Northern Wind
Northern Wind
Gongchan - Krystal (Kai-Krystal, Sehun-Krystal), pg-13 ~4,758 words
Something built to spill, too much trying, too much giving up, running in circles, give and take, silence, screaming, “This is not how you will break.” She left, but she doesn’t remember ever leaving.
→ this was based on mekimigure's prompt: “We carry these things inside us that no one else can see. They hold us down like anchors. They drown us out at sea.”, and yes, look who has been writing some stuff. I'm pretty rusty and unstable, my last story posted here was still in July. This one took me almost two months to write because I'm always getting stuck. I hope it came out pretty, but it looks like complete word barf ugh I'm so done.
Type, type, type - there’s lots of it going on, type, click, sigh, type, type. Backspace button prolonged, the words run right after each other, backwards, stumbling, chasing back and back until they reach the top of the page, emptied, as though she has never typed anything on it, as if the words have never existed. Like us, Krystal thinks about it (them). She can’t believe what she’s even thinking of writing, but she has to start somewhere. We all do, don’t we?
So she starts with him.
Gong Chanshik’s never not the talk of the college. College, yes - not high school, not slutty cheerleaders dating quarterbacks, not sneaking a lit stick of cigarette at the roof deck, not underage drinking, not cutting Biology just because of frog-dissecting. It is the haunted morning paperwork due two hours later, the exam you never studied for the night before; it is the untidy bullshit you have as roomies, the unreturned library books with your yellow ID card tainted with red charges. It’s the loan you borrowed because quality education is prices, holes in pockets, the part-time job waiting tables savings all used up. It’s college Krystal first hears his name.
He isn’t exactly at the top of the social food chain, but everyone knows him: he doesn’t talk, his quiet most of the time, walking on pavements to get to class with his headphones on, hands down his pockets like all the coolness he earned from high school was still legendarily felt even after senior year. They say he graduated first in his class back then, medals and honors, with pretty trophies in math contests and science fairs of some sort Krystal hasn’t even heard of, the place where he came from, she hasn’t heard of it either (“Yes it’s a small town, stop making fun of it!” Chanshik will say). Everyone knows him, everyone, everyone knows he’s a pretty face, an eye-candy for the ladies, those girls who’ll look up from their econ books just to get a good glimpse of him when he walks by. Krystal is not one of those girls.
Sulli knows him, they’re friends, Krystal hears - everyone’s friends with Sulli anyway.
Somewhere in their cat-dog relationship, Krystal finds herself attending a party she has no idea who’s holding it and what for, and why she had been forced to sit with people she hasn’t met yet before.
“I’m going home,” Krystal suddenly whines at tipsy Sulli. “I’m calling Taemin to drive you home, okay, you -” and that’s when on the other end of the table, cutting her sentence, he’s staring at her, sober in his most sober graced state she feels, and she stares back naturally caught like a prisoner, locked, in gazes she herself doesn’t feel as perfect, “ -stay here. I’ll call Taemin.” She gets up and steals another glance at him again; he’s not looking anymore, which should have been the first sign, Krystal now reflects, how it will never work out.
“Something between you and Chanshik?” Luna asks lunchtime the next day.
Krystal looks up from her meal, eyeing the older friend. “Chanshik? Gong Chanshik? Isn’t he a year or two older?”
“My year,” she answers. “But you saw how he looked at you last night, right? Before he left, he smiled at you and he doesn’t usually smile like that, though. Something’s really up.”
It gets Krystal blushing, the ‘oh-you-saw-that-too’ kind, embarrassed mostly, but of course every fiber in her system begs to differ. Nothing’s up, that’s just some silly, girly notion to put you at unease. Unfortunately, it’s working on her.
“We’re not even friends? I just know you and Sulli are friends with him. I mean, we even haven’t talked to each other before.”
“Want me to fix that?”
It’s easy to say no, so with a firm shake of the head, Krystal finishes with a grateful smile, “I’ve got a Physics exam in a few minutes. I don’t think I need this right now.”
She would have wanted to stick with the idea, but almost promptly even after she leaves school that day, waits for the bus to come around, arrives home, slams door with Sooyeon, climbs into bed without dinner and flicks her nightlight, Krystal can’t stop thinking of him. Which makes completely no sense at all.
Somewhere in between after class study sessions with Sulli at her favorite café and building tree houses for charity work, Krystal wonders if other people will think she’s fanatical for thinking about an absolute stranger. But he isn’t a stranger, because she knows him by face, by his name, that’s got to be a start, right?
Ridiculous enough, even bumping into him in hallways feels rather funny, different, as if he’s looking up at her and she can feel his eyes, leaving marks and quivers all over her. The haven’t even had a very legitimate conversation, just stares and glances and some hidden smiles tucked behind books, and it’s already leaving her this restless. Such a strange horrific sensation to the point that even Sulli notices it and just bursts laughing one day after research class.
“You like Chanshik, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t!”
“Of course you do! That explains everything!”
“No. I. Don’t.”
“Yes you do, look you’re blushing, Jung.”
Krystal sighs, grimacing all at once and dropping the exterior. She’s biting her lips, such a bad habit, then inhaling with closed eyes, loading the bullets. “Look, I dreamed about him the other night, and I swear I fucking don’t know how that is ever possible we have never ever ever even been introduced and we never talked to each other before and I mean yes I know he exists but I swear I’m not sure if I like him I mean Sulli stop laughing! This is serious shit!”
Sulli grins. “Now that I think about it, you two would make a cute couple.”
“Shut up. No, there is no cute couple here. You can’t tell anyone of this, you have to swear with all your heart Choi Jinri that this will not go out. To anyone.”
“Swearing,” Sulli raises her right and hides her crossed left fingers at the back like the truest of best friends.
As expected in less than four hours, before the day even ends, Gong Chanshik hears about the little social science sophomore having that crush over the little pre-med cutie through some very trustworthy friends.
Krystal almost dies in a heart attack of disbelief when all of a sudden someone reports back to her that he has been very much interested in her too.
