chasing ghosts
chasing ghosts
1,480w; pg (krystal/chen)
sometimes you don't know when is when.
a/n: writer's block is rampant. trying to break the block but i'm sorry for this choppiness.
there's someone standing in front of his door. she is standing in front of his door. she, who is supposed to be seven thousand miles away. what is she doing here? his heart is in his throat, beating where his voice should be. he tries to swallow the pulsing, the veins. what is she doing here?
she exhales. smiles. digs her hands further down into her coat pockets. it’s warm today, he thinks. too hot for a coat, yet she still wears one. is that something she learned from new york?
“hey.” it’s casual, too casual. voice strong, steady. like she doesn’t (want to) remember. she runs a hand through her raven hair, eyes dead and tired. i missed you, he wants them to say.
they say nothing.
he can’t do this. deep breath. in. out. steady, stay strong. he still can’t do it. “hey.”
i missed you like crazy.
his voice cracks.
it rains on their last day together.
he cranks the heater all the way up and she makes two cups of hot chocolate. they wrap themselves like caterpillars in cocoons in blankets and sit by the window, sprawled out ankles and limbs crossing over. the raindrops slap against the glass, cloudy sky casting a faded blue hue on the floor.
she fits her hand into his, slender fingers filling the empty spaces.
he presses his lips on her forehead. “i’ll come and visit you, you know?”
she pulls away. “it’s not the same.” pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat.
they take the same bus to the university. she feels like fate is playing with her, yanking them together with a stupid string. get me a pair of scissors. he stands near the middle, one hand wrapped around a pole. he used to habitually clutch one of the overhead handles as well. when did that change?
she can feel him staring at her, and it makes her uneasy. how is she supposed to look? she shifts in her seat too many times to count. rummages through her book bag, trying to look busy. why is he staring at her?
she drops a pen.
her fingers tremble as she bends over to pick it up. why is she like this? their eyes meet as she sits back up.
he looks away first. no, no, this is not okay.
he emails her once a day. she doesn’t reply much. what is there to say?
sometimes, she’ll try to respond. what is she supposed to say? she will stare at the keyboard for hours. traffic will blare from beneath. shut up, shut up, shut up. what is she supposed to say? she can’t find the words that fit together, what sentences to put.
i love you. she reads the words over and over and over until the twelve point font is burned into her vision.
she shuts the computer off, blinking until the words disappear.
(he stops typing them after a while and she can’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed.)
he could say something. start a conversation, be a normal person. a week passes. two. he tells himself this everyday but does nothing.
she is reading a book today. he watches as her lips press together, relax, curve into a smile. how can she read when the road is so bumpy? he could ask her this. a car honks nearby. the bus screeches to a halt, people filter in and out. they remain.
he could say something. he should say something. but what can he say?
i loved you. you ran away. i’m sorry.
he clutches the pole until his knuckles turn white. she’d always been better at this than him.
the number you dialed is not available at this time. please try again later.
the number you dialed is not available at this time. please try again -
she hangs up. she stops making an effort.
they are not civil people, she decides after three weeks of silence. what is wrong with them? he is listening to music, connected to a stranger’s voice and instruments. tuning the world out.
he doesn’t watch her as much as before. maybe he is tired of her. maybe he has just gotten used to her, accepted the facts and moved on. he is good at that, she remembers.
he skips three songs. she flips through her book. she’s read this one before, it’s one of her favorites, but the words don’t seem to make sense. everything blends together, forming a black white incoherent mess. what is wrong with her? the bus slows, halts, opens its doors. something splats on the page. her eyes feel heavy, vision going blurry.
what are we? he is walking down the street, headphones in his ears, drowning everything out. skips another song. what are we? she could shout in that three second silence. the bus pulls away, taking them in opposite directions.
it is then she realizes she missed her stop.
“how are you?”
“fine.”
“no one’s telling you to do this on your own, soojung. i’m here - ”
beep. she doesn’t believe him.
he is silent. tense. the television flashes before his eyes, staring absentmindedly at pictures of late night traffic. everything is on mute, muffled, drowned out. insignificant.
he lies down on his couch, feet hanging off the edge. too short. he should’ve bought a new one. he arches his back to avoid the spring from digging in. what would she have said if he let her in that day? everything is old, theirs. her antique lamp still sits in the corner. he promised her he would fix it, but he still hasn’t. she told him to throw it away, but he swore he would fix it by the time she came back.
he still hasn’t.
(maybe she was trying to tell him something.)
guilt washes over him. his heart feels cold, heavy, concrete.
optimism. he can’t remember what it feels like anymore.
he sends her eighty-seven messages over the week. she does not want to listen to them. delete, delete, delete, like the feelings in her heart.
goodbye, jongdae. she does not want to miss him. she does not want him to hold onto her.
