During class the next day, you make no attempt to appear interested in the teacher’s lecture, instead going through your notes and highlighting your best ideas. The time passes quickly this way, and by the time you’ve come up with several concept ideas for each song, the clock tower chimes to mark the arrival of midday. Is it really okay if I sit with them? you wonder, packing your materials into your bag, but with express permission from Yeosang, you muster the courage to do so.
But your courage only extends so far.
Since they aren't there yet when you arrive, you hide in the bathrooms until you suppose they must have had time to reach the canteen and sit down, unwilling to test whether they would be willing to gather around you at an empty table. You find them at the same table a few minutes later as you peek around the door, trading lunch items and desperately completing assignments before the break is over.
Yunho spots you first and to your surprise, waves you over and makes a space for you. Covering his mouth, half-full with lunch, he says, “Yeosang says he took you to our place?”
“What did you think?” Wooyoung adds excitedly.
“It was so cool,” you say. “Do you guys really practice there?”
“Well, Wooyoung goes off on his own sometimes,” Seongwha says. “The dance studio he’s part of doesn’t let non-members in.”
Mingi grunts. “And once he’s off in the city, he won’t have to keep practicing in a shitty factory. Ow!”
Wooyoung quirks an eyebrow, unapologetic for the kick he just landed against Mingi’s shin.
“You’re going to the city?” you ask. “How come?”
Some of the energy leaves Wooyoung’s eyes “I got an offer from a company to be a dancer. I haven’t said yes yet…”
The mood threatens to turn sour until you blurt out, “I’ve been working on some ideas, do you want to see them?”
“Working hard already,” Hongjoong says, taking the notebook you hand him, “I like it.”
“Oh, this is good.” San taps the page. “The colors would fit perfectly. You really thought hard about it, didn’t you?”
His expression is so sincere that you’re forced to look away, muttering thanks. “Are we still going to meet there after school today?”
“Can you still make it?” Yeosang asks, and you almost laugh at the implication that you have anything better to do.
“Of course I can. I’m one hundred percent on board.”
“Hey, I just realized,” Hongjoong says, leaning across the table with a grin, “Mono is going to be our first real audience as a group.”
A ripple passes over them that you can’t distinguish between excitement or nerves.
“I’ll.. look forward to it.”
Sitting through your evening classes, you wonder if you’re more excited to see the performance than they are to give it. Due to that feeling, and the boredom of ignoring lessons you couldn’t understand anyway, you start thinking about how you’re going to start turning your ideas from words on a page to reality. You don’t really have any experience in this kind of thing, but it was the best offer you could make that you might actually have a shot at doing well. You’re going to need a sewing machine for starters, fabric, fastenings, jewelry, simple pieces of clothing that you can modify to save time, and you only have one idea where to get them.
Motivated by your desire to impress, you leave your seat, heading downstairs to the art classrooms. You choose one that isn’t being used, creeping through the door despite knowing that no one would question you too much anyway. Beyond the paint-stained tables and the canvases drying from the previous lesson, are cabinets and draws each labeled with what they contain. You help yourself to one of the large portfolio files and start loading it with anything you might need to realize the designs in your head. In your school bag, you shove as many rolls of sellotape, bottles of glue, needles and thread, and colored pens as it can physically hold. Then there's the sewing machine helpfully stored already in a box with a handle, the manual inside.
You wonder if you should feel guilty for taking these things without permission. A part of you does, but a stronger, larger part feels that this is the least you deserve for the treatment you’ve endured.
Before heading to your final destination, you stash your spoils in the art classroom for later. The custodian’s office is close to the front entrance of the school and when you knock on the door, an old man, wrinkled and browned by the town’s hot summers, looks you up and down.
“Do you have any lost property, sir?”
“Sir, please, could I see the lost property?”
He blinks again, turning inside his office to retrieve a large cardboard box. When he hands it to you, his wrinkled face is drawn into confusion. Before he can say anything, however, you take the box and thank him for his help. You go through it in the empty art classroom, disheartened by the lack of anything interesting- it’s all just gym uniforms and shirts.
Suddenly, an idea comes to you. You count ten white shirts, realizing that you could easily modify these to fit with several of your ideas, and start to get excited.
