Last night, I had barely slept. It was such a strange feeling to find myself in bed as if nothing had happened. It felt like I spent a long time in those bunks that my bed suddenly felt foreign, yet I am home now.
It is not good to be back.
It feels different, yet nothing's changed. Same water stain in my ceiling, same untidy bed. But somehow, the mundanity of my life had turned into something more; a reason. It won't leave me.
Dissatisfaction is a recurring theme here, my feelings of contentment never last long. There is an abrupt, tragic stop to it all, that, in my bedrotting, I feel a full sense of comfort. But this place smells, I cannot get rid of it. I pay rent a little too high for a place like this, yet live by a weekly pay, and the patience of my landlord—a patience that I am sure is dwindling.
Mrs. Kim is a very kind woman. She was a previous landlord of mine, and took me in when I begged for a place to stay. She is an understanding woman, but I feel her slipping away; that my advantage of her kindness is something she merely tolerates. But she will never say anything, I know that about her.
She worries a lot—she worries about me. But her kids, whom I've witnessed grow old, never really took a liking to me. I understand. I would often sense this quiet judgement when I would pass by them, and hear them berate their mother from the other room. "You cannot let her treat you like this. You've been nothing but patient with her, but she couldn't even at least keep up with rent. How will you earn money? How will you feed your grandkids?"
"You have to understand that she's in a tough spot. Besides, she always pulls through."
"She's a month late. Again. How long will she be in a tough spot for?"
I also think they know that I hear them because when I encounter them on visiting days, they have this shameful look in their eyes.
But I still understand. Things should not forever be this way.
I look at the ceiling again, I realise the water stain had grown. I sigh, I turn in hopes that I'd fall asleep.
But I didn't.
Every night is a long journey to sunrise—a journey I must persist on. There is nothing else for me to do but close my eyes and hope to wake up in a different world. I am too tired to write, too awake to sleep. My mind has always been a circuit that never stops, and I pay the price for it. Then, in the morning, I'd be up after, say, two hours of sleep. I will get changed, drink my coffee, and step out for a smoke. Then, I go to work and do nothing but sit on my ass, hoping for the day to end.
I've lost a life. Somewhere in the middle, I must have done something wrong that my dreams had slipped out of my hands, into a plane I could never reach. I am almost 40 now, I cannot dream anymore. I don't have my youth that keeps me going, and I must forget about dreaming and focus on surviving. And then, there are the sharks.
This was years of chasing and hiding, and begging for more exemptions. But greedy people know no mercy, no empathy, and that my sacrifices for my father will forever be remembered as a big mistake.
My father was sick; dying. Working alone did not help him to survive, so my naive self stuck to the instant satisfaction of loaning, only to fall short. In the end, dad dies, and he left nothing for me but debt.
These dreams of mine, yet meant for a younger self, never really left me. I've been told before that I am not too old to do what I want. I can go back to grad school, I can become a teacher. But now I've learned that writing alone did not save me from mundanity, but instead left me burnt out and empty. I have no wisdom to share except tragedies I would not want the world to hear.
Contentment. What is contentment?
When I was young I felt briefly content. And in my insomnia, I can shamefully say that contentment was only ever with Sang-woo. His being popped into my head, never leaving. He never even left me, anyway. He is a context of my present, a foundation in my past. How can one truly forget their first love?
Secondly, there is the past. With our reunion, he had become a familiar stranger. Some things has changed, and some things not entirely. I can be a stranger to him, but he will never be less than a man I loved. I can admit that now for I am alone.
With everything; the smell, the stain, my rough bed, my life had gone through drastic changes every after separation. He had made my life better in ways that were tangible, and ways that were insightful. I'd met love through him, I had gained prosperity with him. But he knows the world more than I do, as I am merely stuck in mine—even until now. I fear I have never really grown up.
I can see money as a necessity, but not more than that. I cannot wrap my head around investments and budgets, and stocks, and all those things men made up. They were too abstract for something so meaningless and tangible. In some ways, all these things don't really exist. It merely existed because of want. But Sang-woo understands it all, and he became this foundation of provision that made me utterly pathetic and dependent; things I had greatly feared.
But I am here now. I pay rent late with what little I earn, but I still pay anyway. I work, but not enough. I've got debt, but no money. Is this not what adulthood is supposed to be like? Lacking and hustling for something meaningless. I work, I eat, I shit, and I barely sleep, but I still must work anyway.
When I think of Sang-woo, I always think about the times he has saved me from my own transgressions. My wants, my needs, my inabilities—of not being able to save mindfully and stay away from debt. He helped me a lot, but I never learned. But in the games, when I saw him, I knew he had failed too. He failed himself, and I thought he was supposed to be smart.
Billions of won. I remembered. I cannot live up to that despite everything. I am 120 million won in debt, but nothing as extreme as him, meaning he was not unlucky—he had done something wrong. I wonder, if I had stayed, would I then be wronged the same way? What does his mother think of this?
His mother.
I feel a queasiness rise to my stomach. I already know she is kept in the dark, else he wouldn't have been in the game; she would have killed him herself.
Though, she is soft and tender. She loved to cook for me and forced me to eat my vegetables. She said she hates it when we drank at her house, but I know she secretly loved the company. She read my stories, asked about them—she was as inquisitive as her son, just as intelligent and concerned. And suddenly, I remember sunny days in Ssangmun-dong and the unbearable, humid heat walking down the wet market. And the stop at the fish stall where Mrs. Cho sold her district-famous mackerel, is a home that takes you in from the bleak world of reality. I miss it, I miss her. I missed Sang-woo.
When the morning came, I made it a priority to visit Ssangmun-dong. Nothing has changed. I spent years avoiding this place in fear of facing what once was. But as I brave it out, none of my ghost seem to acknowledge me. I remember the people here, and the stalls. Everybody is busy, the market is bustling, so I don't think they noticed me. No one is looking up from their stalls really, and I now seem to be the ghost passing by.
I continue on, walking down lanes I've walked on before—and last night. I did not reminisce much, but I do wonder about change; about how concrete is cracking and chipping, and how plastic stalls get moldy and worn.
There are a lot of things scattered across the road; plastic bags, flyers, garbage abandoned. It was important that it was there, that these things moved with the wind. There is many space for entropy, that all these things that fall to the ground must move, change. Papers that had fallen dissolve into puddles dropped by rain. Plastic bags, wrinkled and torn apart by feet that trample them mercilessly. Morsels, paper cups, straws and receipts, they must change in order to perish. These things—you cannot hear them, they cannot cry for help. Their existence depends upon when they are stepped on or swept away; thrown into the bins—only to be thrown in a landfill. You would not even know there was a bottle on the ground until you hear it crinkle beneath your foot. It was full once, but now you've stepped on it.
Why did I come here if not to think of the end? The end of something—something that once was. I return back to a brief, blissful life—a life that's ended, to see a woman I've been itching to see once again. For closure? For comfort? Maybe all I long for was a warm embrace, yet again, the day is too hot for that. I am not longing for love. Then, I shall visit and leave immediately.
I turn one more corner. I know this place by heart. From the turn, it's a few more steps over until you see the line of mackerels placed neatly in order. The market smells pungent of fish and rain, and I remember nights where a triad walks drunkenly to a lit home with an angry mother.
Mackerels, mackerels, they're fresh for the price.
If you get more than a kilo—I'll add a few more for you.
Mackerels are delicious when they are fried. I loved it with rice and seaweed soup. I loved it with eggs in the morning, and with coke on the side. It sits well in my gut as I dissolve it into love.
"Mackerels! They're all fresh and—"
The chanting stops and I face the mackerels lined up before me.
"My dear." The woman gasps behind the counter, her gloves hands clinging onto a fly swatter lowered carefully to her side. She cannot believe it—she cannot believe me. There is time between us, it stands still. She is looking at me, but I cannot. I am afraid, and I don't know why.
