here is what he remembers of the beginning: the room he grew up in was cold; the gazes of his peers weighing heavy on the downward slope of his shoulders even colder. shuttled between families who couldn’t quite wrap their minds around how practiced, how lonely he was, he grows too familiar with kids just as broken, just as desperate as him whispering reminders that your parents never loved each other (it’s the only thing blunt enough to drag the smile off of his lips) and that’s why no one will love you.
ii. fissure, aching
here is what he remembers of childhood: an elderly couple he now calls mom, dad sweeping him from the cold, enveloping him in a warmth he still struggles to believe he deserves. learning to equate home not with the bleary brick-walled orphanage nor the transient, heaving metal of cars that would drive him back-and-forth from almost-promises to square one (they just weren’t looking for a child like you), but with a small, cozy apartment in mokdong; with a palace as bright as a blank canvas for him to start his story anew in. there remain times when he feels too small for the dynamic world he’s been tossed into, but unfamiliarity replaces itself with robes of red: in times of calibration, he learns to seek a white tiger.
iii. skyward, yearning
here is what he remembers of youth: suspended among the clouds, a broom beneath him, handfuls of air flitting between his fingertips—he supposes this is euphoria. a family where mom and dad spend quiet hours in the living room, the walls carrying framed photographs of three, happiness exuding from ink and ink alone. a family where his closest friends tether him to the ground, keep the smile on his lips heartfelt and genuine. he supposes this—laughter torn from the walls of his throat by the handful, the closest thing to pure bliss as he tumbles into the ground, his friends following suit—is happiness.
iv. stasis, numbed
here is what he knows of loss: in a split second, he hears something that’s been breaking (that he’s been shuffling to the back of his mind, stubbornly neglecting) conclusively crumble, crack, shatter. he has no future in quidditch anymore; no future in the dream he’d been so desperately clinging to. the first time he cries in front of his parents is to apologize for causing them so much trouble. my son, his mother hums, we’re sorry to you. we love you.
v. repose, renewal
he always chooses the highest seat at the stadium, head a little woozy as he squints to get a better glimpse of the pitch below him. if he closes his eyes, the wind seems to embrace him, seems to envelope him in a strange warmth, as though to say i’m sorry too. he stretches his arms above his shoulders, lets his head loll back, the sun bright against his cheeks. if he found his family, found his happiness, he’s sure he will find his dream once more.
