering, reminding. There's a boy back at the hotel. He's waiting for you. You began to pack up your paints and brushes, when a hand fell on your back. You jumped and spun around, a cup of paint-dyed water in your hand.
Blue drops splashed onto his white t-shirt.
"Hoseok!"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He caught your hands before you could do anything about the ruined shirt, "I just got bored waiting, so I came down to see you."
Your forehead fell against his chest. "Hoseok... I'm sorry."
"What? No, don't be." He wrapped his arms around your waist, binding you up and pulling you to him.
"But this was our anniversary," Your words were muffled in the folds of his shirt, smelling of cotton and a certain something that was just him.
"So?" Hoseok's words thrummed through you. "We've been dating for three hundred and sixty five days, and there'll be many more I'm sure. But we won't always be in Paris, and you won't always be able to paint all this beautiful scenery."
You untangled yourself from him so you could catch his infatuated gaze. "Well, I'm finished now, so we can spend some time together."
"I'd like that." With an arm curved around your waist, he pulled you around so he could look at the full canvas, saturated with colour. He stood for a long time, the last rays of the sun shining through strands of his hair. At last: "It's stunning." The words were soft in your ear.
You just laughed. "Thank you."
"No, I mean it. It's absolutely breath-taking, like, every brush stroke is alive and breathing. The best work you've done."
"Really?"
"Really." He spun you around to face him, and his lips connected with your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "But you're still more beautiful."
X.
Life.
It's a girl.
You gaze at her, filled with awe. She's here. Your daughter. You made her. And she's so small. Her fist is wound up tight, closed around your finger. She holds on for dear life. You let her. You don't have anywhere else to be anyway. If you were to prize yourself away, would she cry for you? You don't want to find out, so you lie beside her on the mattress, the snow-white duvet peaking and dipping around you – snow-capped mountains to her, or perhaps clouds?
Hoseok pushes the door open. "Is she asleep?" he mouths.
A small nod from you. You can't help noticing how tired he is, his face carved and slim, and his under-eyes dashed with black. It's been a rough day for him – driving you to the hospital, waiting in the sanitized corridors, endless cups of coffee delivered by kind nurses, but no news of you. And then, when he was finally allowed in to see you, you couldn't even offer him a smile for all his worry. Just eyes, shining in the obtrusive lighting, and a murmur of "We made it." Then he fell on top of you, drowning you in kisses.
"You need some sleep too," you whisper to him, patting at the available space on the mattress.
He doesn't need any more invitation. A sigh in your ear and a light rippling of the sheets brings him to you, then one arm is flowing over you, one leg is resting between yours, cold feet on warm skin. His eyelashes tickle at your neck, and his lips search out your bare skin. His smell lingers in the air you breath – fresh cotton, and that scent of him.
On your other side, your daughter struggles in her sleep, gripping onto you that extra bit tighter. A tiny moan rises.
"Shh, shh," you soothe, your fingers brushing her downy hair. She stiffens at your touch, the relaxes again, and falls back into dreaming.
"There we go," you murmur, your hand cupping her delicate head, "Our Haneul."
XI.
First.
"Our Y/N!" Your mother knelt down and cupped your face in her hands. You hated when she did that, when she would squish up your cheeks, like you were three-years-old again. You grimaced a little. "Okay, okay," she smiled, "Y/N's all grown-up now. She doesn't want mum fussing, right?"
"Your mother's just proud of you," your father said, and she stood up, away from you, and receded back into his arms.
A happy glow fell onto your cheeks. You were proud too. You whirled around to face your painting again, your greedy eyes drinking up sights of the shining blue ribbon beside it, the 'FIRST' printed in gold along it. You had done this. You had created this, and it had been recognised.
When you turned back, your mother's eyes were shining bright with happiness, and you remembered the flowers. You needed to paint the flowers for her. You'd forgotten. How could you have forgotten?
With this thought, you ran back to her, threw your arms around her, and buried your head in her sweater. "I love you." You don't think she heard.
XII.
Empty.
You are alone.
Hoseok is working.
Haneul is at school.
You should be happy. You wanted some time to yourself, time to paint. But now, as your sit in front of the canvas, you can't even lift your brush to the white, empty space. There's nothing to create, there's nothing to paint.
It's been so long since you held a brush, it feels alien in your hand. It screams against you, it doesn't want you to paint.
"Not today," you decide, and pack away the rainbow scattered palette, closing the lid on the colours. There's more to be done around the house. Haneul's toys need picked up. The carpets need hoovering. There'll be another time to paint. You've a whole term of being alone. A whole term to yourself.
But you know the canvas will never be marked.
XIII.
Future.
"Mummy, look what I drew!" Haneul waves a page in your face.
You take it from her, and gloss over the scribbles of colour. Hoseok leans over you, and you hear his lips part in a smile. "That's amazing, angel!"
"Right," you coo, handing the masterpiece back to your daughter, "Amazing." She beams up at you, then scrambles back out of the room, leaving a trail of mixed up crayons and glitter behind her.
"She's so like you," Hoseok chuckles, and you jump when his lips crash against your cheek.
"You think?"
If she's like you, then will her future be like yours too? Will she'll grow up, filled with joy and laughter, only to reach a point where things stop giving her happiness? Will she'll see what's bad, what's wrong? Will she make promises she can't keep? Will she someday meet a man, and fall into all the traps he unknowingly set up? Will she give him her heart when he gives her his hand? Will she cry at her wedding?
Hoseok's lips brush your skin again. "She's just like you."
XIV.
Proposal.
The night Hoseok proposed to you, everything was perfect.
The sky was perfect, dotted with a million constellations. The weather was perfect, comfortably cool - just the right weather to have an excuse for cuddling. Your mood was perfect too, happy off candies and sparkling pop.