You spend the rest of the school day bent over your notes on one of the art classroom desks, planning and replanning your designs until something concrete emerges and you have the start of a plan. When the bell rings for the end of the day, you're sitting back in your chair, pleased with yourself.
The portfolio and boxes heavy in your arms, you rush to the shade of the tree you met Yeosang under the day before. The mysteries accumulating in your life finally feel far away enough not to matter.
“Ready to go?” Yeosang wheels his bike towards you and turns his head when he sees what you’re carrying. “What’s all this?”
“I thought I could get started on the costumes today,” you say, “although it might be a little awkward to carry everything over to the factory.”
“It’s no problem.” Yeosang takes the portfolio under one arm and balances the box of clothes on the saddle. “I’ll just walk today.”
“Sorry… I wasn’t thinking.”
He shakes his head and starts to move toward the gates. “The others will meet us there. Let’s go.”
Your pace is slow, weighed down by your bag as you walk the route to the factory. “So, ah, how was class?”
“Class? Oh, you know, fine.”
“Is third year difficult?”
A sardonic smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Studying is about the only thing I’m good at."
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“I wonder. What about you? Do you study much?”
You laugh. “Nah, not really.”
“You and Wooyoung have that in common then.” Yeosang exhales, hand tightening around his handlebars. “If only he’d commit to that offer, I wouldn’t worry about what he’ll do once he graduates.”
“Why has he not accepted?”
Yeosang shakes his head. “Not for any reason I can understand, that’s for sure.”
You drop the subject, unwilling to pry further into Wooyoung’s personal life without his knowledge. “What do you want to do after school then?”
“You’ll think it’s dumb.”
You both walk a few paces before he answers. “Well, it’s always been my dream to be a performer, but these days I can’t see myself doing that without the rest of the group. I know that I’m wishing for too much, but I just want all of us to be able to perform together forever. I think that the others want that too, even if they can’t admit it.”
“Is that why the festival is so important?” you ask.
“Exactly.” Yeosang stops suddenly, eyes shining “That’s exactly why I feel so desperate. Even though it’s just a dumb school festival, I just know that this is my only chance to do what I love with the people I want to do it with. If I miss this chance, I’ll be closing that door forever.”
You smile. “Then I’ll do my best to help you convince them.”
Without the breeze from the speed of Yeosang’s bike, you’re sweating by the time you reach the factory. Summer beats down on you relentlessly, and you gladly accept the cold drink of water San offers you once you walk through the doors. A few minutes later, Mingi and Wooyoung arrive, completing the group.
“I’m kinda nervous,” Seongwha admits. He stands in front of the mirror, fiddling with his clothing.
“Don’t be, I’m nothing to be scared of.”
“You have to be honest though,” Jongho says, tapping his finger on the coffee table. “You have to tell us if it’s bad, or, like, tell us how to improve.”
“But I don’t know anything about dancing.”
Hongjoong waves a hand dismissively “But everyone can tell a good performance from a bad one. Just tell us which parts you liked and which parts could be better.”
You nod, a flutter in your chest emerging as you absorb some of the group’s trepidation.
“Okay!” Hongjoong claps his hands together and motions from the group to form in front of the mirror. “Treat this like a normal practice run. We’ve done this enough times to do it in our sleep, so don’t worry about making mistakes. Just have fun with it.
Yunho pushes Jongho playfully. “What the captain said, but remember the formation for once, will you?”
Jongho sneers, but when the group laughs, you get the impression that this is a running joke.
Since the couch faces away from the mirror, you sit on your knees, arms crossed over the backrest so you can watch them. Yeosang, fitting from what you know of his personality, is the most nervous of them all, hopping from one foot to the other. He claimed to only be good at studying, and you wonder if he’s nervous because that’s true, or because you're his first audience.
“Mono, would you start the track for us?” Hongjoong asks.
Your finger hovers over the button and Hongjoong gives you a thumbs-up once they’re all in position.
The music starts and their bodies jolt into fluid movement. It’s the energetic track first, the group executing impressive footwork to the rhythm of the song, somehow managing to appear controlled and wild at the same time. You can tell instantly how hard they’ve worked on each move, as while each member performs them with their own style, no one is off-beat, and certainly no one misses a step.
With what now feels like a habit, you can’t help but focus more on Yeosang. You see the power in each of his movements and recall the way his body felt against you when you rode behind him on his bike. Despite having a delicate beauty, he is not without strength.