(but he does and she can’t help it. she runs in place, facing forward but not going anywhere.)
it comes to her when she’s typing her report. what’s the word? she knows she knows it. she knows it’s there, just hidden somewhere. where is it?
she finds a dictionary. flips through the pages, one, two, three, four. types the definition into the search engine. what is it?
closure. she types it in. the word processor underlines the sentence in green.
closure. she shuts off the computer and thinks about it. the ceiling fan rotates slowly, humming softly. tickling her ear like the voice she woke up to first thing in the morning shaking her awake gently she would whimper and beg for five more minutes he would say ok but they both knew he would still have to drag her out of bed all smiles all laughs tangled in the white sheets funny how it was -
oh.
there are triggers everywhere. little ghosts of the past that cross her path, unwelcomed. what are we anymore?
(we, us, them. he stares out the window. it is raining again, raindrops slapping against the glass, cloudy sky casting a faded blue hue on the floor.
we, us, them. are they past tenses?)
she is standing today. he wraps his hand around the pole just as the bus lurches forward again. it shifts them slightly forward, feet shuffling.
her eyes meet his. he does not look away this time. she takes a deep breath in, chest heaving. the morning sun casts golden squares across the seats behind her, dust floating in the light. he waits.
“what are we, jongdae?” it is nothing more than a whisper. her free hand is curled into a fist by her side, crescent nails digging into skin. eyes exhausted. wide. vulnerable. what are we?
what does he say? he moves a hand, wanting to rest it on her shoulder, keep her there so he can think of an answer that can satisfy her. he reaches up and hooks it through one of the overhead handles instead. what does he say?
“i don’t know, soojung.” i loved you. i probably still do.
she reaches up to grab a handle, fingertips almost grazing his shirt. his hands feel sweaty, slippery. it’s warm today, he thinks, sunshine on his back. she breathes, he breathes. silence.
two stops pass. three. he wipes his hands on his jeans. her bag is slipping off her shoulder; she should really stop and adjust the strap. people filter in and out. they remain. silence.
she looks down. “i’m sorry.” i think i love you too.
their stop comes. they walk their separate ways.
(closure. they missed their chance at it.)
1,480w; pg (krystal/chen)
sometimes you don't know when is when.
a/n: writer's block is rampant. trying to break the block but i'm sorry for this choppiness.
there's someone standing in front of his door. she is standing in front of his door. she, who is supposed to be seven thousand miles away. what is she doing here? his heart is in his throat, beating where his voice should be. he tries to swallow the pulsing, the veins. what is she doing here?
she exhales. smiles. digs her hands further down into her coat pockets. it’s warm today, he thinks. too hot for a coat, yet she still wears one. is that something she learned from new york?
“hey.” it’s casual, too casual. voice strong, steady. like she doesn’t (want to) remember. she runs a hand through her raven hair, eyes dead and tired. i missed you, he wants them to say.
they say nothing.
he can’t do this. deep breath. in. out. steady, stay strong. he still can’t do it. “hey.”
i missed you like crazy.
his voice cracks.
it rains on their last day together.
he cranks the heater all the way up and she makes two cups of hot chocolate. they wrap themselves like caterpillars in cocoons in blankets and sit by the window, sprawled out ankles and limbs crossing over. the raindrops slap against the glass, cloudy sky casting a faded blue hue on the floor.
she fits her hand into his, slender fingers filling the empty spaces.
he presses his lips on her forehead. “i’ll come and visit you, you know?”
she pulls away. “it’s not the same.” pit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat.
they take the same bus to the university. she feels like fate is playing with her, yanking them together with a stupid string. get me a pair of scissors. he stands near the middle, one hand wrapped around a pole. he used to habitually clutch one of the overhead handles as well. when did that change?
she can feel him staring at her, and it makes her uneasy. how is she supposed to look? she shifts in her seat too many times to count. rummages through her book bag, trying to look busy. why is he staring at her?
she drops a pen.
her fingers tremble as she bends over to pick it up. why is she like this? their eyes meet as she sits back up.
he looks away first. no, no, this is not okay.
he emails her once a day. she doesn’t reply much. what is there to say?
sometimes, she’ll try to respond. what is she supposed to say? she will stare at the keyboard for hours. traffic will blare from beneath. shut up, shut up, shut up. what is she supposed to say? she can’t find the words that fit together, what sentences to put.
i love you. she reads the words over and over and over until the twelve point font is burned into her vision.
she shuts the computer off, blinking until the words disappear.
