THE WALLS ARE THIN WHERE memories and reality collide; he can’t tell for sure if it’s her or him or both or if he’s only being blind to the obvious (he never really knows whom to trust anymore, still feels the knife turning and turning in his back and it hurts, but he’s not complaining for who will endure the pain, if not him? everyone has made a sacrifice) and now? now it’s his turn.
she’s breathtaking in her own way, elegant earrings hanging from tiny ears, a lithe frame being hugged by the material of her dress. the blush on her cheeks adds to the mature charm she seems to possess but all these details only further rob him of the ability to speak and form a coherent sentence. hence his silence, the distanced smile he offers at first before familiarity strikes and he feels betrayed. she should know, but she doesn’t.
seojun is unsure whether to feel disappointment or relief but soon decides that it’s not just enough for him to stand there and smile at everyone; far be it from him to throw accusations around though he is almost more than just certain his sister relishes more in the quiet solitude that can be found even in the most extravagant of events. yet when he looks over at this train of thoughts, to somewhere in the distance where his sister resides and laughs as glasses clink in unison, one toast after another being spoken aloud (to the success of this union! and how is your fiancé doing, seoyun-ah?), he begins to feel uneasy. and he knows how rumours only grow and how they all know what he knows but that doesn’t make this any less of a pill to swallow.
his mother stands somewhere at the other end of the hall, supporting his father with her quiet presence and the familiar calming smile on her lips while he delivers a speech about his current improvement health-wise and the company’s plans for the future. she hasn’t left his side ever since he’s gotten discharged from the hospital, ever since things have turned over a new leaf. he supposes he ought to be thankful; this is the closest he’s seen them in years. anyhow, he considers it to be a shame that it took a nearly fatal seizure to bring both of his parents back together. not that he blames them, business is rough and times are challenging.
but what’s a home without beloved people to come back home to?
when his gaze falls back onto the female in front of him, he catches that her attention isn’t on him either. following her gaze, he spots a crowd of people, apparently deep in conversation. but something strikes him as odd, even more so when he looks back to eunha, to the fragile composure she is beginning to lose and the exhaustion tinging her youthful features. this isn’t how he remembers the girl who loved playing pranks, sometimes even on or with him. the girl who didn’t get along with his sister at first, scolding her for taking things too seriously while never loosening up. she seems a mess in comparison to the once wild spirit that could’ve never been tamed and he wonders what has happened to rob her of that love for life and all of its luxuries.
she kisses his cheek and he suddenly feels hollow. one arm moves up to hold her by her elbow, his concerned gaze disclosing enough of his inner turmoil while he still smiles. this is his parents’ show, one he does not wish to ruin with the trouble that people associate with his name. his back burns from what he presumes to be his sister’s gaze, undoubtedly telling him not to create a scene in the middle of the ballroom. but he only smiles at eunha, leans in closer almost as if eager to tell her a secret, the smile never diminishing.
his body language is calm, unthreatening, telling her to let them talk. his eyes are gentle. he still smiles. and then, when he’s sure people can’t read the question from his lips, when the proximity between the two of them is almost too much, he begins to speak. “are you alright?”
her first instinct is to shy away; her body almost recoiling away from his hand. it’s not surprise that takes her breath away when she feels his hand cupping her elbow but paranoia. it comes in the form of split second fear choking her, robbing her of her breath. it’s the innocuous gesture—that damned hand to her elbow—that’s her undoing. it’s a reminder of terrible things: like the room at the end of the hall, the crack of a hand across her cheek, a bloom of red, and yelling. lots and lots of yelling. there’s a loss of clarity then, seojun’s face blurring around the edges and in his place is her father, smiling down at her, wicked and foreboding.
why, a question forever dying somewhere in between a pained intake of breath and the sound of her body colliding against something—a wall, the edge of a table, the floor. why why why. she doesn’t know.
eunha stares up at seojun and this time she sees ahjumma, a weathered hand stroking down her back and the other holding back her hair. ahjumma’s soft, raspy little shh shh, you’re okay. breathe, sweetheart. just breathe. you’re okay now a stark contrast to the echoes of her father’s cursing still ringing in the back of her mind.
she looks up at seojun and she doesn’t see him at all; her attention entirely focused on the way her skin prickles at his touch. what should feel like comfort is replaced sheer panic and an unguarded wave of vulnerability.
don’t touch me is a sentiment she swallows. just like the i’m sorry’s she choked on when father asks her if she has anything to say, when ahjumma asks her if she can tell her what’s wrong. don’t touch me is a confession she buries beneath white lies and half-truths.
so when seojun presses closer, the front of his chest brushing hers, eunha’s hands flex, rising for half a second as if to push him away before she drops them, fingers grazing the front of his shirt. he speaks and eunha almost misses his words when the teeter of the crowd distracts her, the tail ends of his question heard only when she shifts closer, bringing them chest to chest.
here is when she freezes, when she forgets that the world is watching, when she wants it to be the two of them. just so she could stop pretending. so she could breathe easier. so she could cry without being seen as fragile. so she could just be.
because there’s never been a time when someone has asked her if she was okay. not like this. not when she’s still trying to keep the smile on her face from slipping. and eunha almost breaks. almost. she rises on tiptoes, one hand curling on the lapel of his suit jacket for balance, and confesses. “no,” she trembles. can’t quite breathe from how heavy the truth feels. she swallows her fear and tries not to cry. “i’m not okay.”