You lay out in your back garden, a fleece blanket below you, soft as clouds. Hoseok was soft beside you too. You could have lain that way forever, his warm arms wound around you, melting everything inside.
"I love you," you whispered, unsure why you kept your voice so low. Perhaps the trees and the flowers were listening in.
"I love you too." Both of you had become more confident in saying it, but not to the point where it was worn thin, losing all meaning. It could still send your heart tumbling inside you, making you want to touch him, hold every part of him, have him beside you for always. You were stupid to think you could escape it. Love was impossible to avoid. But being caught wasn't so bad. You were still you when you were with him. You still knew you.
Then, out of the blue: "Will you marry me?"
You sat up, ripping away from his heat. The coldness without him hit you in the stomach.
"Sorry, was that too sudden? Should I get down on one knee?"
"No. Yes. I mean, no it's okay. And yes. I will marry you."
You dove back into his warmth, and covered every inch of his face in kisses.
XV.
Night.
It's dark. Hoseok's arms are around you, weighing you down. His breath is brushing through your hair. Asleep.
In the next room, there's silence. You've tucked in Haneul for the night, despite her complaining. ("I know, Haneul, you don't want me fussing.") But now there's not a sound from her room. Asleep.
It's just you awake, listening to the house creaking. On your finger, your wedding ring burns, caustic. The walls are closing in on you. In the daylight, they're bright, and white, and they won't hurt you. But at night, when you can't see them, they crawl closer. They'll crumple you up, and grind you down, till there's nothing left.
You need to get away, but Hoseok's arms are so tight around you. You can't wake him up. But you need to get away. But you can't wake him up. But. But. Need wins. You're escaping his cadged arms (he sighs and turns over), walking down the landing, reaching the bathroom. You lock the door behind you, crouch down on the floor and let the tears spill. You can't name this feeling. It's not sadness, not despair, not depression. It's just... crushing. You don't know you.
A gentle knock.
You open the door, and Hoseok's outside. "What's the matter?"
"Did I wake you up?" you croak, your mouth drying.
"Yeah."
"I didn't mean to."
"What's wrong?" He catches onto your shoulders, "You've been crying. What's wrong?"
It floods over. "Everything, Hoseok, everything's wrong."
"What? How? Aren't we happy?" He grips you that extra bit harder, desperation pouring into his irises. "You have me. You have Haneul. Aren't we happy?"
As you shake your head, more tears shiver down your cheeks. "I didn't want this, Hoseok. I never wanted this."
His hands leave you. "I thought you were over this, Y/N..."
"Forget it. Forget I said anything. Let's get back to bed. I'll be happy in the morning, and everything'll be fine, okay?"
"No." He catches you, as you try to slip past him, back to the bedroom, "Y/N, do you still feel that way? About being a mother? About being... my wife?"
"I said forget it, Hoseok."
"How can I forget it? How can I forget that I'm making you unhappy just by being your husband? Just by loving you?"
A door creaks open. "Mummy? Daddy? Are you fighting?" Haneul peeks out into the hall, her face a white, indistinct shape in the dark.
"No, angel, it's fine, go back to sleep."
XVI.
Truth.
"You know I almost left your father." Your mother is so calm telling you this.
"What?" This information settles in the pit of your stomach, cold and slippery.
"Yes. After a couple of years of marriage, I became unhappy. I wanted to leave. But I stayed for your sake."
"Mother?"
She gazes out of the window, her teacup rattling in her hands (they're wrinkled and spotted now). "I just thought you should know, now that you're an adult."
You can't eat anymore, so you set down your fork. "Are you still unhappy?"
She smiles. "No." Her smile hides so much.
XVII.
Mama.
You have your tickets in your hand. You have your wedding ring off your finger.
This is where you get out. Hoseok promised escape. This is it. You'll fly to Paris, and you'll be able to paint again. You'll be able to breathe again. It's all so simple.
Hoseok will hurt, of course. He'll ache. But eventually he'll heal. He'll find another woman, someone who actually wants the roles he can give her.
Haneul will be okay too. She's young enough to not understand. She won't hurt. She'll hate. That's okay. You can deal with that.
"Would everyone flying on FRF254 to Paris please head to gate forty?"
That's you.
But. It's all rushing back. The bus where you met. The coffee shop where you made a choice. The street where he kissed you. The trip to Paris where he waited for you. The garden where he proposed. You can't get on that plane. You can't leave him. You're stuck – trapped in love... So you turn back. Everything you wanted for yourself is gone, shut away, rotting in your innermost core. Your paintings will never be in the art museums in Paris and your mother will never smile at the flowers you painted for her. So what? You'll never really be yourself. So what? You'll never be able to look at your mother without guilt stabbing you, because you gave up her dream. So what?
As you take the bus back, the sky hung over you turns grey, a thick blanket that traps the air and makes it difficult to breathe. There isn't anyone smiling on the bus today, nobody grinning across the aisle at you, trying to convince you to fall in love.
When you reach the house again, you slip your wedding ring out of your pocket and onto your finger. And the world around you crashes down. You keep going. You'll be a new person.
You knock.
"Mama!" Haneul flings open the door, "You were away for a long time! I missed you. Were you working? Were you doing grown-up things?"
You pick her up into your arms, and kiss her temple. "Yes, grown-up things, angel."
Hoseok's waiting at the end of the hall. "You're back?" His voice is so different from when you spoke over the phone.
(("I'm leaving."
"What?"
"I can't go on like this."
"F-ck. Y/N. Can't we do this in person?
"I'm sorry Hoseok. I still love you."
"If you love me then-" You hung up.))
"I'm back. And I won't be going away ever again."
The words hang in the air between you and your husband. Haneul can't possibly guess their gravity.