He’s wearing black that day (Krystal has proof - she has a picture of it in one of those shoeboxes Jessica wouldn’t dare check, hidden under the stairs). His backpack’s behind him, she’s behind him, quietly following his footsteps as their friends followed them too, teasing and cooing them like babies, until Krystal throws her glares, Chanshik his own, and they all finally retreat.
“Ugh fuck, they ship us.”
“Ship?” Chanshik cracks a smile.
“Ship,” Krystal says after, “as in the verb, is when you want two people to be a couple and you become their number one fan and you want to call yourself the captain of that ship and the other shippers are the crew, get it? I mean, why did I just tell you that shit I’m sorry I’m trying not to be awkward I’m honestly sorry I just -”
He’s laughing, Krystal doesn’t remember when he started doing so but he’s laughing at her, and so she shuts up, pouts a little, before his knuckles playfully connects with her red cheek. “Hey, hey you’re not supposed to say awkward when you know the situation already is because that’ll make it all worse, OK?”
Krystal nods, “OK.”
It’s a tacky pizza place down a few blocks from the university. It’s a Friday, it’s 12:03 pm, her classes are over for the day, his still crazy because he’s going to be graduating this year, there’s thesis he has to attend to, there’s shitload of research and grades to maintain and more units to take. But it’s in this time, that Krystal feels all the enormity dawning to her like drizzle evolving into rain. Or maybe a thunderstorm.
They order pizza for two, and water because Krystal doesn’t take on soda too nicely. He sits across her, starts the conversation with, “This isn’t free, by the way. You’re going to buy my album someday, produced by yours truly. You get a discount because we’re friends.” He talks a lot, goodbye false assumptions and hello to reality, hello to the Gong Chanshik she’s wanted to meet after a few testimonies of mutual likeness.
(“He likes you, he likes you, Gong Chanshik likes you, and doesn’t that make you happy?”
“Shut up, Sulli. This is all your fault.”)
“You have one first, I already ate lunch awhile ago,” Krystal says stupidly, eyeing the cheese melting into the crust. It looks pretty, like Chanshik when he smiles, takes a bite, and adds more sauce. Krystal asks another dumb question like is it better with sauce or what, and he just shrugs, mouth corners with that sauce and she wants to wipe it with her thumb but she offers him a tissue instead. You don’t wipe someone’s lips with your bare fingers on the first date, that’s asking too much and Krystal doesn’t want to leave that impression at all. Some of his cheese drips, her eyes widening, before she mutters, “Shit, it’s going to stain.”
He looks up and squints at her. “You swear a lot. For a girl.”
Krystal looks away, blushing. “Right, sorry.” When her eyes fall again on him, he’s smiling in silence, that pretty boy smile that Jessica has once warned her about even in high school, but she eventually smiles at it, too. All the butterflies she got at the beginning disappear eventually, kind of like magic, and Chanshik’s clearly comfortable with her (he’s trying, really, it’s cute), not showing any hints that he’s nervous or scared; it relieves her.
They walk side by side back to school, back to reality, back to the unwarranted teasing, the exams that need some studying. The way he walks with those worn out shoes, the way his eyes sparkle, the way he sometimes mispronounces things, the way he lets his hand swing at his side as if asking for her to take it - she breathes all of him in, because she knows, like all the butterflies, they aren’t meant to last.
“Jung Soojung.”
“Yes, Gong Chanshik?”
“Jung Soojung!”
“What?”
He shifts his gaze from his laptop, and then at her, who seemed to be close to falling asleep, hair falling over her face, hands barely gripping the side of the swing.
“Should I dye my hair blue or -?”
“Black’s fine,” she answers apathetically, kicks the ground a bit to keep her swaying.
“You look sedated.”
“Do you even know half of what you’re saying most of the time?”
“No, but anything I say is bound to be attractive to you.”
“I’m going home.”
“No, stay with me, I’m bored,” Chanshik requests.
“You only call me when you’re bored, I am so done here,” Krystal grudgingly replies and swings a little higher in her descent, feet finally on the same ground. She gets off and pulls her bag, while Chanshik looks confused, saying, “Noona, stay.”
Swinging her bag to her side, she crosses her arms with a smile. “Seriously, I’m not your pet. Try something better.”
Chanshik grins, standing next to her. “Ooh, bitchy. Shall I escort you home, mademoiselle?”
They begin walking, him standing next to her, and she so close to him like it’s supposed to be. No hands are interlinked because that’s reserved for the actual boyfriend-girlfriend thing, and they aren’t a milestone away to it either but still so many steep steps to take. Emotions have been burned into a bonfire neither one is willing to stop, because it’s bright and (they are) beautiful, attractively warm, but as dangerous as any wild one.
Krystal looks at the shadows behind them that stretched far. “When will you get a car, you’re graduating pre-med, you’re twenty-two and car-less. That’s one vote to Losers’ Ville.”
“You’re nineteen, how come you’re still a virgin?”
“Shut it, you retard.” She elbows his ribs bitterly, pushes him away as he cackles, going back, coming back around her, and saying sorry I’ll never bring that up again.
It’s around 2:05 am, they’re still wide-awake, unbothered by the lives outside each other and their phones, or the night that’s deepening in darkness, or the morning that slowly will arrive the soonest by dawn and it’s back to dazed reports and untouched thesis.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Is this necessary, Soojung?”
“Well, mine’s yellow.” (She remembers him wearing yellow the next day too, and he looks gorgeous in a simple button down.)
“Mine’s black.” (Krystal’s a little rebel; she wears white the following day instead.)
“You dated Suzy before, like oh my god? The Bae Suzy? I never knew.”
“She was fatter before, you should’ve seen it. Plus she sucked in English.”
“You like me for my English? That’s unfair I grew up in the States!”
“I like you for the whole of you, silly.”
“I like the whole of you, too.”
“Aren’t you sleepy yet?”
“I am, but I don’t stay up this late unless I’m studying and I’m done studying.”
“Go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Where is my good night kiss?”
“SLEEP!”