"Hae Young-a" She says. "What—are you doing here?"
The words dissolve in my head. I could do nothing except look at my feet on the ground. The air becomes heavy, the sun becomes hotter—brighter—as I feel my cheeks fill up with something that is not blood—it's hot and runny, but it is not blood.
"I don't know." I say. Honest, profound. It was not meant to be said out loud. How dare I? My mouth has betrayed me.
Something is wrong—something is different. I cannot escape. Paralysed, I feel inferior before this woman and her fly swatter, compelled by the mackerels that reduce me down to an aching woman.
"Imo..." I say. I called her that many times, and it is still home the moment I said it.
I don't understand what has happened. I was merely staring down and then I feel droplets by my feet. But the sky is dry, and I am under a shade. I feel the water coming from my chin—It was coming from me. I was crying.
"My goodness...Hae Young-a—"
I couldn't take a step forward without falling into the arms of the smaller, older woman as her fly swatter falls to the ground. I am cold. She gives me a warm embrace.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I begin to cry. The words leave me with weight I hadn't realised. It was there, but then it's not—then I am held and I cry. I cry, and cry—I am a child. The woman holds me, but she is not even my mother. But I call her imo. I called her when I needed her; and the last time I called her, it was to tell her that her son and I had broken up.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
But I do not understand why. What else am I sorry for except knowing and remembering? I've gotten out. She might not know it, but I was lucky to be alive to day, lucky enough to have felt her hug, but cursed to experience it briefly.
Neither of us understood what's going on which made things feel heavier, the sun in the streets brighter, as the entire world hones in on me as an attentive watcher. Now that I have fallen, it's finally acknowledged my existence.
"My dear, what's going on? Please help me understand."
But I don't. I just cry in her arms until she guides my weight to a plastic chair at the corner of her store—her store which leads to the front door of her home.
She knelt in front of me, rubbed my lap as I cried. I don't know how long I had been crying for, but when I finally looked up, my throat was dry.
"Hae Young..." She says softly. "Why are you here?"
I swallow a dry lump down my throat. Where do I even begin? "There was a—huge stain on my ceiling." I stammered. I begin from there. "—and my room is falling apart—I don't know what to do." I whined.
"—And I missed your mackerels." I sobbed. I kept sobbing until my eyes were dry.
I look at her—she looks at me with sorry eyes. I missed her mackerels. I guess she missed me too.
"Mackerels..." Mrs. Cho says softly. "You missed my mackerels that much?"
I don't say anything. I just sit and cry pathetically, trying to find my words.
I cannot clearly describe the circumstances I am in, let alone why I suddenly miss things. I cannot tell her about yesterday, I cannot tell her about her son. Yet, who am I to her—what am I to her? Except for someone who did not stay. But I am back now. What am I?
The plastic chair creaks under my weight.
Weight.
I am a weighted object as heavy as my loneliness. I roll around in my own puddle of tears, I've become my own ball of steel. I am hungry, I am exhausted. I've come for food and a drink.
"I'm hungry." I croak. "And I've missed you."
Mrs. Cho held my wrists gently, fitting loosely in her grasps. She looked sorry and guilty as she raised them up delicately. "My poor dear, have you not been eating?" She cried.
I shake my head. She gets up. The moments stirs and I've become a child again.
I don't exactly know how the next 20 minutes unfolded. All I know is that I'm back to Mrs. Cho's store with fried mackerel and rice, a fresh can of Coca-Cola opened next to my meal. "Here it is." She says softly. "Eat—eat!"
I do not protest. I pick the fish up in between chopsticks as I shyly take my first bite. It smelled fresh and almost like the sea, and tasted salty-savoury as the fish crunched between my jaws. This is the first time I've eaten a proper meal in days.
Mrs. Cho stood next to me, watching intently as I took spoonfuls of rice and fish, shifting cautiously if I even stopped for a bit.
"Just keep eating, dear. And if you want more, just tell me."
I don't hold back. For years I've been so hungry—craving a something I cannot fully digest. It is not food, nor a thought, but something intangible that even I cannot make it ip in my head. I crave an appetite, I crave a desire. I crave mackerels from Mrs. Cho's shop—and that is desire. I want to want, and I want to eat. Before me is a memory I've been longing to devour.
More, more. "I want more." I say softly, as I'd finished the fish on my plate. Mrs. Cho looks at me lovingly, she does not question it. She had fried extras and put it on my plate.
She sat next to me on another plastic chair. It, too, creaked under her weight. She did not eat, but she also looked hungry as she searched for something in my face. I know she wants answers, but I cannot give it to her.
"How long have you been starving yourself, Hae Young?" She asks me softly. "What's going on?"
I swallow, putting my utensil down as I sit up to look at her properly. She looked sad and old, but not at all worn. What a strong woman—what a sincere lady.
"Please," she pushes softly. "Will you tell me what's going on?"
Something inside me stirs—or breaks—I don't know. But this heavy thing inside me has crumbled as I began to feel at ease. I am safe, I am comfortable. "Imo..." I began. My mind pauses for a minute before conjuring up what little I can say.
"I just—missed you."
"Hae Young-a..." she sighs. "You can tell me anything. Despite everything..."
She scans my face for something—a clue.
"Is it Sang-woo?" She gasps. "Have you guys met? Did you come in contact with him again?"
I shake my head.
"Did he do something?"
"Can't I come by simply because I miss you?" I mumble. Must you always be connected to your son?
"Why can't you believe I can miss you outside of Sang-woo, imo?"
She sighs, relieved but not content. She takes my hand again and says, "You were in his life so potently that I can't believe that you'd come back for something that isn't about him."
"You know what it's like." She says. "And surely he can't be any less than a thought to you. You were engaged. My dear, it's been a heavy kind of love, that weight couldn't have lifted easily in over a year.
"So Hae Young, I appreciate that you came here for me, but I would like to hear you be honest with yourself."
I don't know what else to say, so I just nod.
"Something happened between you and Sang-woo?"
I shake my head. It was a lie, but a necessary one.
"Maybe something else." I answer her. "If you know what it's like feeling so lonely...It was something else of him—but not him."
"I don't fully understand. Honey, you're speaking in tongues again." A small laugh escaped her lips and it made smile slightly. She knew this—she remembers.
"I still remember how your mind works. I can barely understand you when you're stressed." She squeezed my hand. "So take your time, I'm still here, okay?"
I nod, and she finally let go.
"Now eat, Hae Young. Finish your meal."
I ended up staying in her shop for two more hours. At this point, the subject of why and Sang-woo had been dropped. She asked about me, my life, my moldy apartment; "Can't you move out?" She complains. "You're paying for something that's slowly killing you."
"Just a little more until I find a better job." I say. "But I'm in good hands, don't worry."
"Good hands?" She turns to me. "Are you living with somebody?"
"—No." I retort. "I just mean—I live with nice people. My landlord—she is kind. She takes care of me sometimes."
"Well that's...good." Mrs. Cho scrunches her brows.
"What? What is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You have that look on your face—disapproving."
"Oh—" she groaned. "You're under good graces, Hae Young, but that doesn't sound healthy." She says, "If they were taking care of you, then they'd get that mold off your apartment."
"Yes, but—"
"—No buts." She says. "They need money too, I know—money from you. She may care, but also to an extent."
"But they really are kind people." I insist. "They've done...so much for me."
Mrs. Cho pipes down, I guess she sensed the softness in my voice. But I am right. She may not understand, but I knew enough to defend my case. Many nights had Mrs. Kim helped me, and many nights has she saved me. The patience, the sweat, the blood...
Blood.
"...Yet," I add. "She cannot cook mackerels the way you do."
Mrs. Cho finally smiles as she gives me an affectionate pat on the cheek.
Eventually, the sun is beginning its slow descent in the horizon, the sky more yellow now. It is late afternoon, and I tell her I must go.