As the song comes to a climactic end, you cheer loudly, then louder still when the several in the group avoid your eyes in embarrassment. Yunho, Wooyoung, and Hongjoong, however, thrive off your enthusiasm. Wooyoung bounds over as if the difficult routine he just completed did not affect his stamina in the least. “So? So?”
“Do you want my review now, or all at once at the end?”
“Now!” they say, but Mingi stands apart from them, arms crossed over his chest. Though you can tell he gave it his all, it felt as if he was dancing on his own.
You give them your honest opinion, grinning with them as they absorb your praise. Then, with the ice broken, they begin to come forward with questions about their individual parts.
“Do you think I should have done it like this, or this?” San asks, twisting his body in ways you couldn’t begin to replicate.
“I mean, I feel like I don’t have the experience to answer that properly. But both look great-”
“What about this part,” Wooyoung demands, demonstrating. “Is it too much? Not enough?”
Seongwha sits beside you, stealing your attention. “I’ve been working on my expressions but I feel like I can’t pull it off as well as Hongjoong. What did you think?”
“Alright, alright, give her a second,” Hongjoong says, sparing you from further showing your ignorance.
Eight faces stare at you as if all their hopes rest on your next words. After a breath, you give them your honest verdict, praising what deserves to be praised, and gently mentioning the few parts you thought needed something different, despite being unsure how to express what needed to change.
The boys listen to you seriously, nodding and humming in agreement.
“But, that’s just my opinion,” you feel the need to clarify. “I really don’t have the right to tell you what’s good or not.”
Hongjoong smirks. “Stop justifying yourself. Even just telling us what you liked is a huge help.”
“I feel so much calmer now that we’ve finally shown someone,” Jongho says. “It was killing me not knowing if we were just kidding ourselves with this.”
Hongjoong rolls up his sleeves, seemingly brimming with energy. “Ready to keep going?”
They head back to their places, but Yeosang hangs back for a moment, crouching behind the couch so that he is eye-to-eye with you.
“Was it really okay? You can tell me the truth,” he whispers.
You lean forward. “The truth?” He nods desperately. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you the whole time. You were incredible."
The flush that spreads over his cheeks surprises you. You had been expecting a smug grin, a chuckle at the obvious boost to his ego, but you should know that isn’t who Yeosang is by now.
He blinks, clears his throat, and stands. His mouth opens and closes, but he is unable to form a response before Hongjoong tells him to hurry up.
When the next song begins, Yeosang misses his queue.
The boys tease him goodnaturedly as you rewind the cassette, feeling sorry if it was your comment that threw him off.
On the second attempt, the opening goes perfectly, but you feel shy watching the boys move so sensually. You hadn’t thought bodies could look like that, create those kinds of lines, but it’s mesmerizing to watch even if you have the urge to cover your eyes. Wooyoung in particular suits this kind of dance, if only because he comes across as the most comfortable expressing himself this way. Of course, they all show their own styles and quirks with each move, but it’s Yeosang again you can’t stop watching, though you resolve not to reveal this to him a second time having embarrassed yourself enough. You admire how his style of dance subtly changes with the theme, how he adapts his movements, even his stance, to the song.
The song ends and the same series of events unfolds: Wooyoung bounds over, and the members crowd around you, asking questions about their individual performances until Hongjoong tells them to let you think. Again, you give them your honest opinions, grateful that they are able to take the feedback without becoming defensive or egotistical.
You begin to worry about their stamina as they take their places for the last track. The heat has seeped into the factory all day, and though the sun is no longer at its strongest, it lingers in the metal and concrete around you. You’re sweating just sitting down, and it's pouring off the boys.
“Are you guys okay? Do you want to rest for a bit longer?”
They stare at you like you’re insane. Their smiles tell you that nothing matters to them at that moment: not the heat, not the sweat, not the need for a long, cool drink. All that matters is the performance.
It’s another explosive start, with the choreography never giving them a moment to rest. Different from the playful energy of the first track, and the sensual atmosphere of the second, this one feels like a congratulations to themselves due to the unapologetic lyrics, and the striking, difficult moves that compliment them. You admire their athletic ability to be able to complete such a physical routine after having already done two more.