But it’s not always like this. Chanshik’s cold enough not to care, to show he does care in the most ironic way, and maybe that’s the reason why Krystal locks herself up in her room that winter, sulking, type type, trying to type a fucking letter, like a civilized person asking him for the closure, an apology that she has desperately been needing. She never finishes, she always can’t.
I thought you said we’d try - backspace abused, words deleted.
You jerk, you never cared.
You still owe me 30.
I miss you, can we just stop this please, call me back, say sorry, just say sorry and I’ll be fine, we’ll be fine I just -
She sighs, deletes, closes the document, wrestles with her pillows, turns the volume up for something to keep mocking her, like an All-American Rejects song, I can’t explain what you can’t explain. You’re finding things that you didn’t know, it s(t)ings - and she throws her covers, the clock’s yelling go to sleep it’s 2:34 am, but Krystal doesn’t. She’s not crying anymore, stop making things so melodramatic, but she’s awake. It’s keeping her awake, him keeping her awake with nothing, not his presence, his voice, his eyes, his smile, nothing, except a memory of how it is, how it should have been - a haunting without any exorcism. It’s been three weeks, let go, she can hear Jongin telling her this again and again.
She hits the kitchen for some chocolate, it’s 4:29 am, every part of her is going numb, chocolates will give her nightmares when she sleeps. Other than that, sleeping patterns have been daunting, and the only opium perhaps, is to close her eyes when she doesn’t want to, forget when she can’t.
“Krys, this is unhealthy,” Jongin mutters worriedly, staring as the girl plays with her ice cream.
“I know,” which she truly does, except she pretends losing it (them) isn’t detrimental.
“No, no, you obviously don’t.”
Krystal gazes back at him and their eyes meet. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I love you. Now love me back.”
“You’re dating Jongin,” he says, eyes focused on his laptop, randomly hitting play on every MIDI he sees. The frigid wind rustles with the electronic piano in the background, a sign that it’ll be spring soon. She’s sitting opposite him, legs crossed, mind also distant, fingers caressing grass blades. They’re by the oak tree, just the two of them, one of their favorite places. It’s been a month or two or three - she lost count - since the last time they talked to each other. It’s making her nervous. This is Gong Chanshik after all; he will never fail to make her feel that.
“Yeah, I am,” Krystal confirms.
“So I heard from Sulli,” Chanshik continues hitting the spacebar a lot stronger when he hears her.
Krystal sits still, waits for him to talk, but it’s been three minutes, that’s the mark, Chanshik’s ignoring her again. “I’m happy, by the way.”
He smirks, the first trace of emotion suddenly from his side of the conversation. “I told you you’d be, didn’t I?” Chanshik still can’t manage eye contact; it’s difficult, they’re difficult: Krystal’s too difficult of a test for him. He plays something dubstep, smoothened synths, perfect rhythmic combination of various melodies, and Krystal wants to compliment his skills. You’ve gotten better, this sounds like the real thing, but she feels this will also be disregarded. She closes her eyes for a moment, settles with a couple of memories she doesn’t like keeping in her heart’s shelves, and then exhales.
“This is stupid.”
“Hey, I worked all night for this mix, at least say it’s -”
“I mean this conversation!” Krystal cries hastily, standing up and getting her bag. This time Chanshik’s alarmed, looking at her in full concern, inching to grab her hand when he still can reach it but hesitates. Krystal turns away, again, again, and yet again, like before and Chanshik watches her with regret. He always does, and some time later, she will look back at him, again and again - she never learns, does she? Chanshik stops watching by then, because he has to stay away and stop making her expect what he can never give; it’s a cycle of mistakes, on repeat.
We’re a mistake, Soojung.
He tells her that her eyes remind him so much of galaxies in motion, chasing supernovas a tail after another, if ever such a thing even exists, and she mutters a fuck you, stop telling me lies, that’s scientifically impossible, you’re not getting girls that way - and they’ll laugh together, he clasping her into his arms, breathing You’re really fucking cute, kid, and somehow she finds comfort in these words a couple of years later.
“You two were perfect for each other.”
Over tea, Krystal grimaces at the whole sentence, not quite sure if it had been the word were or perfect that caused the blow.
“I wouldn’t say that. We weren’t even official, remember? We were never together.”
“Please, you two were so all over the place. Remember that time -”
“I was barely 18 or something, oh my god? And I don’t like where you’re going with this.”
Sulli smiles at her, passing on the piece of paper that had been the whole subject of their little get-together. “It would still be lovely to have you at the wedding, Krys.”
Krystal sips indifferently before picking up the invitation laced with lavender ribbons and smelled like a piece of clothing dipped in her mom’s favorite fabric conditioner. “The idea of attending your first love’s wedding without really being invited by his wife-to-be just spells disaster to me. I mean I’d go but… you know.”
“But you guys are friends!” Sulli retorts, still pushing Krystal to go.
“Yes, but we always were fighting, you know. Besides if you were in my shoes, would you go?”
The other girl sits back, crossing her arms. “Well, yes, I guess if we were in good terms.”
Krystal scowls. “We haven’t seen each other in… six or seven years, how is that in good terms?”
“But you keep in touch,” Sulli advances.
“Yes, the most recent being five years ago, and that’s just a bit rude and awkward showing up without really being told to show up,” Krystal says, diverting her attention now to the list of guests on the invite. She recognizes some of the names on them, but mostly they appear as strangers. Must be from the wife’s side.
The afternoon is slow and steady, teacups already drained out when Sulli stands up quietly, still with her frail smile thrown back. “At least go talk to him in person. I hear his staying at his parents’ place the next weeks.”
With his bride, yes I heard. “I’ll keep that in mind, Sulli.”
Her apartment carries the depression of her dark drapes; it’s not like she chose dark violet over other colors of the season, the bright yellows are still in laundry this time, you see. She leaves them down, sheltering her from sunlight as if she was a vampire, and she convinces Jessica one time that she might as well be. It’s just a stage, post-teenager-early-adulthood stage where you act all sulky about everything in life, complaining about your salary being just enough for electricity bills and the rent. When you’re twenty-eight, it’s bad religion to be asking your parents to pay for your stuff as if you were still stuck in college. Nor to have your older sister nosing in as well, Krystal knows perfectly well the perks and consequences of her declared independence.