As we said our goodbyes, she held me for a moment, both hands in hers. Her grip was strong as if she did not want to let go. "Hae Young..." she begins. "You must understand how big this is for me—"
"—I know." I look down, guilty.
"No dear," she reassures me. "I'm so happy you came."
She pulls me in, securing me in her arms. I can feel her, I can feel that she was afraid of something—like a mother afraid to let her baby go.
"And what you have to understand is..." I can hear her voice wavering, almost about to cry.
"I've told you this time and time again, Hae Young, that I've always wanted a daughter." She cried. "So I was really sad when you left."
"Imo..."
"But I'm so glad my girl returned to me."
She finally let go, though keeping me at arm's reach.
She is crying now, but smiling. I've wanted to feel that contradiction since I was a child.
"If things weren't so awkward, you could live here." She cringes. "Well it doesn't matter. If you want to live here now, you can!"
"Imo..." I groan again.
"Right— yes, yes. Only if you want to." She waves her hand. "But still...Don't forget you still have a home here, alright?"
"Yes, imo." I say. She pulls me in for another hug, and finally let go of me completely.
I say my thanks, my long goodbyes. Though before I could leave, she hands me a bag of mackerels. "I don't want you to starve yourself, okay? This is for free." She says. "And I do think want you to miss my mackerels anymore."
I smile solemnly, thank her for the fish then leave.
I had probably left too soon. The sun is still quite high, but my mind feels heavy and tired. The lack of sleep had probably caught up to me as I feel my tiredness with every step. Though I haven't even gone too far from Mrs. Cho stop. I turn the corner and stop—there are two faces before me—equally shocked.
"Hae Young—" one of them says. "How are you—what were you doing there?" Gi-hun stammers. Behind him, Cho Sang-woo.
Gi-hun looks down at the bag of mackerels in my hand and he sighs. "She gave you free mackerels? Oh—and that lady charges me for it!"
"Gi-hun," I finally say. "Were you guys spying on me?"
They both fall into guilty silence.
"How long were you guys spying on me?"
"—No—no, not too long." Sang-woo finally steps up from behind. "It's just...an odd coincidence for us to be here today..."
The three of us just stand here, not really knowing what to do.
"You saw my mother..." Sang-woo finally spoke. "What did she say?"
I give him a full gander in his grey matching suit, and he stands before me as if I had not been thinking about him the whole day—the whole night. He looks inquisitive. Poised, but ready to crumble. Once again, something inside me stirs.
"We talked." I tell him, clutching my bag of mackerels. "Not really about you, if that's what you're worried about."
Sang-woo's brows knot together in a confused expression, bringing a cigarette to his lips. I hadn't even realised he was smoking this entire time. But the scent of the tobacco, the wisp of the smoke—I want a hit.
He didn't seem too fazed by my sudden appearance—nor did Gi-hun. I guess they've been watching me long enough to have gotten used to my presence in their district. But to me, an unfair match—felt like I've ran into a car wreck. These two do look like a car wreck.
Finally, I tell him, "I didn't come here for you."
Sang-woo looks at me, almost too quickly as his glasses had slightly turned askew. With a mindful finger, he pushes them back up his nose.
"I wasn't thinking that." He says, but softly.
"Hae Young, what did my mother say?"
I shift on my feet. "A lot. She did mention once that you were on a business trip. But that's it."
He looks at me intently, searching for some truth. But I was honest this time, and I sense that he knows he was a topic I did not want to touch. Else, I would have gone to him directly, or not at all.
"That's what she told me too." Gi-hun adds.
"But back to the subject," I tell them, now crossing my hands over my chest. "You guys were watching me."
"Well, we couldn't exactly come up to you and imo all willy nilly." Gi-hun says. "But we were curious. Hae Young-a, it's been a while since you've been here."
Yes, it has been. I'm afraid I have been caught.
This was a place we used to stay at and spend nights talking, smoking, drinking. It's a convenience store not far from Gi-hun's house. It was quaint, quite untidy, but a good place. It smelled oddly of fish, and smoke, and cigarette butts, but I'm glad to know that nothing has changed. We as friends knew this place very well, maybe that's why we've landed here, once again, at such an uncanny time. Was it fate or our intuitions alone that brought us here? Either way, we found ourselves back in this spot; like moths to a flame. So, we convene.
"I don't know anymore..." I finally say. I look to Gi-hun and Sang-woo, but my answer doesn't seem to surprise. "I am here for the same reasons you guys are."
"Well, I live here." Gi-hun says. "You're the ones who are in alien territory right now."
"I came for fish." I say, as I hold up the bag.
"That's it?"
"Yes. That's it."
Though to Sang-woo, my answer is not believable.
"Are you being honest?"
"I am."
He looked at me for a moment before sighing, then looking away. There is a lot to unpack, and a lot to return to, and we stand here in a dangerous place too close to home.
For a moment, all three of us just stood there in quiet contemplation, neither waiting nor hoping.
The sky, though still bright, is beginning to paint this orange, melancholic hue that I hated so. It always made me feel queasy and depressed, that I would often avoid this hour by blocking my curtains until nightfall. But here we are in the cusp of it, waning in the shadows of sundown.
"Six billion won." Sang-woo finally says. "How can I make six billion won?"
"Six billion!" Gi-hun cried. "I thought it was six hundred million?"
"There's a lot more money that they don't know about."
I scrunch my brows, turning to him. "What did you do to lose six billion?"
"—Did you gamble?" Gi-hun added. Sang-woo shakes his head.
"I dealt on futures. And I used my mom's shop and her house as collateral."
"Jesus..."
Defeated, I sat down next to Sang-woo on the concrete steps. My head queasy, I drop the bag of fish between us.
"And I thought mine was bad." Gi-hun says.
Disgruntled, Sang-woo takes another cigarette from his pack, but he doesn't smoke yet. He holds the cylinder between his fingers, pristine and straight, the cigarette begs to be held—even for just a second. A silent history. A disgruntled longing of both mine and his, as i stare at the stick in his pinch. Suddenly, a phone rings. Gi-hun picks up. The conversastion is unintelligible, but there is a look of confusion on Gi-hun's face. I couldn't really pick up the conversation, but he suddenly turns to worry. He drops the phone and turns back to us.
"Is everything alright?" I ask. He shakes his head.
"I don't know." He replies. "But I've gotta go."
"What is it?" Sang-woo asks. A thick air settles upon us as Gi-hun's bright face turns grim. It took a while for him to answer, and in that short pause Sang-woo and I had exchanged a nervous look.
"It's—eomma." Gi-hun finally says. "I've gotta go—"
Without hesitation, he bolts out of our vicinity, running through Ssangmun-dong opposite of where his house should be. And as he left, the dusk has finally settled upon us.
The orange hue fades, the blue hour takes its place.
We are alone now, just the two of us. In our silence, Sang-woo had finally lit his cigarette, taking two cracks of the lighter before it burned. The cigarette between his lips looks temptingly sweet as the faint ember glows. Then, Sang-woo turns to me, tired eyes hidden behind his glasses. His hair, usually neat, had fallen over them too; juxtaposes his clean, grey suit. He looked tired, but there's something desperate about him.
He catches me looking, but says nothing. He then takes a quick inhale of the cigarette, then takes it off his lips. With a slow exhale, he passes it on to me. I take it.
I take a hit, I feel the smoke enter me. The smoke fills the hollows of my chest—my head—my gut—and it lingers there for a second until I release. This stick that travels from my fingers to my lips tastes familiar—smokier, sweeter.
"Since when did you smoke?" I ask, taking another hit before handing it back to him.
"Long time ago." He answers curtly, taking the stick from my hands. He takes a long, slow drag, almost savouring it, his lips greedy, hungry.
"And you?" He asks, but doesn't hand the stick back. He keeps the cigarette between his lips.
"I don't know." I say. "A long time ago."
Then silence again.
