005. 500w | 10min
In years, Donghae will know how he will feel. He will know how he will regret what is about to NOT happen and what he is about to NOT do.
"Sorry, I can't. I'm not going to do this," he says to one of the officials.
He nods, disinterested.
"Form?"
Donghae scrambles and produces it, a form with his name, his birthday and more, more information than anyone has ever asked of him. More than he knew about himself.
"Thanks," the official says before folding it and tucking it behind a clipboard. "If you'd like to come back later, tell me."
Donghae nods before he ducks his head, grasping his bag tighter than before and neatly weaving through the crowd.
The officials let him through, and the one at the end signals for the Visitor card. He fumbles as he gives it over, and finally, there's fresh air. Fresh air, he can breathe, he can breathe. And he ignores the feeling in his stomach.
Hi Dad, I'm your son.
When he gets home, his mum is waiting up, listening to the radio quietly as it talks of the weather, the news, trivial things. It's dark, and he should still be in Seoul, technically. The next day is Round Two, and he could've been part of that. But he's not. He tells himself he doesn't regret it.
"Hey sweetie," his mother greets, kissing him on the cheek. "How was it?"
He avoids his mother's eyes.
"It was okay."
She nods and he slips off his bag, walks into his room. Closes the door and locks Donghwa's snores inside.
The next morning, his mother and father are sitting at the breakfast table, talking quietly. Donghae slips into the room, pretending to be invisible.
They're talking about him.
He doesn't want to hear it, but he thinks he needs to.
"I don't want him to regret it," his father says. "He should have the life he wants."
"I know, but if he doesn't want to do it, then we can't force him. We should leave him be."
His father nods. Donghwa pokes him on the shoulder.
"’SCUSE ME," he says loudly and walks around him to the kitchen, and Donghae feels his parents' eyes upon him.
"Sorry," he mutters, grabs a piece of fruit, and disappears into his room.
"So how was it?" Donghwa asks, the summer sunshine coming through their window. Donghae's blinded as he looks up, and Donghwa laughs.
"It was okay."
Donghwa laughs again. "Bullshit it was okay, you didn't even go, did you?"
"How'd you know?"
"Can read you like a book," he says cheerfully before pegging a pillow at Donghae and telling him how much of an idiot he is.
"You know, Mum put half of the savings towards you going to Seoul? And you gave up just like that. Don't you feel a bit of guilt?"
Donghae swallows. He tries not to feel the guilt, though it's heavy. So heavy on his tongue.
"Maybe?"
Donghwa hums.
"Well, as long as you don't regret this."
Donghae nods.
He won't.
A year later, the same time, he thinks about it. Considers it.
He's saved up enough on his own from his own gimmicks and from pocket money. He could afford a ticket to Seoul, to his dreams.
Regret still lies in the bit of his stomach, a sour taste on his tongue. A waste, a goddamn waste of talent, his father would say, smiling.
Donghae knows what he wants. He knows what he can achieve if he tries hard enough.
"Do it," Donghwa tells him later, and Donghae knows that if he won't do this, then his life will be useless. Directionless.
"Yeah, yeah I will."
Five years down the track, when he debuts, he doesn't regret it. He feels the exhilaration in his veins, excitement running down his back and has a grin breaking his face wide. He loves it.
Six years and he visits home.
Father, Dad, Dad, Daddy.
Love you, with my soul. More than, even.
He tries not to regret it then, but it's there. In the subtle twists of his wrists and the movements of his shoulder blades as he dances to keep from remembering; to keep from thinking.
Ten years. It's goodbye. Maybe not forever, but it's a big enough of a forever to matter.
"It's been good," he says, and everyone agrees.
"Do you regret this?" someone asks, and they all shake their head.
The journey is always more worth it than the destination.
Twenty, twenty years and he can say he's lived. He can say he's been through life, been through regrets and mishaps, through winning and losing and losing people. Losing love and family and friends. Through war and misery and hard work. Through hate and singing and dancing until his breaths are only just keeping him awake and the confusion between sweat and tears is at the forefront of his mind.
Twenty years, he's waited.
"I love you," he tells his wife.
"I love you, so much," he tells his baby daughter as he holds her delicately and cuddles her close, breathing in her scent.