“Hey, you’re back.”
She sets aside her shoes, takes off her coat and enters the living room to see him fiddling with the DVD player, not bothering to look up, a bowl of cheese balls on the couch, and some juice in cartons on the table.
“Hey… you didn’t tell me you’d be here,” Krystal says.
“It’s… Saturday so…” he trails off, attention all hers. Krystal doesn’t make an effort to decode, so he continues with, “It’s movie night, remember?”
“Right, right. Sorry, Sehun. I just… you know.”
Sehun smiles and gestures for her to sit next to him; the opening music plays, the lights low, the main title flashes on the screen. Krystal lets him hold her, lets him talk about how it took so long to finally have a copy of this thing, rants about how the characters are so much different in the book, and when he asks for her opinion she’ll shrug, smile, tell him it’s okay, it’s cool or something very generic that won’t reveal away her disinterest towards it, towards the whole setup and tradition, towards him. She loves him, no doubt, they’ve been together for two years now without breaking up (the longest one right after Choi Minho), and the length proves it, right? You won’t stay too long with someone if you can’t even stand being with them a single second, right?
“Hey.”
“Hmm?”
He pokes her ribs while she pretends to be focused, and she giggles, pushing him away. “You alright?”
Krystal nods. “Yeah, why?”
“You don’t seem to be,” Sehun says.
“Just tired from work this week, I guess. I’m trying to get on the boss’ good side, a shot at promotion hopefully so I don’t have to be partnered around Suzy, and maybe transferred to the marketing department, who knows. I’ll just have to work my ass off some more.”
Sehun touches her cheek, calming her down like a quiet sunset. She smiles almost in thank you, but all of this feels never enough, no matter how hard she tried.
“I’m okay, I swear.”
“You better be,” he replies in worry.
Krystal laughs. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
Sehun smacks her lips quickly, before messing up her hair. “I love you.”
And someone else comes into memory, into vision when those exact words whispered to her before are thrown at her again, as if to promise, as if asking her to not let go of what could’ve been the most faultless thing the heavens could offer. He’s not there anymore, wake up, he’s said it to other girls by now too, aren’t you tired of this, you’re hurting Sehun, you’re hurting yourself, wake up -
Krystal pays Sehun back with another kiss, before slumping next to him in regret, finishing the movie that didn’t spark her curiosity one bit.
She’s amazed at her ability to memorize things because his address is still quite alive, a two-hour drive all alone the following day and she pulls over finally, biting her lips in fear, hands letting go of the wheel and unplugging the keys.
She walks to the porch, his father opening it for her and a little wide-eyed. They haven’t been introduced to each other before, she recalls, so Krystal bows 90-degree, smiling.
“I’m Jung Soojung, sir. I’m one of Chanshik’s friends. May I ask if he is home?”
His father nods uncertainly, before letting her in and saying, “He’s in the attic. Stairs to your left, dear.”
Boldly, she braces the house, prepared if ever someone else notices her surprise existence in their household but meets no one along the way. She ends up by the doorway of the attic, spots him messing up an old box and taking out some ancient books. He’s grown up, body well-maintained, his chin appearing unshaven in the low lighting. Her heart palpitates without warning, before she hears the mantra of her soul, we’re a mistake, Chanshik. We always were. He gazes at her direction, doesn’t seem too surprised as his father had been. Chanshik wears his poker face as easily as the old days.
“You didn’t call.”
“You never answer.”
He gets up. “I’ve been busy these days, I’m sorry.”
“Always have been,” Krystal leans against the door, still watching him. “If it’s a bad time, I’ll come back later and I’ll make sure to call even if you don’t pick up.”
“Soojung, did you come here just to argue with me?”
“No,” Krystal tells him, finds a small chair and makes herself comfortable while he rearranges the rest of the items in the box. She browses a box full of CDs, stares and smiles, and waves an album in his direction excitedly.
“You have an album entitled JSJ?”
He swipes it from her. “Don’t flatter yourself. It was my first album right after pre-med. You were on my mind a lot, like a lot.”
“But you never called me about it. You said I’d get a discount for it, since we’re friends.”
Chanshik smiles and takes a seat in front of her a minute later. “I can hand you a copy if you still want one, and this time for free. Since we’re friends.”
“Dr. Gong Chanshik, a music producer for five years, don’t you just find it hilarious? A DJ before being a surgeon, that’s one hell of a story.”
“And what about you? You never pursued law like you said you will,” Chanshik mentions it and Krystal, still cheery, laughs it off like it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Life happened,” Krystal affirms. “I stopped at my first year, just went where life took me, and I’m now working with the public relations committee, nothing big. I’m not the one getting married here.”
“You will be sooner or later,” Chanshik cups her chin, and she scowls at the gesture before standing up with a sigh. They start heading out now to the kitchen, completely deserted with his dad in the garage fixing the car.
“I thought it’d be you though.”
Chanshik pauses by the fridge, amused. “She’s out with mom today. They’re touring the town as if there’s much to see around this place, anyway. You’ve got perfect timing.”
Krystal holds back a smile. “I never got it right before. The timing, I mean.”
“Love isn’t about timing,” Chanshik responds, handing her a plate of a little burnt toasted bread and butter on top, and she likes how it’s quite imperfect. He pours her some orange juice and a glass also for himself, and waits until her eyes are on his. “You don’t measure love by timing, either.”
“So where did we fail if it weren’t for the timing?” Krystal dares.
“If I knew the answer to that Soojung, I might as well be married to you now.” He sips his juice, looks away still in misery at the thought of the words he let go, of the what ifs he just can’t anymore prove, and Krystal still ponders on the question on her drive home alone, wondering if this has been an enough closure for her or if it still had been lacking. She votes for the latter.
Type, type, type - there’s lots of it going on, type, click, sigh, type, type. It turns into ellipsis instead of a period, because there can never be an end to something that never had a beginning.