The talk was nothing more a passing of a cigarette stick between him and I. But it was funny because I felt almost thirsty for it, desperate for another tasty hit of the stick. Yes, the stick, not the smoke. The stick my lips settle on almost like a gentle kiss. And then, when the cigarette had burned short, he passes the last hit on me.
"Last one." He says. "It's yours."
I take it without hesitation, taking one last sharp inhale as the bitter taste of tobacco hits my tongue in an awful way. I cough, dropping the cigarette butt on the ground. By instinct, Sang-woo rubs my back as he steps on the embers of the discarded thing. Was it really the last cigarette in his pack?
"Jesus, take it easy."
I let up, finally, as the coughs skip to smaller huffs.
"That was disgusting." I say in between breaths, and then something odd happens. A small smile forms on his lips.
"Yeah?"
I nod.
"It is a pretty shitty brand." He says, taking the empty box and taking a quick glance at the cover. "It was the cheapest."
He shows it to me, but I only give it a passing glance before I look back to him. I hadn't realised our heads were so close. He smells like his cheap cigarettes, but with his expensive cologne, though his jacket smelled a day old—of gasoline and sweat. And I suddenly became aware of this insecurity, that if I could smell him, then he could smell me. I lean back a little, yet his head seems to follow. Closer, he is looking back at me.
"Hae Young-a" he finally says. He looks at me intently through his thin frames. "Why did you do it?"
"—Huh?"
"In the votes." He says. "Why did you vote to stay?"
He was looking at me very intently, eyes lowered and looking through the fringes of his hair. It was almost intimidating, but it was also endearing, and I swear I've seen this tactic before.
"You wanted to stay." He says.
"And you voted to leave. Six billion won in debt." I retort.
"—You're avoiding the question." His face moves closer. "I just want to know."
"What else is there to know?" I move my head back. "I wanted to play. I wanted to stay."
Something in his eyes flickered—his gaze moving down my lips then quickly up my eyes. His eyes, examining me, pierced greatly through mine as his dark gaze had caught me off guard—just what he wanted.
"How bad is it?" He finally says.
"Not as bad as yours." I say. I see his eyes flicker, though I can't tell if it's of satisfaction or malice.
He lingers. God, he keeps lingering. Very close, very airy. His head is close to mine that I feel the whispers of his fringe at the edge of my forehead, and a chill runs down my spine. He is so close—too close, but I don't move any further back. He is looking at me, his gaze is scanning my face in a slow, dragging manner that I could feel his eyes leave footsteps on my skin.
It was all too much, too missed. It is all more than familiar one, but—I hate to admit—wanted; longed for. I yearned, I am yearning. I am hoping his eyes would land on my lips again so I could feel the imprint that he would leave—a ghastly remembrance of a kiss.
But then, his eyes land beyond my face, into a hidden cranny beyond my chin and jaw. Something had caught his attention that now his eyes has turned grim and worrisome.
"Hae Young..." He says softly as his hands reaches for my face. I recoil from his touch, but tenderly he insists, saying, "No—no, wait. Don't move—" So I stay still.
I feel his fingertips touch my cheek—then my jaw, then it moves away to gently push my hair back behind my ears. Sang-woo looks displeased.
"What?" I ask. "What is it."
"That bastard." He huffs. His fingers now travelled down my neck.
"You're bruised." He tells me.
"What?" I panic, quickly fishing for my phone—using the dark screen as a mirror and—there it is; purple marks that dug deep into the sides of my neck, in the shape of Gwangseok's angry grasp.
"How bad is it?" I ask him. "Is it obvious?"
With both hands, he takes both sides of my hair and combs it in front of my ears, a feeble attempt to hide the bruises. "Not too much." He says. "If eomma didn't notice it the entire time you were together, then it's not that noticeable."
"Okay." I sigh, relieved.
"But it looks dark." He says, not letting me off the hook easy. "Hae Young, that man could have easily killed you—"
—I didn't want to hear it. The air breaks, the spell he had casted was broken, and I have found the frustration to break the tether. I pull away from him quickly, as the world around me faded into reality.
"Hae Young—" he says.
I grab the bag and sit up stiffly.
"You have to talk about this." He presses on. "Why are you suddenly so rigged."
"It's—" I sigh. "—It's a long story. Too long for a time like this."
"Then let's make it a long one." Sang-woo says.
He finally stands up, towering over me. And without question, gently takes the bag of fish from me.
"Come on." He says. "I've got the whole night."
I feel like I had betrayed him somehow.
What an interesting thought.
It is like suddenly I owe him my time as he carries my mackerels as he walks me to my home. It is like old times, but it feels like a memory. The fact that I had even agreed for him to walk me home is absurd in itself. But he carries my fishes, and he shared me his cigarette, so now he shall take me home. And he knows home. He's been there before. Let me tell you that he has been with me through points in time. He's known of the hostel—the dump I stay at, and he remembers when we were twenty, sharing a bed there. Yet, in our walk home, he never once questioned my accommodation.
He knows the way, of course he does, but our walk moves quite...slowly. I have been silent since we left. He is waiting for me to talk.
"Where will you begin?" He beckons. I take a deep breath.
"I don't know." I say.
"Then begin with why." He says. "Why was he so angry with you?"
Why.
Yes, I remember why.
"I made him mad." I stay stupidly, but Sang-woo didn't seem to notice.
"I made him mad because I punched him."
"You punched him?" He repeats.
"Yes." I say.
"Square in the face?"
"I punched him. In front of a crowd. Everyone—important people—saw it and I guess it embarrassed him."
"Where did you even meet that asshole."
I hesitate, and it is almost he knew the answer as he waited.
I swallow. "Tanaka Global."
Sang-woo's breath hitches at the answer, but he keeps himself poised. Between us, space had become languid, though not thick, but flowing in a way that draw us together even more.
Tanaka.
I know he did not like that word.
"It was so long ago that I didn't know this shit would kick me back in the ass." I continue. "I even forgot about it for a bit. But I guess I did do a number on that punch."
"Why did you even?"
"Because he slapped my ass." I say blatantly. I turn to look at Sang-woo who looks unapologetically disgusted.
"Men like him apparently existed in the business world. So shameless and proud, I thought they were just exaggerated personas."
"That asshole—" Sang-woo sighs. "Nothing in that company ever gave you anything good,"
I do not say anything elss.
We haven't even gotten that far from where we've come, not yet. The distance from where we were to my place could have been a life-story all the way with our pace, yet as we walk, we keep silent. Comfortable silence. We admire for a bit the darkness of the alleyway, the brick walls that fenced up the houses in the neighbourhood. In this passing of the district, the gutters are smaller, and the smell of the wet market is gone, but the charm of Ssangmun-dong remains. Yet, it only strikes me now on how the quiet, cleaner place, has only been a passing of company.
"We used to walk here a lot." I break the silence.
"I know."
"We walked around the block every night."
"Yes, and you talk and talk—" Sang-woo says and turns to me with an endearing, yet subtle smile.
"And you would listen." I say.
"Always." He says. Then, he looks around, admiring tall walls of hidden homes and the clean streets that made this place feel limitless. "We've always wanted a place like this."
"No," I correct him. "I have always wanted a place like this."
Simple, quiet, secluded.
"You wanted to live in a penthouse, and not a house like this."
"That's not true." He retorts.
"Yes, you do." I insist. "You never wanted to let the apartment go." I say.
He clicks his tongue, an odd pep to his step. It was only now I had noticed that he's been swinging the bag of fish slowly; to and fro, at a steady, slow pace.
"It was a good apartment." He said, tongue in cheek.
"But it was noisy. It was on a busy street."
"But the view was nice. You liked your breakfast by the big window."
"—But I can still have breakfast in a house with big windows." I say. His smile had grown wider.
"So just coffee and any kind of big window." He says. "It's so...you."
"It is."
"It's so simple." He says. "It was so simple. And it was good." He turns to me. "You look very beautiful in the morning." He says, and I begin to feel my cheeks grow hot.