In your mind, you try to place your ideas around their formation, your motivation to get started increasing as you allow yourself to believe you may really be able to help their performance after all, if you can pull it off, that is.
Sweating, panting, smiling, the boys break their ending pose, collapsing to the ground and leaning on their knees.
“Argh!” Wooyoung jumps to his feet to stand back in front of the mirror. You recognize a slower version of a move from the third track you remember thinking looked difficult. “It’s always this part. Why can’t I do it?”
Yunho comes to stand beside him. “You’re doing it perfectly, what are you talking about?”
“It’s not perfect,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth, dripping sweat onto the concrete as he tries again.
“Wooyoung.” Hongjoong’s voice snaps him out of it. “Come on, we need to hear Mono’s thoughts.”
Your back straightens at the sound of your name. After collecting a towel and a bottle of water, the boys settle into the chairs around you, Yunho, eager and smiling on your left, Hongjoong, calm but expectant on your right. You wonder if Yeosang chose the farthest seat from you on purpose. He still won’t meet your eyes.
Once you’ve given your opinion of the final track, you feel it’s only right to compliment each of them individually, starting with the leader.
“Hongjoong, you’re facial expressions are great.”
“Really? It’s not too much?”
“Not at all- and you have a really expressive style of dance that fits you perfectly.” He wrestles with his features, but his proud grin wins out. “Seonghwa too, your expressions kept grabbing my attention, but more than that you looked really graceful, especially during the second song.” Seongwha has an easier time accepting the compliment than their leader, nodding his head with similar pride. You continue to deliver your compliments: San for his impressive strength, flexibility, and enthusiasm, Yunho and Jongho for their precise execution of the choreography, and Wooyoung for his passion and unique style. Mingi grunts at your kind words for his sense of rhythm and strong movements, and Wooyoung’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes.
Finally, you reach Yeosang, who is tapping his foot against the floor. Your mouth opens and closes. You had been about to say how captivating he is again, but you’re suddenly overtaken by shyness. Somehow, it feels too honest to say in front of everyone else. “You were great,” you say to buy time as you think of something else. “You hit every beat perfectly as far as I could tell, and I thought it was impressive how you changed your style with each song. I thought I was watching a different dancer each time.”
San laughs. “I think Mono has a favorite.”
“Thanks…” Yeosang mumbles. “I’ll work hard to do even better next time.”
“So, you still want to be in the group?” Hongjoong asks, smiling as if he already knows the answer.
You push him gently. “Of course I do. I can’t wait to get started on all my ideas.”
“I saw all that art stuff you brought. I love the enthusiasm.”
“Can I work on it in here?” you ask Yeosang.
You hear the question he didn’t ask in his tone. Why don't you want to work on it at home? “Your dad won’t mind?”
“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Wooyoung says. He stands, throwing his towel over the back of his chair. “I’m gonna keep practicing.”
You hope you haven’t said something to upset him.
Yunho jumps up to join Wooyoung and the other members groan. “Do you guys ever stop?” Seongwha moans. Yunho shoots him a mischievous expression, but Wooyoung is focused on his reflection.
“Well, I think they have the right idea,” Hongjoong says. “We should start thinking about how to improve from Mono’s feedback.”
Unable to argue with their leader, the rest of the boys drag themselves to their feet, spilling half-hearted words of complaint.
“Is it okay-” you flinch when they all turn to look at you. “Is it okay if I start making the costumes?”
“Feeling inspired?” San asks.
While retrieving the cassette player he forgot on the coffee table, Hongjoong ruffles your hair. “Knock yourself out.”
As the sun sinks lower in the sky, the heat lessens to a pleasant warmth that saps your ability to stay awake. You fight the heaviness of your eyes as you puzzle over turning your ambitious ideas into reality.
Behind you, the boys seem to be led more by Yunho than Hongjoong with regard to the choreography, and you realize that it must have been him that came up with most of it. Between breaks in the music, they come together to talk, demonstrate and teach, and you come to anticipate the soft sounds of their voices each time the cassette clicks off. It’s much more soothing than the music to you as you start to recognize the differences in the way they speak to one another, with more respect being given to Hongjoong and Seongwha as the oldest, and their unique laughs as they joke amongst themselves. Of course, you can barely consider yourself to be ‘one of them’, sitting hunched over the table by yourself, but you enjoy pretending, and hoping that one day soon you’ll be able to talk amongst them as if you’ve always been one of their number. This thought makes you recall what Yeosang said about needing to belong, how he had felt the same way, and your heart softens as you realize how perceptive he was to recognize this within you, and how truly kind for trying to do something about it.