Gongchan - Krystal (Kai-Krystal, Sehun-Krystal), pg-13 ~4,758 words
Something built to spill, too much trying, too much giving up, running in circles, give and take, silence, screaming, “This is not how you will break.” She left, but she doesn’t remember ever leaving.
→ this was based on mekimigure's prompt: “We carry these things inside us that no one else can see. They hold us down like anchors. They drown us out at sea.”, and yes, look who has been writing some stuff. I'm pretty rusty and unstable, my last story posted here was still in July. This one took me almost two months to write because I'm always getting stuck. I hope it came out pretty, but it looks like complete word barf ugh I'm so done.
Type, type, type - there’s lots of it going on, type, click, sigh, type, type. Backspace button prolonged, the words run right after each other, backwards, stumbling, chasing back and back until they reach the top of the page, emptied, as though she has never typed anything on it, as if the words have never existed. Like us, Krystal thinks about it (them). She can’t believe what she’s even thinking of writing, but she has to start somewhere. We all do, don’t we?
So she starts with him.
Gong Chanshik’s never not the talk of the college. College, yes - not high school, not slutty cheerleaders dating quarterbacks, not sneaking a lit stick of cigarette at the roof deck, not underage drinking, not cutting Biology just because of frog-dissecting. It is the haunted morning paperwork due two hours later, the exam you never studied for the night before; it is the untidy bullshit you have as roomies, the unreturned library books with your yellow ID card tainted with red charges. It’s the loan you borrowed because quality education is prices, holes in pockets, the part-time job waiting tables savings all used up. It’s college Krystal first hears his name.
He isn’t exactly at the top of the social food chain, but everyone knows him: he doesn’t talk, his quiet most of the time, walking on pavements to get to class with his headphones on, hands down his pockets like all the coolness he earned from high school was still legendarily felt even after senior year. They say he graduated first in his class back then, medals and honors, with pretty trophies in math contests and science fairs of some sort Krystal hasn’t even heard of, the place where he came from, she hasn’t heard of it either (“Yes it’s a small town, stop making fun of it!” Chanshik will say). Everyone knows him, everyone, everyone knows he’s a pretty face, an eye-candy for the ladies, those girls who’ll look up from their econ books just to get a good glimpse of him when he walks by. Krystal is not one of those girls.
Sulli knows him, they’re friends, Krystal hears - everyone’s friends with Sulli anyway.
Somewhere in their cat-dog relationship, Krystal finds herself attending a party she has no idea who’s holding it and what for, and why she had been forced to sit with people she hasn’t met yet before.
“I’m going home,” Krystal suddenly whines at tipsy Sulli. “I’m calling Taemin to drive you home, okay, you -” and that’s when on the other end of the table, cutting her sentence, he’s staring at her, sober in his most sober graced state she feels, and she stares back naturally caught like a prisoner, locked, in gazes she herself doesn’t feel as perfect, “ -stay here. I’ll call Taemin.” She gets up and steals another glance at him again; he’s not looking anymore, which should have been the first sign, Krystal now reflects, how it will never work out.
“Something between you and Chanshik?” Luna asks lunchtime the next day.
Krystal looks up from her meal, eyeing the older friend. “Chanshik? Gong Chanshik? Isn’t he a year or two older?”
“My year,” she answers. “But you saw how he looked at you last night, right? Before he left, he smiled at you and he doesn’t usually smile like that, though. Something’s really up.”
It gets Krystal blushing, the ‘oh-you-saw-that-too’ kind, embarrassed mostly, but of course every fiber in her system begs to differ. Nothing’s up, that’s just some silly, girly notion to put you at unease. Unfortunately, it’s working on her.
“We’re not even friends? I just know you and Sulli are friends with him. I mean, we even haven’t talked to each other before.”
“Want me to fix that?”
It’s easy to say no, so with a firm shake of the head, Krystal finishes with a grateful smile, “I’ve got a Physics exam in a few minutes. I don’t think I need this right now.”
She would have wanted to stick with the idea, but almost promptly even after she leaves school that day, waits for the bus to come around, arrives home, slams door with Sooyeon, climbs into bed without dinner and flicks her nightlight, Krystal can’t stop thinking of him. Which makes completely no sense at all.
Somewhere in between after class study sessions with Sulli at her favorite café and building tree houses for charity work, Krystal wonders if other people will think she’s fanatical for thinking about an absolute stranger. But he isn’t a stranger, because she knows him by face, by his name, that’s got to be a start, right?
Ridiculous enough, even bumping into him in hallways feels rather funny, different, as if he’s looking up at her and she can feel his eyes, leaving marks and quivers all over her. The haven’t even had a very legitimate conversation, just stares and glances and some hidden smiles tucked behind books, and it’s already leaving her this restless. Such a strange horrific sensation to the point that even Sulli notices it and just bursts laughing one day after research class.
“You like Chanshik, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t!”
“Of course you do! That explains everything!”
“No. I. Don’t.”
“Yes you do, look you’re blushing, Jung.”
Krystal sighs, grimacing all at once and dropping the exterior. She’s biting her lips, such a bad habit, then inhaling with closed eyes, loading the bullets. “Look, I dreamed about him the other night, and I swear I fucking don’t know how that is ever possible we have never ever ever even been introduced and we never talked to each other before and I mean yes I know he exists but I swear I’m not sure if I like him I mean Sulli stop laughing! This is serious shit!”
Sulli grins. “Now that I think about it, you two would make a cute couple.”
“Shut up. No, there is no cute couple here. You can’t tell anyone of this, you have to swear with all your heart Choi Jinri that this will not go out. To anyone.”
“Swearing,” Sulli raises her right and hides her crossed left fingers at the back like the truest of best friends.
As expected in less than four hours, before the day even ends, Gong Chanshik hears about the little social science sophomore having that crush over the little pre-med cutie through some very trustworthy friends.
Krystal almost dies in a heart attack of disbelief when all of a sudden someone reports back to her that he has been very much interested in her too.