"—And it was easy." He says. "Routines were so easy and flowed so nicely. I cooked breakfast for us, and lunch, and dinner, and you would be home."
"It was." I say, but quietly, looking away from his this time.
I feel a shift in the wind, and in my weight as I begin to feel that languid pull that now had us side-by-side, knuckles grazing. My heart thumped with every swing of the bag, with every step and crinkle—which every chirp of the cicadas. But I am no stranger to this man, nor to love, yet my bashfulness takes over so rudely, unabashed.
"I always cooked. You'd come home to dinner, and I'd come home to you."
"Sang-woo..." I almost whisper.
"What is it?"
And I feel it once again, this grating feeling that made me fall off of grace. It was burning, it was numbing. It has stopped me on my tracks.
"What is it?" Sang-woo repeats, but then pauses when he realised I stopped walking.
"Hae Young?"
He steps closer. And I begin to cry.
"Oh—Hae Young—" He rasps, panicking as walks over to me, instinctively holding me—my arms—my face—my waist. The bag had been dropped on the ground.
It was like this huge swelling in my chest that finally popped, and I hadn't even realised it remained when I thought I had already cried my heart out with imo. But here, where houses stand in quiet loneliness, I am held and longed for.
"I'm—so sorry—" he stammers. "For whatever I said, I wasn't thinking—" he raves, and now his hands has settled on my cheeks.
"My dear, please tell me. Why are you crying."
I break. The words stabbed me like a dull, rusting blade. It twisted my heart and weakened my knees as I now cling onto the delicate touch of Sang-woo.
"—I'm sorry." He whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
I feel a lump rise in my throat and my knees buckling in. My god, I've become limp.
"It was good." I begin to cry. "Everything was good."
"It was—I know. I'm sorry."
"It was a while ago."
"Yes—"
"But it was still good."
"Hae Young-a..."
"But it ended." I sobbed. "Why did it have to end?"
He doesn't hesitate. Sang-woo pulls me to a tight embrace, his chin resting on my head. I can feel him shaking—or maybe that was me. But I feel this shaking, and this rocking as he rubbed my back up and down.
To-and-from, to-and-from.
I can feel my world cave in as his arms snake around me tighter, his face finally in the crook of my neck. It was simple, and peaceful, but I know deep within that it was all temporary.
"Everything has been nothing but temporary." I cried. "Everything ends so soon—"
"—Hae Young—"
"Why couldn't it be—"
"—be?" Sang-woo had loosened me up, facing me now with his hand on my face. "—Become again?" He said almost desperately. This time, he scanned my eyes but his glasses were skewed. His hair, even more disheveled. But he held my face the same way only moments ago, but this time I know, we were both holding on.
How strong can one person hold you that—even after periods of temporary happiness, and constant endings—would you find each other just to inevitably fall once again? How strong, how potent? It cannot be that we've come together, left one another, then come together again, and split for the final time—yet here we are inches away from repetition. All it took was one day, one glance. It was that easy. It was that strong.
He has made me weak, even more so than the last time we had left each other. Every loving and hating makes you weaker and weaker, yet more and more human. He wants me to answer, and I must answer honestly. He wants to hear me.
"What?" He asks again. "What do you want?"
I cannot say anything else.
"I want to go home."
My entire face is in his hands, my entire body—desperately falls into him, and he holds me, somehow, with his presence alone. He is searching for something in my eyes. Hope? Doubt? I do not know for I do not have the answer, but I am clutching his shirt at this point.
"I want to go home." I repeat, and he nods.
"Okay."
The rest of the walk was a silent journey through time.
It was difficult to face home. The building is old, familiar to both of us. But as we exited the liminal space of walled homes and clean streets, we found ourselves back to reality.
The entire walk back, we had never let go of each other. I could not tell how long our journey was, but it was not long enough to feel content holding his hand. The space was not wide enough to be jovial and free, but the night—the darkness—was our friend. I must admit, I am thankful for the darkness as it hid my face somehow, and it hid the past. Though we still felt it. It hid behind the impending doom of the future. But it was good to feel suspended in nothingness and to exist simply within, and beside each other. It was quiet, but once again, it did not last.
"I'm here." I say at last. "This is me." But I do not let go of Sang-woo's hand, neither does he let go of mine. We linger in the dark for a little longer, I'm sure the bag of fish must be going bad.
"Are you going in now?" He asks.
"I don't know." I sigh. "I don't want to go in yet."
"No?"
"No."
"Well," he clicks his tongue. "What's stopping you?"
You.
"Loneliness." I answer. I feel his grip tighten.
"You don't have to be lonely yet." He says. "We can stay out here for a bit more. Until you're ready."
But my legs are aching to lie down, and the fish—I look at the bag in his hands—the fish I'd promised his mother to preserve.
"I'm tired." I say. But Sang-woo just nods, letting my words hang in the air as if he's expecting something else—something more to come up. And I fear he's right, there is something more I want.
"You." I finally say.
But he seemed confused.
He leans down towards me to hear better. He gives me a soft, "Hm?"
"Can you walk me in." I say.
I look into his eyes and thankfully, there is something there. An understanding—an inability to look away.
"You want me to walk you up?" He asks. I nod.
"Okay." He says, and he nudges me to lead the way.
It's silly because he's been here before. He should know the way and I shouldn't have to hold his hand and guide him. Yet here he is, trailing behind me with the bag of fish in one hand, mine in the other. And as we walked up grimy stairs, I can feel his towering figure watching me, a guardian by my back. We come up to my floor. The hall way is dark. Still, he does not go before me and waits for me to lead the way.
Everything feels fast, and like we're moving against a current trying to push us around. And when I was fishing for my keys in my pocket, it slipped out my grasp, falling to the ground with a sharp clang. But Sang-woo beats me to picking it up, taking the familiar key from the bunch as he turns to my door. "Your hands are shaking." He says, and puts the key in for me.
The door opens, and now the end is near.
The room is dark even with the door open. Despite everything, we still linger outside my apartment—my small apartment that smelled and molded. The kitchen is merely a narrow walkway from the front door; just two strides long. And once you exit the kitchen, you enter my bedroom, where a messy bed and desk wait for you and your miserable conpany.
"This is it." I finally say.
"Will you be alright?" Sang-woo asks.
"I don't know." My voice wavered, weak and afraid.
I feared I would be another mumbling mess, and he senses it. So he gently guides me into my apartment, stepping in as he softly shuts the door behind him. I hear the rustle of the plastic bag as he sets the fish down on the countertop with my keys. And, with his finally free hands, he gently turns me around by my shoulders and says, "Hae Young, you're concerning me."
"I'm—just sad." I stammered. "A lot has happened in one day—"
"—I know." He cooed as he bends over a little bit to my level.
"Don't think differently of this, but Hae Young, I don't think you should be alone."
"I know—"
"—Not because you say you're lonely." He cuts. "But, you're not in the right mind, Hae Young-a. With everything that's happened, you're scaring me."
I take a step back. "What are you trying to say?"
"I know where you came from; what has happened. I was there." He tells me. "We all almost got killed—lucky that we even survived. Then, this asshole just charges at you and tries to kill you on the spot!" He nearly spat. "Yet despite all that you voted to keep playing."
"I don't know what you're implying." I tell him
"You were willing to risk your life back there, so what then out here?"
"—The circumstances are different!"
I try to move away, but his hands had locked me into place.
"Why would you vote to keep playing? Only 120 million—"
"—not only 120 million." I raise my voice, taking his hands off my shoulder. This arrogant little scum, hands off my shoulder. I often forget how jaded this man can be. 120 million won. 120 million won 'only'?
"It's 120 million for me, and that is enough for me to keep playing!" I spat.
"And you have 6 billion to pay, but you voted to opt out. Are our debt count competition now? You think you're better than me because you have more debt—and still have the will—the hope—to begin again? You dumb fuck, you couldn't even face your mother."