“Mono.” You jump, the sewing machine choking on fabric. Yeosang leans over the back of the couch, face close to yours. “We’re all done for the day, did you want me to walk you home again?”
You cast your eyes to the others who are all in the middle of wiping their sweat and gathering their things. “Wow, how long has it been? And yes, if it’s no trouble.” Is it okay for you to be selfish like this? Is it wrong to want to spend as much time with him as you can?
“Okay, let me grab my bike.” He pauses, noticing the delicate silky fabric you’ve been working on as a test. “That’s looking good. I can’t wait to try them on.”
“Oh, well, you know, it’s not nearly finished, and I’m thinking I need to change how I’m doing the-” You cut yourself off, seeing Yeosang’s amused expression. “What?”
“Nothing. I’m taking Mono home,” Yeosang tells the others. “See you guys tomorrow.”
“We’re coming again tomorrow?” you ask. “Isn’t it the weekend?”
“Oh, do you have something else you need to do?” Yeosang asks, frowning. “Sorry, we shouldn’t have assumed-”
“No! No, I don’t have anything. I’m just impressed you work so hard on the weekends too.”
“There’s nowhere else to hang out in this piece of shit town,” Mingi says. “Here is as good as it gets.”
Wooyoung jumps to hook the taller boy around the neck with one arm, forcing his head to lower. “Thanks for that, Mingi, you’re always a ray of sunshine.”
“Come on, you’re walking me home too. I’m feeling romantic.”
Mingi complains the whole way down the overgrown path and through the gate. The rest of you follow until you reach the road, Yeosang steadying the bike so you can stand on the spurs.
“See you tomorrow, guys,” you say, memorizing each of their faces as they smile at you, and tell you goodbye, such a simple response promising you that this day wasn’t a dream and that you can be this happy again.
Yeosang pushes off and a laugh bubbles from your throat as you almost lose your balance. He takes the extra strain of you pulling back on him with ease, once again reaching back instinctively to grab you.
“Sit down!” he says, laughing with you.
You regain your balance, hands on his shoulders, turning your face up to the sky as the wind blows against your hair. “I don’t want to!”
Yeosang lets go of your hip to put both hands on the bars before standing up on the pedals. “Yeosang!” You hold him around the middle, too flooded with adrenaline and happiness to fear falling.
He peddles faster and faster, both of you adapting your balance as the bike shifts left and right. You feel his chest rise and fall with the effort of carrying you both, using the excuse of maintaining your balance to hold him to you tighter. The wind whips past you both now, the draping branches of trees and bushes dragging against your clothes, gravel and dust kicking up behind the wheels.
“Where are we going?” you shout, not recognizing your usual route.
“Wait and see!” You reach a short hill and realize his plan.
Before he starts to attempt the climb, you jump off the back of the bike. “Let’s walk this bit, aren’t you tired?”
He flashes you a grin before taking off running, holding his bike to his side.
A laugh bursts out of you. “Yeosang, wait!”
With the handicap of his bike, you catch up quickly and overtake him, reaching the top of the hill first. You leap about in victory while Yeosang gives up, panting hard and walking the rest of the way.
“You let me win,” you say, half-skidding back down the dirt path to help him with the bike.
Finally both at the top, you take in the view of the town. Everything is bathed golden in the sunset, turning even the dreaded school into a picturesque viewpoint. Flocks of birds fly about the treetops of the woods to the east, and sheep graze on the green grass of the tallest hill in the middle of town, bordered by unused pastures. In front of you, the hill drops in a steep decline and you trace the road until you find the brown tile roof of your house.
You turn to Yeosang, about to ask if you can linger here for a while, but he’s already climbing back on his bike.
You glance at the decline again and bite your lip; you can’t deny him. “We shall.”
This time, you don’t stand, but you do hold as tightly to Yeosang as you can. “You scared?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
With that, he takes his feet off the ground, gravity giving the bike speed without the need to peddle. You feel the wind whipping at your face as you rest your chin on Yeosang’s shoulder and you almost bite your tongue as he begins to laugh.