He’s wearing black that day (Krystal has proof - she has a picture of it in one of those shoeboxes Jessica wouldn’t dare check, hidden under the stairs). His backpack’s behind him, she’s behind him, quietly following his footsteps as their friends followed them too, teasing and cooing them like babies, until Krystal throws her glares, Chanshik his own, and they all finally retreat.
“Ugh fuck, they ship us.”
“Ship?” Chanshik cracks a smile.
“Ship,” Krystal says after, “as in the verb, is when you want two people to be a couple and you become their number one fan and you want to call yourself the captain of that ship and the other shippers are the crew, get it? I mean, why did I just tell you that shit I’m sorry I’m trying not to be awkward I’m honestly sorry I just -”
He’s laughing, Krystal doesn’t remember when he started doing so but he’s laughing at her, and so she shuts up, pouts a little, before his knuckles playfully connects with her red cheek. “Hey, hey you’re not supposed to say awkward when you know the situation already is because that’ll make it all worse, OK?”
Krystal nods, “OK.”
It’s a tacky pizza place down a few blocks from the university. It’s a Friday, it’s 12:03 pm, her classes are over for the day, his still crazy because he’s going to be graduating this year, there’s thesis he has to attend to, there’s shitload of research and grades to maintain and more units to take. But it’s in this time, that Krystal feels all the enormity dawning to her like drizzle evolving into rain. Or maybe a thunderstorm.
They order pizza for two, and water because Krystal doesn’t take on soda too nicely. He sits across her, starts the conversation with, “This isn’t free, by the way. You’re going to buy my album someday, produced by yours truly. You get a discount because we’re friends.” He talks a lot, goodbye false assumptions and hello to reality, hello to the Gong Chanshik she’s wanted to meet after a few testimonies of mutual likeness.
(“He likes you, he likes you, Gong Chanshik likes you, and doesn’t that make you happy?”
“Shut up, Sulli. This is all your fault.”)
“You have one first, I already ate lunch awhile ago,” Krystal says stupidly, eyeing the cheese melting into the crust. It looks pretty, like Chanshik when he smiles, takes a bite, and adds more sauce. Krystal asks another dumb question like is it better with sauce or what, and he just shrugs, mouth corners with that sauce and she wants to wipe it with her thumb but she offers him a tissue instead. You don’t wipe someone’s lips with your bare fingers on the first date, that’s asking too much and Krystal doesn’t want to leave that impression at all. Some of his cheese drips, her eyes widening, before she mutters, “Shit, it’s going to stain.”
He looks up and squints at her. “You swear a lot. For a girl.”
Krystal looks away, blushing. “Right, sorry.” When her eyes fall again on him, he’s smiling in silence, that pretty boy smile that Jessica has once warned her about even in high school, but she eventually smiles at it, too. All the butterflies she got at the beginning disappear eventually, kind of like magic, and Chanshik’s clearly comfortable with her (he’s trying, really, it’s cute), not showing any hints that he’s nervous or scared; it relieves her.
They walk side by side back to school, back to reality, back to the unwarranted teasing, the exams that need some studying. The way he walks with those worn out shoes, the way his eyes sparkle, the way he sometimes mispronounces things, the way he lets his hand swing at his side as if asking for her to take it - she breathes all of him in, because she knows, like all the butterflies, they aren’t meant to last.
“Jung Soojung.”
“Yes, Gong Chanshik?”
“Jung Soojung!”
“What?”
He shifts his gaze from his laptop, and then at her, who seemed to be close to falling asleep, hair falling over her face, hands barely gripping the side of the swing.
“Should I dye my hair blue or -?”
“Black’s fine,” she answers apathetically, kicks the ground a bit to keep her swaying.
“You look sedated.”
“Do you even know half of what you’re saying most of the time?”
“No, but anything I say is bound to be attractive to you.”
“I’m going home.”
“No, stay with me, I’m bored,” Chanshik requests.
“You only call me when you’re bored, I am so done here,” Krystal grudgingly replies and swings a little higher in her descent, feet finally on the same ground. She gets off and pulls her bag, while Chanshik looks confused, saying, “Noona, stay.”
Swinging her bag to her side, she crosses her arms with a smile. “Seriously, I’m not your pet. Try something better.”
Chanshik grins, standing next to her. “Ooh, bitchy. Shall I escort you home, mademoiselle?”
They begin walking, him standing next to her, and she so close to him like it’s supposed to be. No hands are interlinked because that’s reserved for the actual boyfriend-girlfriend thing, and they aren’t a milestone away to it either but still so many steep steps to take. Emotions have been burned into a bonfire neither one is willing to stop, because it’s bright and (they are) beautiful, attractively warm, but as dangerous as any wild one.
Krystal looks at the shadows behind them that stretched far. “When will you get a car, you’re graduating pre-med, you’re twenty-two and car-less. That’s one vote to Losers’ Ville.”
“You’re nineteen, how come you’re still a virgin?”
“Shut it, you retard.” She elbows his ribs bitterly, pushes him away as he cackles, going back, coming back around her, and saying sorry I’ll never bring that up again.
It’s around 2:05 am, they’re still wide-awake, unbothered by the lives outside each other and their phones, or the night that’s deepening in darkness, or the morning that slowly will arrive the soonest by dawn and it’s back to dazed reports and untouched thesis.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Is this necessary, Soojung?”
“Well, mine’s yellow.” (She remembers him wearing yellow the next day too, and he looks gorgeous in a simple button down.)
“Mine’s black.” (Krystal’s a little rebel; she wears white the following day instead.)
“You dated Suzy before, like oh my god? The Bae Suzy? I never knew.”
“She was fatter before, you should’ve seen it. Plus she sucked in English.”
“You like me for my English? That’s unfair I grew up in the States!”
“I like you for the whole of you, silly.”
“I like the whole of you, too.”
“Aren’t you sleepy yet?”
“I am, but I don’t stay up this late unless I’m studying and I’m done studying.”
“Go to sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Where is my good night kiss?”
“SLEEP!”