Sang-woo does not say anything more, but lets his silence be a medium for my anger. He looks shocked, but defeated, and humbled. Good, he needs to be.
"Not everyone can be as bold and brash with money as you, Sang-woo. Money and futures. And meanwhile I'm trying to get by, starving and freezing myself, just to get that 120 million off my back.
"—So, no, it not just 120 million won. While you can be 6 billion won in debt and stay in your up-scale apartment in Yeouido, I've got my 120 million to pay in this shit hole I call my house." I croaked out.
I've yelled enough. I feel my voice clamp up as Sang-woo just stands there. And he looks funny this way, looking so jolted, as he is often not. He is rarely shaken, but there has always been moments when I know I've gotten under his skin.
"120 million..." I say hoarsely, as I feel complete exhaustion wash over me. I had to lean on the counter next to me forever support.
"Don't compare my 120 million to your 6 billion."
"Hae Young..." He says, about to say something, but his parted lips eventually came to a close. Silently, he had taken a step back as he finally murmurs a humble "Okay." He says.
"I'm sorry. You're right, that was unfair—"
"—Now you're just sucking up." I hiss.
"I'm not."
"You just want me to stop being angry."
"Yes, of course." He says softly. "Why would I want you to be angry?"
I don't what to answer to that, so I stay silent instead.
"Hae Young-a?"
I don't look at him, not even in the dark. But felt desperate to pick that momentum which we had lost—before he had momentarily fucked it. He was so close. We were so close.
"Do you want me to leave?"
Still, no answer. The dull knife in my chest twists deeper.
In my silence, I'd expect him to sigh and just leave, leaving my fish and keys on the counter. But a minute or two passes by, and he's still lingering around the front door, hesitating and waiting—hoping even, for something to finally fall. He knows me, even until now he knows me very well.
"I don't want to leave you." He says blatantly. "But if you want me to leave and give you space, I will."
Still, silence.
"So unless you say it, I'll be here."
So he stays, for a minute, two—three—until we've stood around my kitchen for too long that our legs ached to move.
"Hae Young." He says. "The decision is up to you."
It was probably getting late, a little closer to midnight, and the sky out was moonless and dark—and the lights in my room had not been turned at all. And all this time I haven't felt my tears returning to my face as it runs down its familiar route; down my cheek, off my chin.
"Then," I finally say. "Please, stay." I say too softly. Sang-woo finally straightens, leaning back to me as if to give me his full, unwavering attention.
"You want me to stay?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll stay." He says, and we never leave the kitchen. And how stupid it is that it frustrates me! I can get out of the kitchen if I wanted to, and I want to, but I can't. I'm scared that if I move, he would make it past my bed. But my bed—he is not a stranger to my bed. Not to me, nor my body. He is simply a man who left when time dictated, so he must not be more than a man to me.
But yet, a man I loved; a man I spent years with, and almost an entirety. So why am I so afraid to find him in my bed?
"Sang-woo..." my voice quivered. "Why are you even here?"
"Because you asked me to." He answers.
"But you're tired too." I say. "Please go home."
"Do you want me to?"
Silence.
He leans domineeringly against the counter, already having his answer. "Then I'll stay."
"Then... Why are you still here?"
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know."
"What matters is that you're safe and comfortable.m, so do what you want."
"What I want?"
"Yes, Hae Young." He says. "What you want."
What do I want? I don't really understand what he meant by want, let alone what I want. But today, I wanted mackerels. I wanted to see Ssangmun-dong, and imo. I wanted to get home before the sunset, and I wanted a cigarette. And if I wanted Sang-woo, I would let him be. I saw him on my way back and I let him be. I saw him, I sat down, he gave me his cigarette. Somewhere along that sequence, I had given in.
And it all led up to this point, this indiscriminate act of staying and sharing, and standing for minutes too long in a kitchenette too small. The space is too small for him, he looked squeezed in as his leans against my counter top, waiting for an order. My Sang-woo. He is here.
"Then," I began. "Will you be with me for tonight." I say softly, tired. I don't even fight the words that escape my mouth.
"You want me to stay?" He asks.
"Yes."
He nods, leaning off and now leaning over me. His hands found their way back to my shoulders then trailing delicately to my neck. "I can do that." He says. "As long as it's what you want."
I just nod and give in. I have no shame nor restraint as I let myself fall in his great, big wall, his strong arms holding my exhaustion. "You feel so heavy—tired." He says softly, as he lowers his face to my ear and whispers my name.
"Hae Young..." I feel his soft breath dancing on my ears—my neck, and his arms take me in closer.
He was too tall for the pathway so he tries to shift, but I don't let him. I clutch a fistful of his jacket. "No." I whisper harshly. "Stay." And so he stays still.
We danced this soft dance of feeling, and sinking in, burying his face into crevices that missed them. And my hands wandered around for a moment to assess if his body is the same one I held years ago, and his breath was my tune.
Sang-woo gently pulls away, and when I look at him, his glasses are lopsided, but he didn't seem to care. His hair sticks out now that I've combed through it and his jacket had wrinkled just from one embrace. "Hae Young..." He says softly. His face was so close to mine. Hands still in my waist, nose almost touching mine. I know what he wants to say, but the words were silent as it slips out his mouth. "Hae Young—" He tries once again, but I don't want to hear it. So I kiss him.
I kiss him, and I kiss him deeper, and I don't let him go—not until he shuts up and kisses me back. And once he does, I feel his body cave in, moving quickly as he sheds his jacket off and drops it on the floor. And when he was freed from the shackles of his orderliness, his desperate hands cup my cheeks so harshly—so quickly—that now, I am exactly where he wants me. Against the kitchen counter, bending under his figure, at his mercy with his kisses; and in return, rewarding him with my touch.
What is this but a diversion, or a guilty pleasure? Yet it is fuelled by fear and desire. I desire to feel him, let him—kiss him, but I fear that he might let me go.
I don't know how long we've been making out, but at some point there had to be a stop. A sudden shift in tension when I fill his hips buck into me, and I retaliate with a soft moan. And then suddenly, he was completely off of me.
He was panting, looking bewildered and...guilty? Like he had wronged me. And once he had pushed away from me, his first instinct was to grab the bag of fish on the counter and shove it in my freezer. He slams the door shut with a loud thud, then silence. We take the moment to catch our breaths. I look at him, confused.
"I just—" he stammers. "I didn't want the fish to go bad."
"The...fish?"
He nods awkwardly.
"Oh—yeah. Of course." It was my turn to stammer.
Sang-woo looks panicked, yet he barely had enough space in my kitchen to pace. He brushes his hands through his hair, and finally notices his glasses skewed. He adjusts it, but the thin frames had probably bent, so he takes it off instead.
"Sang-woo..." I beckon, and he turns to me—same guilty look.
"Is this what you want?"
"What?"
"Do you want this, Hae Young?" He repeats, and my heart suddenly had this heaviness—a rightful kind. But I do not lie to him. I couldn't. So I lean back against the counter and answer him.
"Yes." I tell him. "Do you?"
He didn't even need to think. He says a breathless yes as he melts before me, before charging at me and returning to desperate kisses; on my lips, down my jaw—and down to the crook of my neck. It felt wrong, but it was magnificent, and I wanted more.
I hike up the counter. I no longer stop myself as I lock my legs around his waist and pull him in, and he loved that. He pushes into me more. I let out a moan. I can't contain myself—I feel him right at my core, and my need for him grows hotter and hotter, pulsating throughout my entire body.
I did not need to lie. I do not want to lie. This is good, it is great. It feels wrong, but that is what makes it great. The danger, its nakedness—no protection, no hesitation.
I can feel him groaning against my lips, and his hands leaving my waist to trail up to my cheeks, exposing my neck. He kisses my neck, up and down the entire length of it and he mutters, "Yes, yes, yes." He almost cried. "I want you. I really need you."
