parachutes
@ncysian
she can hear their laughter from where she's perched on top of the stairs, arms folded over her knees. it is a warm, mingling sound, one that makes her think of gold ribbons entwining in some slow dance she’s sure is happening in the kitchen in that very moment. it also makes her think of how christmas is near and that this year, it won’t be shared between herself and mama but with two more figures that have entered the picture of the kim home.
mr. jung says something, a tail of a quip that even phoebe’s keen ears can’t make out. with good reason, too: there’s magic in the world that exists solely for an audience of one; like magic, it pulls another laugh that is undeniably her mother’s, a flutter of dove’s wings free from a hand.
“are dad jokes his thing, unnie?” it’s her best guess at what he might’ve said. nudging sian, her expression is of an impish sort of joy, teasing and mirthful but genuinely curious. funny, only a year ago she would’ve been too much of her own brand of awkward to have made an assumption at all.