But it’s not always like this. Chanshik’s cold enough not to care, to show he does care in the most ironic way, and maybe that’s the reason why Krystal locks herself up in her room that winter, sulking, type type, trying to type a fucking letter, like a civilized person asking him for the closure, an apology that she has desperately been needing. She never finishes, she always can’t.
I thought you said we’d try - backspace abused, words deleted.
You jerk, you never cared.
You still owe me 30.
I miss you, can we just stop this please, call me back, say sorry, just say sorry and I’ll be fine, we’ll be fine I just -
She sighs, deletes, closes the document, wrestles with her pillows, turns the volume up for something to keep mocking her, like an All-American Rejects song, I can’t explain what you can’t explain. You’re finding things that you didn’t know, it s(t)ings - and she throws her covers, the clock’s yelling go to sleep it’s 2:34 am, but Krystal doesn’t. She’s not crying anymore, stop making things so melodramatic, but she’s awake. It’s keeping her awake, him keeping her awake with nothing, not his presence, his voice, his eyes, his smile, nothing, except a memory of how it is, how it should have been - a haunting without any exorcism. It’s been three weeks, let go, she can hear Jongin telling her this again and again.
She hits the kitchen for some chocolate, it’s 4:29 am, every part of her is going numb, chocolates will give her nightmares when she sleeps. Other than that, sleeping patterns have been daunting, and the only opium perhaps, is to close her eyes when she doesn’t want to, forget when she can’t.
“Krys, this is unhealthy,” Jongin mutters worriedly, staring as the girl plays with her ice cream.
“I know,” which she truly does, except she pretends losing it (them) isn’t detrimental.
“No, no, you obviously don’t.”
Krystal gazes back at him and their eyes meet. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“I love you. Now love me back.”
“You’re dating Jongin,” he says, eyes focused on his laptop, randomly hitting play on every MIDI he sees. The frigid wind rustles with the electronic piano in the background, a sign that it’ll be spring soon. She’s sitting opposite him, legs crossed, mind also distant, fingers caressing grass blades. They’re by the oak tree, just the two of them, one of their favorite places. It’s been a month or two or three - she lost count - since the last time they talked to each other. It’s making her nervous. This is Gong Chanshik after all; he will never fail to make her feel that.
“Yeah, I am,” Krystal confirms.
“So I heard from Sulli,” Chanshik continues hitting the spacebar a lot stronger when he hears her.
Krystal sits still, waits for him to talk, but it’s been three minutes, that’s the mark, Chanshik’s ignoring her again. “I’m happy, by the way.”
He smirks, the first trace of emotion suddenly from his side of the conversation. “I told you you’d be, didn’t I?” Chanshik still can’t manage eye contact; it’s difficult, they’re difficult: Krystal’s too difficult of a test for him. He plays something dubstep, smoothened synths, perfect rhythmic combination of various melodies, and Krystal wants to compliment his skills. You’ve gotten better, this sounds like the real thing, but she feels this will also be disregarded. She closes her eyes for a moment, settles with a couple of memories she doesn’t like keeping in her heart’s shelves, and then exhales.
“This is stupid.”
“Hey, I worked all night for this mix, at least say it’s -”
“I mean this conversation!” Krystal cries hastily, standing up and getting her bag. This time Chanshik’s alarmed, looking at her in full concern, inching to grab her hand when he still can reach it but hesitates. Krystal turns away, again, again, and yet again, like before and Chanshik watches her with regret. He always does, and some time later, she will look back at him, again and again - she never learns, does she? Chanshik stops watching by then, because he has to stay away and stop making her expect what he can never give; it’s a cycle of mistakes, on repeat.
We’re a mistake, Soojung.
He tells her that her eyes remind him so much of galaxies in motion, chasing supernovas a tail after another, if ever such a thing even exists, and she mutters a fuck you, stop telling me lies, that’s scientifically impossible, you’re not getting girls that way - and they’ll laugh together, he clasping her into his arms, breathing You’re really fucking cute, kid, and somehow she finds comfort in these words a couple of years later.
“You two were perfect for each other.”
Over tea, Krystal grimaces at the whole sentence, not quite sure if it had been the word were or perfect that caused the blow.
“I wouldn’t say that. We weren’t even official, remember? We were never together.”
“Please, you two were so all over the place. Remember that time -”
“I was barely 18 or something, oh my god? And I don’t like where you’re going with this.”
Sulli smiles at her, passing on the piece of paper that had been the whole subject of their little get-together. “It would still be lovely to have you at the wedding, Krys.”
Krystal sips indifferently before picking up the invitation laced with lavender ribbons and smelled like a piece of clothing dipped in her mom’s favorite fabric conditioner. “The idea of attending your first love’s wedding without really being invited by his wife-to-be just spells disaster to me. I mean I’d go but… you know.”
“But you guys are friends!” Sulli retorts, still pushing Krystal to go.
“Yes, but we always were fighting, you know. Besides if you were in my shoes, would you go?”
The other girl sits back, crossing her arms. “Well, yes, I guess if we were in good terms.”
Krystal scowls. “We haven’t seen each other in… six or seven years, how is that in good terms?”
“But you keep in touch,” Sulli advances.
“Yes, the most recent being five years ago, and that’s just a bit rude and awkward showing up without really being told to show up,” Krystal says, diverting her attention now to the list of guests on the invite. She recognizes some of the names on them, but mostly they appear as strangers. Must be from the wife’s side.
The afternoon is slow and steady, teacups already drained out when Sulli stands up quietly, still with her frail smile thrown back. “At least go talk to him in person. I hear his staying at his parents’ place the next weeks.”
With his bride, yes I heard. “I’ll keep that in mind, Sulli.”
Her apartment carries the depression of her dark drapes; it’s not like she chose dark violet over other colors of the season, the bright yellows are still in laundry this time, you see. She leaves them down, sheltering her from sunlight as if she was a vampire, and she convinces Jessica one time that she might as well be. It’s just a stage, post-teenager-early-adulthood stage where you act all sulky about everything in life, complaining about your salary being just enough for electricity bills and the rent. When you’re twenty-eight, it’s bad religion to be asking your parents to pay for your stuff as if you were still stuck in college. Nor to have your older sister nosing in as well, Krystal knows perfectly well the perks and consequences of her declared independence.