He was almost begging, writhing in want, as he pulls me in closer to him. Closer, closer, until space between us no longer exists. "Is this okay?" He whispers on my ear. I shudder and nod.
"Use your words, darling." He whispers. "Is this okay?"
"Yes." I say breathlessly as he continues kissing me—every part of me exposed as his hands find their way under my sweater, exposing my cold skin. I let him wander, touch me and every dip in my body, every curve and crevice until they find their way to my bra. He wastes no time, reaching my back as he swiftly unhooks my bra effortlessly and tosses them to the side.
He touches me so lightly. Even with his wide hands holding me down, it does not feel enough. "Touch me more—" I beg him. "More, please."
He listens as I feel his grip tighten around my waist—and I'm suddenly off the counter. He carries my weight effortlessly as we clumsily exit the kitchen and hastily makes his way towards my bed.
I feel momentarily lightweight, floating and flying high—and I loved it. I want to feel light, I want to feel importantly unimportant, that my weight no longer holds me down. I just want to feel held down—my waist—my hips—my arms down the bed.
When Sang-woo's knees finally meet the edge of the bed, he crouches to ease me down gently onto the mattress, where my mess of a bed drowns me in anticipation of ecstasy. I sit up, though he doesn't let me. Still, I persist, and I grab him by his shirt, surprising him and lowering him to my level. I waste no time impatiently unbuttoning his shirt. I could just rip it open—let the buttons fly loose and expose him to me. But before I can, he's already undoing his shirt, faster than I could have.
He sheds off his shirt, and it made me more hungry. I want him, every inch of him, on me—holding down, having him in every way possible. I'm so desperate and noticed it—so it was his turn. He grabs the hem of my shirt so roughly and I a tear. But I don't care. He can rip my shirt to shreds if he really wanted to. In one swift motion, he sheds the shirt off me, and now completely bare before him. His eyes glisten at the sight of me, beholding my body as he stands between my legs, ready to devour.
"Get further up the bed." He hisses, and I follow. Then, he moves to my trousers and unhooks them. He's too impatient. He pulls them off of me smoothly and finally pressed himself onto me.
He is on top of me, balancing himself with both of his arms of either side of me. He did not have his glasses, his hair hands above my forehead, tickling my skin—teasing me. And his hair—beautiful and dark—hid his face from me, filtering his hungry eyes as if it would have been too much for me to handle.
I lock my legs around his waist and pull him in again, so close this time as I feel the firmness in his pants against me, and I grind. He lets out a low, husky moan.
"Hae Young..." He whispers, and I keep going. I watch as his eyes shut, holding back a violent burst. I smirk and grind harder.
"Hae Young—" he hisses sharply now and his right hand flies quickly to my thigh, gripping them harshly. I pause.
"I didn't ask you to stop." He says. He pressed more into me and I let out a soft whimper. He presses on, and now his hand found its way between my thighs so achingly close. He knows what's he doing. He has me under his control. He has his fingers rub softly up and down inside my thighs in a spot too far from where I want them. And when I shift, he takes his hands further away.
"Calm down." He hushes. "Let's take it slow. Can we?"
I nod. Then, he plants a soft kiss on my lips. "Your words, sweetheart." He reminds me.
"Yes." I huff. He smirks.
He finally let his free hand wander, up, below, around my thigh, then finally to my aching core, right where I want him. And his hands—these wandering hands—drive me insane to the point where I'd arch my back with every light touch, bucking my hips up closer to his in hopes I'd feel more of his touch—more of him. He gives mercy—thank God—as he softly places his fingers on my clit, my panties a barrier between his touch and my needy core. I moan, almost too loudly, but I don't care. I let him do me his way.
He rubs gentle circles on my clit, and I begin to writhe beneath him, pushing myself closer even though it cannot be anymore physically possible. Desperate, I bring my hands between us, but he catches it, leaving me dry.
"Don't—" He says hastily. "Be patient."
He comes back to where he left off, rubbing slow circles on my clit as I try to compose myself, making him proud. My soft moans fill the quiet in the room, and it changed something—the heavy air, the darkness and the mundane, as my home hears a new kind of noise that made it shudder. It was a noise that is necessary, and certainly missed.
Sang-woo leans back down to my face as he hushes me softly, brushing his lips against mine. "Keep quiet." He tells me. "The walls here are thin." He says, but then changes pace. He rubs circles faster and faster now—he knows what he's doing.
"Shh—" He says harshly, but does more to make me loud. I shut my eyes in hopes that it would shut me up, but his pace—so fast—is such a perfect pace that it could almost make me—
Suddenly he stops, leaving me dry. But I take this time to catch my breath and let my back fall on to the mattress. Still, I keep my eyes shut. I hear movement and an unbuckling, and I hear what should be Sang-woo's trousers hit the ground. So I try to open my eyes and peer, but I he had already moved swiftly from standing, to hovering over me, kissing my neck, then my chest, as his hands once again travel on my skin. I can feel them, feel them so sensually as his lithe fingers touch every right spot. And his kisses trail down further—under my breasts—down my ribs—down my navel—and finally, between my thighs. My breath hitches as I feel his hot breath on my aching core.
"Sang-woo..." I whimper his name. And I see him look at me through his brows—through the fringes that fall effortlessly before his eyes. What a piercing gaze, what wonderful hands, as he takes both my legs to his shoulders, hiking them up as if to trap himself between me. I don't know what else to say—except that he looks good between my thighs.
He looks at me. He is taunting me, as he places a kiss inside my thigh, then another—then another, as they slowly trail to the my aching cunt. And I need him so much, but he's still dragging it out to torture me. He does that a lot. Why must he always do it. He is getting a rise out of this, over my desperation, so I give in and give him what he wants. I beg, "Please," I whimper. He raises his head a little to look at me.
"Please what?"
"Please, please..." I cried. "Don't torture me like this."
"Torture you?"
"You're killing me!"
"What shall I do to you?"
"Touch me..." I beg. "Don't waste time." My fists grip my sheet so tight, I can feel it slipping off the mattress.
"Hm?" He teases.
"For god's sake, Sang-woo just fucking eat me out—"
He does not let me finish. It was all so sudden that I could not comprehend it, but I think he had ripped my panties off of me. I heard a tear as he tossed it to the side. Then, he did not waste a second as he buries his head into my thighs, my wet cunt, and I feel his mouth kissing me. His tongue found its way to my clit and I feel him teasing me in circles—in the same perfect pace. I let out a loud moan. I can feel my body shake as he eats me out like a hungry animal, devouring me so eagerly.
This was a routine he knew very well. Even after years, he still remembers how to please me, torture me, touch me in all the right places. He has gotten the map of my body memorised.
His mouth wanders—kisses—sucks. He plays with me with his tongue as he wanders around only to find itself back on my clit. The cycle repeats and it's driving me insane, and I can feel my legs on his shoulders convulsing. Riled up, my hand reaches his hair, and my fingers comb through them before grabbing a fistful—I push in deeper. I need him, I need him, I need him.
I must have been so loud, shamefully loud, but I do not care. I want him to hear me and feel me, and see my back arch with every flick of his tongue—and he looks at me when he does it. He likes to watch me come.
"Don't stop—Please!" I cry, yet he has no intention to stop, as my plea only makes him speed up the pace. And my cries pitch higher and higher, with the pace his mouth runs as it sends me over the edge. It's too much—too much—and I'm so close—"I'm so close. Please—"
I can feel the heat in my body rise, rooted from my core as it spreads to my chest and my limbs, until I release into a toe-curling orgasm. I cry out load as I come, my fingers grasping his hair—and my thighs squeezing in to lock him. My body shakes, my legs fail me, and suddenly, I am limp and shaken.
My head spins and my body feels almost numb. But I still feel Sang-woo by thighs, finally letting my legs down as he rises from his position. In the blurry haze, I see him in all him naked glory, and I know that he is not done with me.