He's lived, but he's going to experience so much more.
"Sorry, I can't. I'm not going to do this," he says to one of the officials.
He nods, disinterested.
"Form?"
Donghae scrambles and produces it, a form with his name, his birthday and more, more information than anyone has ever asked of him. More than he knew about himself.
"Thanks," the official says before folding it and tucking it behind a clipboard. "If you'd like to come back later, tell me."
Donghae nods before he ducks his head, grasping his bag tighter than before and neatly weaving through the crowd.
The officials let him through, and the one at the end signals for the Visitor card. He fumbles as he gives it over, and finally, there's fresh air. Fresh air, he can breathe, he can breathe. And he ignores the feeling in his stomach.
Hi Dad, I'm your son.
When he gets home, his mum is waiting up, listening to the radio quietly as it talks of the weather, the news, trivial things. It's dark, and he should still be in Seoul, technically. The next day is Round Two, and he could've been part of that. But he's not. He tells himself he doesn't regret it.
"Hey sweetie," his mother greets, kissing him on the cheek. "How was it?"
He avoids his mother's eyes.
"It was okay."
She nods and he slips off his bag, walks into his room. Closes the door and locks Donghwa's snores inside.
The next morning, his mother and father are sitting at the breakfast table, talking quietly. Donghae slips into the room, pretending to be invisible.
They're talking about him.
He doesn't want to hear it, but he thinks he needs to.
"I don't want him to regret it," his father says. "He should have the life he wants."
"I know, but if he doesn't want to do it, then we can't force him. We should leave him be."
His father nods. Donghwa pokes him on the shoulder.
"’SCUSE ME," he says loudly and walks around him to the kitchen, and Donghae feels his parents' eyes upon him.
"Sorry," he mutters, grabs a piece of fruit, and disappears into his room.
"So how was it?" Donghwa asks, the summer sunshine coming through their window. Donghae's blinded as he looks up, and Donghwa laughs.
"It was okay."
Donghwa laughs again. "Bullshit it was okay, you didn't even go, did you?"
"How'd you know?"
"Can read you like a book," he says cheerfully before pegging a pillow at Donghae and telling him how much of an idiot he is.
"You know, Mum put half of the savings towards you going to Seoul? And you gave up just like that. Don't you feel a bit of guilt?"
Donghae swallows. He tries not to feel the guilt, though it's heavy. So heavy on his tongue.
"Maybe?"
Donghwa hums.
"Well, as long as you don't regret this."
Donghae nods.
He won't.
A year later, the same time, he thinks about it. Considers it.
He's saved up enough on his own from his own gimmicks and from pocket money. He could afford a ticket to Seoul, to his dreams.
Regret still lies in the bit of his stomach, a sour taste on his tongue. A waste, a goddamn waste of talent, his father would say, smiling.
Donghae knows what he wants. He knows what he can achieve if he tries hard enough.
"Do it," Donghwa tells him later, and Donghae knows that if he won't do this, then his life will be useless. Directionless.
"Yeah, yeah I will."
Five years down the track, when he debuts, he doesn't regret it. He feels the exhilaration in his veins, excitement running down his back and has a grin breaking his face wide. He loves it.
Six years and he visits home.
Father, Dad, Dad, Daddy.
Love you, with my soul. More than, even.
He tries not to regret it then, but it's there. In the subtle twists of his wrists and the movements of his shoulder blades as he dances to keep from remembering; to keep from thinking.
Ten years. It's goodbye. Maybe not forever, but it's a big enough of a forever to matter.
"It's been good," he says, and everyone agrees.
"Do you regret this?" someone asks, and they all shake their head.
The journey is always more worth it than the destination.
Twenty, twenty years and he can say he's lived. He can say he's been through life, been through regrets and mishaps, through winning and losing and losing people. Losing love and family and friends. Through war and misery and hard work. Through hate and singing and dancing until his breaths are only just keeping him awake and the confusion between sweat and tears is at the forefront of his mind.
Twenty years, he's waited.
"I love you," he tells his wife.
"I love you, so much," he tells his baby daughter as he holds her delicately and cuddles her close, breathing in her scent.
He's lived, but he's going to experience so much more.