Yeosang leans low over the handlebars and begins to pump his legs. You both scream from the rush, Yeosang’s deep voice cracking and making you laugh all over again. Pieces of gravel ping against your body and your eyes are watering from the wind, but you can’t even think of asking Yeosang to stop.
The bottom of the hill approaches, and with it, a sharp bend around. “Lean to the right!” Yeosang tells you, “or we’ll crash into the hedge!”
Using his body as a counterbalance, you do as he asks, dipping your body to the right while he does the same in the other direction. It’s merely a single moment of effort, your fingers white-knuckled within the fabric of his shirt, teeth gritted, arm muscles working harder than they ever have, but your heart is pounding by the time Yeosang tells you to sit back up properly.
“You did it!” he shouts, touching your clasped hands around his middle. “We-”
“Yeosang!” You point over his shoulder.
His head snaps around, finally noticing the vehicle heading your way. It isn’t a car, but a tractor, each one of its rear wheels twice the size of Yeosang’s bike. The driver blares his horn at you, but even if they both break, you’re going too fast to stop in time.
“Hold on!” Yeosang steers the bike to the very edge of the narrow country lane, the wheels jumping over the rocks and uneven ground of the verge. The tractor does the same, its left wheels ripping leaves off the hedges on the opposite side. Even with this, there is barely enough space for you to pass through.
With the tractor almost upon you, you close your eyes and press your forehead against Yeosang’s back, feeling him tense just as hard as you. A moment passes before the roar of the tractor’s engines fills your ears and the smell of diesel fills your nose. Something hard and unyielding rips passed your arm.
Then, all of a sudden, it’s over, the roar of the engine at your back.
“Oh my God,” Yeosang sucks in a breath, “I-”
The bike jolts hard and you realize that your cheek is no longer touching the soft material of Yeosang’s shirt, but the gravel of the path. Pain flares through the right side of your body as you finally process the force of falling off the bike and lift yourself off the ground. You search for Yeosang, finding him next to the spinning rear wheel of the bike. He’s sitting with his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his arms with a dazed look on his face. “What just happened?”
You crouch beside him, wincing at the pain in your side, but the blood seeping into the dirt under Yeosang’s right palm has you more concerned. “You tell me! Show me your hand.”
He lifts it but you can’t see the extent of the damage with all the blood and dirt in the way. Reaching into your bag, you retrieve a half-empty water bottle apologizing before pouring it over the wound. Yeosang barely flinches, but you can feel him watching you.
“It doesn’t look too bad. Does it hurt?” you say, examining his palm. When he doesn’t answer, you look up, finding that he still has his gaze on you, his mouth pulling up at the corners.
He throws his head back as he starts to laugh in earnest. The sound is catching and you can’t help but be smiling when call his name again.
“I’m sorry.” With his uninjured hand, he removes yours, but continues to hold it. “It’s just, I was so scared. I thought we were going to die.”
“And that’s funny?” you say, but you’re laughing too now that the danger is gone and the adrenaline in your systems is making you feel giddy.
“It’s not, it’s not.” He sighs and examines his hand, shakes it slightly. “And yeah, it does hurt a little.”
“Nah, just a graze. What about you?” He touches the shoulder you landed on gently.
Not thinking, you pull down the side of your shirt to inspect the skin. Yeosang looks away quickly.
“Sorry,” you squeak, pulling the sleeve back up. “I didn’t- yes, I’m fine. I’ll probably bruise, but no broken skin.
“Man,” he says, allowing himself to look at you again, “that was so stupid.”
“It was. But it was fun too, right?”
Yeosang helps you to your feet with his good hand. “Fun enough to make almost dying worth it?”
You offer to wheel his bike the rest of the way, insisting until he accepts. You both walk slowly, the aches in your bodies becoming more pronounced with each step until you can’t wait to lie down to take the strain away.
“You don’t need to walk me home the whole way. You’re in pain, aren’t you?”
"What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?”
You exchange a look and laugh.
“Seriously though, you don’t-”
Yeosang takes his bike from you, increasing his pace until you have to hurry to catch up. “No arguing, okay? Let’s just get you home.”