(he stops typing them after a while and she can’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed.)
he could say something. start a conversation, be a normal person. a week passes. two. he tells himself this everyday but does nothing.
she is reading a book today. he watches as her lips press together, relax, curve into a smile. how can she read when the road is so bumpy? he could ask her this. a car honks nearby. the bus screeches to a halt, people filter in and out. they remain.
he could say something. he should say something. but what can he say?
i loved you. you ran away. i’m sorry.
he clutches the pole until his knuckles turn white. she’d always been better at this than him.
the number you dialed is not available at this time. please try again later.
the number you dialed is not available at this time. please try again -
she hangs up. she stops making an effort.
they are not civil people, she decides after three weeks of silence. what is wrong with them? he is listening to music, connected to a stranger’s voice and instruments. tuning the world out.
he doesn’t watch her as much as before. maybe he is tired of her. maybe he has just gotten used to her, accepted the facts and moved on. he is good at that, she remembers.
he skips three songs. she flips through her book. she’s read this one before, it’s one of her favorites, but the words don’t seem to make sense. everything blends together, forming a black white incoherent mess. what is wrong with her? the bus slows, halts, opens its doors. something splats on the page. her eyes feel heavy, vision going blurry.
what are we? he is walking down the street, headphones in his ears, drowning everything out. skips another song. what are we? she could shout in that three second silence. the bus pulls away, taking them in opposite directions.
it is then she realizes she missed her stop.
“how are you?”
“fine.”
“no one’s telling you to do this on your own, soojung. i’m here - ”
beep. she doesn’t believe him.
he is silent. tense. the television flashes before his eyes, staring absentmindedly at pictures of late night traffic. everything is on mute, muffled, drowned out. insignificant.
he lies down on his couch, feet hanging off the edge. too short. he should’ve bought a new one. he arches his back to avoid the spring from digging in. what would she have said if he let her in that day? everything is old, theirs. her antique lamp still sits in the corner. he promised her he would fix it, but he still hasn’t. she told him to throw it away, but he swore he would fix it by the time she came back.
he still hasn’t.
(maybe she was trying to tell him something.)
guilt washes over him. his heart feels cold, heavy, concrete.
optimism. he can’t remember what it feels like anymore.
he sends her eighty-seven messages over the week. she does not want to listen to them. delete, delete, delete, like the feelings in her heart.
goodbye, jongdae. she does not want to miss him. she does not want him to hold onto her.
(but he does and she can’t help it. she runs in place, facing forward but not going anywhere.)
it comes to her when she’s typing her report. what’s the word? she knows she knows it. she knows it’s there, just hidden somewhere. where is it?
she finds a dictionary. flips through the pages, one, two, three, four. types the definition into the search engine. what is it?
closure. she types it in. the word processor underlines the sentence in green.
closure. she shuts off the computer and thinks about it. the ceiling fan rotates slowly, humming softly. tickling her ear like the voice she woke up to first thing in the morning shaking her awake gently she would whimper and beg for five more minutes he would say ok but they both knew he would still have to drag her out of bed all smiles all laughs tangled in the white sheets funny how it was -
oh.
there are triggers everywhere. little ghosts of the past that cross her path, unwelcomed. what are we anymore?
(we, us, them. he stares out the window. it is raining again, raindrops slapping against the glass, cloudy sky casting a faded blue hue on the floor.
we, us, them. are they past tenses?)
she is standing today. he wraps his hand around the pole just as the bus lurches forward again. it shifts them slightly forward, feet shuffling.
her eyes meet his. he does not look away this time. she takes a deep breath in, chest heaving. the morning sun casts golden squares across the seats behind her, dust floating in the light. he waits.
“what are we, jongdae?” it is nothing more than a whisper. her free hand is curled into a fist by her side, crescent nails digging into skin. eyes exhausted. wide. vulnerable. what are we?
what does he say? he moves a hand, wanting to rest it on her shoulder, keep her there so he can think of an answer that can satisfy her. he reaches up and hooks it through one of the overhead handles instead. what does he say?
“i don’t know, soojung.” i loved you. i probably still do.
she reaches up to grab a handle, fingertips almost grazing his shirt. his hands feel sweaty, slippery. it’s warm today, he thinks, sunshine on his back. she breathes, he breathes. silence.
two stops pass. three. he wipes his hands on his jeans. her bag is slipping off her shoulder; she should really stop and adjust the strap. people filter in and out. they remain. silence.
she looks down. “i’m sorry.” i think i love you too.
their stop comes. they walk their separate ways.
(closure. they missed their chance at it.)