“Hey, you’re back.”
She sets aside her shoes, takes off her coat and enters the living room to see him fiddling with the DVD player, not bothering to look up, a bowl of cheese balls on the couch, and some juice in cartons on the table.
“Hey… you didn’t tell me you’d be here,” Krystal says.
“It’s… Saturday so…” he trails off, attention all hers. Krystal doesn’t make an effort to decode, so he continues with, “It’s movie night, remember?”
“Right, right. Sorry, Sehun. I just… you know.”
Sehun smiles and gestures for her to sit next to him; the opening music plays, the lights low, the main title flashes on the screen. Krystal lets him hold her, lets him talk about how it took so long to finally have a copy of this thing, rants about how the characters are so much different in the book, and when he asks for her opinion she’ll shrug, smile, tell him it’s okay, it’s cool or something very generic that won’t reveal away her disinterest towards it, towards the whole setup and tradition, towards him. She loves him, no doubt, they’ve been together for two years now without breaking up (the longest one right after Choi Minho), and the length proves it, right? You won’t stay too long with someone if you can’t even stand being with them a single second, right?
“Hey.”
“Hmm?”
He pokes her ribs while she pretends to be focused, and she giggles, pushing him away. “You alright?”
Krystal nods. “Yeah, why?”
“You don’t seem to be,” Sehun says.
“Just tired from work this week, I guess. I’m trying to get on the boss’ good side, a shot at promotion hopefully so I don’t have to be partnered around Suzy, and maybe transferred to the marketing department, who knows. I’ll just have to work my ass off some more.”
Sehun touches her cheek, calming her down like a quiet sunset. She smiles almost in thank you, but all of this feels never enough, no matter how hard she tried.
“I’m okay, I swear.”
“You better be,” he replies in worry.
Krystal laughs. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”
Sehun smacks her lips quickly, before messing up her hair. “I love you.”
And someone else comes into memory, into vision when those exact words whispered to her before are thrown at her again, as if to promise, as if asking her to not let go of what could’ve been the most faultless thing the heavens could offer. He’s not there anymore, wake up, he’s said it to other girls by now too, aren’t you tired of this, you’re hurting Sehun, you’re hurting yourself, wake up -
Krystal pays Sehun back with another kiss, before slumping next to him in regret, finishing the movie that didn’t spark her curiosity one bit.
She’s amazed at her ability to memorize things because his address is still quite alive, a two-hour drive all alone the following day and she pulls over finally, biting her lips in fear, hands letting go of the wheel and unplugging the keys.
She walks to the porch, his father opening it for her and a little wide-eyed. They haven’t been introduced to each other before, she recalls, so Krystal bows 90-degree, smiling.
“I’m Jung Soojung, sir. I’m one of Chanshik’s friends. May I ask if he is home?”
His father nods uncertainly, before letting her in and saying, “He’s in the attic. Stairs to your left, dear.”
Boldly, she braces the house, prepared if ever someone else notices her surprise existence in their household but meets no one along the way. She ends up by the doorway of the attic, spots him messing up an old box and taking out some ancient books. He’s grown up, body well-maintained, his chin appearing unshaven in the low lighting. Her heart palpitates without warning, before she hears the mantra of her soul, we’re a mistake, Chanshik. We always were. He gazes at her direction, doesn’t seem too surprised as his father had been. Chanshik wears his poker face as easily as the old days.
“You didn’t call.”
“You never answer.”
He gets up. “I’ve been busy these days, I’m sorry.”
“Always have been,” Krystal leans against the door, still watching him. “If it’s a bad time, I’ll come back later and I’ll make sure to call even if you don’t pick up.”
“Soojung, did you come here just to argue with me?”
“No,” Krystal tells him, finds a small chair and makes herself comfortable while he rearranges the rest of the items in the box. She browses a box full of CDs, stares and smiles, and waves an album in his direction excitedly.
“You have an album entitled JSJ?”
He swipes it from her. “Don’t flatter yourself. It was my first album right after pre-med. You were on my mind a lot, like a lot.”
“But you never called me about it. You said I’d get a discount for it, since we’re friends.”
Chanshik smiles and takes a seat in front of her a minute later. “I can hand you a copy if you still want one, and this time for free. Since we’re friends.”
“Dr. Gong Chanshik, a music producer for five years, don’t you just find it hilarious? A DJ before being a surgeon, that’s one hell of a story.”
“And what about you? You never pursued law like you said you will,” Chanshik mentions it and Krystal, still cheery, laughs it off like it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Life happened,” Krystal affirms. “I stopped at my first year, just went where life took me, and I’m now working with the public relations committee, nothing big. I’m not the one getting married here.”
“You will be sooner or later,” Chanshik cups her chin, and she scowls at the gesture before standing up with a sigh. They start heading out now to the kitchen, completely deserted with his dad in the garage fixing the car.
“I thought it’d be you though.”
Chanshik pauses by the fridge, amused. “She’s out with mom today. They’re touring the town as if there’s much to see around this place, anyway. You’ve got perfect timing.”
Krystal holds back a smile. “I never got it right before. The timing, I mean.”
“Love isn’t about timing,” Chanshik responds, handing her a plate of a little burnt toasted bread and butter on top, and she likes how it’s quite imperfect. He pours her some orange juice and a glass also for himself, and waits until her eyes are on his. “You don’t measure love by timing, either.”
“So where did we fail if it weren’t for the timing?” Krystal dares.
“If I knew the answer to that Soojung, I might as well be married to you now.” He sips his juice, looks away still in misery at the thought of the words he let go, of the what ifs he just can’t anymore prove, and Krystal still ponders on the question on her drive home alone, wondering if this has been an enough closure for her or if it still had been lacking. She votes for the latter.
Type, type, type - there’s lots of it going on, type, click, sigh, type, type. It turns into ellipsis instead of a period, because there can never be an end to something that never had a beginning.