While you chat, the day grows dark, until, when you reach your house, the only thing lighting your way is the moon, its great silver face bearing down on you both. You want to ask Yeosang to come inside so you can properly clean his hand, but you have neither the medical supplies, nor the courage to let him see how you live. Don’t be a coward, you tell yourself while he says his goodbyes outside your gate. He won’t reject you.
But you just can’t bear it. If he sees that empty hallway, shoe rack with only one other pair of shoes, the master bedroom with its bare mattress and moth-eaten curtains, your bedroom, hardly slept in, void of personality and life, the kitchen you’ve never used and its barren pantry and humming fridge freezer that contains nothing more than milk and microwaves meals from the corner shop, it would be too much for you to bear. You can’t let Yeosang see that kind of sadness. You can’t let him know what an empty person he’s let into his life.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay getting home?”
“Don’t worry about me, I feel fine.” Your face crumples with worry. “How about this? Give me your landline and I’ll call you once I’m home.”
You rack your brain. Yes, I do have a phone. “One second, I don’t know the number off by heart.”
You dash inside, finding it hanging on the wall of the hallway. A layer of dust coats the keypad, but you can’t find any hint as to what the phone number would be. You aren’t even sure how you would go about finding it. You put the receiver to your ear, hearing the dial tone, confirming that you at least have a service provider and therefore a phone number.
You search the small hallway table, but the drawers are empty. You check your room, the master bedroom, even flip through your notebook. Nothing.
You kick the hallway table in frustration. It jumps back revealing a small yellow square of paper hiding underneath the table leg. You pick it up and yelp in relief as you read the words Our number: XXXX XXX XXX. You tear a page from your notebook and copy the number before hurrying back out to Yeosang.
“Here,” you say, out of breath as you hand it to him.
“Thanks.” He rubs the back of his neck, then winces when he uses his injured palm by mistake. “So, I should probably go. I’ll call you.”
You pull him towards you gently, wary of any injuries he may have hidden from you. “Thank you for today.”
Movements stilted and awkward, he pats your back. “I didn’t do anything, really…”
“You did. So, just let me thank you, okay?”
He settles into the embrace. “Okay. Then, you’re welcome.”
At home, you feel restless. The stillness of the night, rather than calming you, makes your skin crawl.
You hold the note with the phone number under lamp light, reading and rereading the words.
Just to be sure, you hold your notebook with your own writing next to it. No, it’s definitely not yours, but it’s similar. So, who does it belong to? Your mom or dad? Why had you never used the phone before today?
Curious, you take the receiver off the hook and hold it to your ear. You want to try calling someone before Yeosang gets home, to make sure that it works, and you’re wondering who you could possibly call when a voice comes through the speaker.
The receiver smacks against the wall as you scream, leaping back until you thump against the wall opposite. The voice was male, but the distorted connection made it impossible to distinguish anything else about him.
But, no, there was one thing you noticed: he sounded desperate, or maybe relieved, surprised? Again, it was hard to tell, but he definitely said your name, and he was definitely not in a state of calm.
Breathing hard, you pick up the receiver again and hold it to your ear.
Nothing but the dial tone.
You replace it on the hook, only for it to ring, painfully loud in the silence of the house. You’re almost too scared to answer, but since it’s probably Yeosang, you force yourself.
“Mono?” You recognize his voice instantly and slide down the wall to sit on the floor.
“Are you okay? You sound freaked out.”
“I just heard a fox scream and it scared me.”
Yeosang hums down the line. “I guess even things like that are scary when you live alone. Are you alright?”
“What about you? Your hand?”
“I treated it before I called you, don’t worry.” He coughs. “And I'm sorry for causing that whole thing. I was being reckless.”
“I was being reckless with you, don’t take all the credit.”
A pleasant silence extends between you, and somehow, you can feel that he’s smiling.
“Alright. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
“Have you eaten?” you blurt out. You don’t want him to go and leave you here on your own.
He chuckles. “I forgot, but I will after this.”
“No, not yet, but I will.” You force down the selfish desire to keep him with you forever, gripping your shirt as you say, “Then, I’ll let you eat. Thank you again for today and… And sleep well.”
The call disconnects. You linger with the receiver pressed to your ear for several minutes, listening for that mysterious voice, but all you hear is the dial tone.
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