He crawls up to me now, trailing kissing from my navel back to my cheek as his rough hands rub up and down my thigh. Breathless, I could only let out soft pants and moans with every movement. He takes me by the thighs again and hikes me up fully on the bed, where him and I now face each other—naked and hungry.
"Did you like that?" He asks. He was breathless too.
Dizzy, I can only nod, but that never content him. He takes my chin softly in his hands and faces me to him. "What did you say, darling? Louder for me please."
"Yes—" I could barely talk. "Yes-yes."
"That's good to hear."
He lowers himself down, where I now feel him bare. His bare length is on my navel, rubbing gently, grinding and teasing. But he is patient somehow, where I am longing so desperately for more. He is on top of me, gazing at me and my frazzled state, and he looks satisfied—or more. He was vindicated. I feel annoyed, frustrated. He always wears that proud look on his face, and it just riled me up even more. So with whatever strength I had left, I take his whole mass and push him off and down, where now I lay on top of him.
"Wow—" I had knocked the air out of him. But I don't let him talk. I kiss him furiously, setting my wet cunt down his hard cock where it was my turn to tease him. I swallow his groans with my kisses. He is agitated and needy, and it translates to his harsh kisses and biting my lips. "You—" he moaned lowly as I make my way down his neck and chest, leaving kisses and bites as I do.
"Hae Young..." He says, holding me back. But I continue.
"Hae—" He gasps when I finally reach his navel. But then he catches me before I could even return the favour, my face in his hands.
"What?" I ask him. "What is it?
"No..." He mumbles. I sit up.
"I'm sorry—did I do something wrong?"
"No—no." He shakes his head. "I just want you here. Please. Lay on top of me." He begged. "Be close to me."
He looked so desperate, but he looked so sweet, that I caved in and do as he says. He waits for me, arms outstretched, as I come to him with an aching, longing body. And when he locks me in his arms, he brings me down to him in a gentle manner that his rigged body had become a cushion. So delicate, so gentle, the momentum slowed down.
"Just here." He says. "Stay close."
"Sang-woo.."
"It's okay, catch your breath, Hae Young." He tells me, and I do. I did need that.
We stayed like this for a few minutes, resting, breathing, feeling his chest rise up and down slowly, but nothing is finished. For a minute, it was peaceful. And for a minute, I was back to the past. With cool breeze and soft fingers gliding on my back, the soft tickle of his hair. Things I've forgotten—things I've missed. But we aren't done yet. The night is still waiting.
So when Sang-woo felt like I've got my air back, his arms around me lock, and I am suddenly shifted into a blurring world until my back hits the mattress once again. He pinned me down.
"Let me do it." He tells me sharply, moaning lowly in my ear as his hands grabs my arms and pin them above my head. I feel my heart jolt at the movement and my thighs spreading wider on instinct.
"Don't wait." I tell him desperately. His face so close to me, I am a head raise away from a deep kiss—but he doesn't let me. Instead, I feel him shift above me, legs on either side my waist as I realise what was about to happen. I brace myself in anticipation. I've been waiting for this—I need him.
"Don't hesitate." I tell him again. "Please just do it."
"Do what?" His eyes darken, one hand pinning my hands down, the other grabbing my chin.
"What do you want me to do, Hae Young?"
"—Fuck me."
I didn't have time to wait as I feel him slam into me with such force that I had regretted my plea. My moans turned into a pained cry, and Sang-woo took it as a cue to stop.
"What—" he stammers, letting go of my hands, as his hands became delicate and sorry.
"Is it too much?" His voice faltered. I whimper and nod.
"Okay." He says, kissing my forehead. "I'm sorry. We'll take it slow, okay?"
I nod once again.
I feel him slide out of me, slowly this time. And when only his tip is inside me, he looks at me again for reassurance. Despite the pain, however, I am still hungry.
He slides his cock in, slowly and carefully as he scans my face for some sort of warning. But I can see him waning as he enters me, feeling his cock fully inside me. His face melts into desperation, and I feel his body shudder, a feeling both him and I have been waiting for, for such a long time. And I feel his full length inside me—feeling complete. I let out a satisfied sigh.
Sang-woo had lowered himself on to me, our bodies touching, as he embraces me for a while until finally continuing.
What a fulfilling sensation—being filled up like this. With every stroke he makes, I let out a moan, begging for more. I can feel him—I can feel him so much. I can feel him inside of me and god—"I missed this—" I whimpered. "My god."
"Hae Young-a—" he buries his head in the crook of my neck as he continues to fuck me. "God. I missed you."
I wish neither of us had said that, I really do. But now this—his body—his cock—are so vividly intwined with me that I want more of him—beyond being inside me. I want to be one.
He groans in my neck as I begin to feel his pace quicken, hitting a deep spot in me that I begin to cry louder.
"Fuck—" he hisses.
He keeps going, I begin to feel my body burn. "You feel so good." He cries in my neck. "You're so—so..."
"More—more..." I begged. His pace quickens even more, and his hits deepen as now I feel his pelvis hit my entrance. Harder and harder, deeper and deeper, the more I beg, the more hungry and primal he becomes. So animalistic, his moans turned into soft growly as I feel him thrust harder every time I moan.
"I want to hear you." He growls. "Louder. Louder."
"The walls—" I huffed.
"—No." he growls. "Let them hear how good I fuck you."
He suddenly thrusts so deep inside me that I let out a loud cry—louder than before—and he fucking loved it. His desperate face turned into arrogance as he thrusts. Again and again—louder and louder, until my yelps turn into screams. And he adds more into it as he changes my position, sitting up know with my legs over his shoulders, his fingers back on my clit. He rubs it as he fucks me, wanting me to writhe and scream. He wants to see me falter so bad that he'd love me hard or make me hurt until I succumb. And he'd always make me come first, even if his body begged him to burst. So as he senses me nearing the edge of my sanity, he fucks me harder.
"Don't hold back—" he tells me in between grunts, but I can hear him faltering too.
"I'm close—" I cry, and that was enough for him to collapse back to me, our bodies even closer than ever. "I'm close—" I repeat, as I push Sang-woo to his maximum strength. No more restraints, I let my self go, feeling the white hot fire escape me as I convulsed. I cry, I moan. The release felt so, so sweet as I come with his cock still inside me.
But Sang-woo isn't finished yet. Even as I come, he keeps pounding, and I keep bursting with every thrust, crying—screaming as my nails dig in his back. And his low growls that drive me crazy, turned into harsh bites on my ears. I came so many times as he fuck me that I think I've run out of speed. But he keeps going—and it feels so good.
"Keeping going." I say weakly.
"I'm close too." He hisses in my ear, fucking me harshly that I still want more. He thrusts hard one more time until I finally feel his sweet release fill me up. It was hot and sharp, and filling. It filled me up like blood in my heart—I could feel my heart pumping. And finally, he comes to his low as the sex grows quiet, and my hands fall limp to my side.
I finally feel the world slow down as my senses come back to the present. But when I try to make sense of it, it would only crash down to darkness. The room is dark—I cannot see my bed, or Sang-woo. So I search for him in panic, my hands searching for his presence until finally, I feel his hands. He held my hand gently. "Hey—" he says softly. "I'm here."
He is here. My hands can feel him, I am safe.
I couldn't do much now, my body is worn and I can feel my t crashing. But before my body falls into slumber, I feel a warm blanket over me. Sang-woo takes the duvet and covers both of us and let the warmth settle in. I mumble a barely legible "thanks". Before sinking into the darkness.
But before that, I feel a familiar sensation—a soft stroking of my cheek before I fall asleep.
After three days, I had fallen in a dreamless sleep.
A/N: Sorry for the wait everyone. This is probably the longest chapter I've ever written so far and that is why it probably took so long. And also, the first smut of the season. It was such a difficult write. I barely write shit like this, so I hope you all enjoyed that.