Work Text:
2005
love hides in odd places.
behind soft, velvet curtains drawn shut. between bookshelves full of heavy books. inside dusty closets. past empty corridors that seem to stretch on to eternity, an end never to be seen in the darkness— but it’s there, it waits for the light to reach it but it never does.
light implies the existence of life, and there is none, not here in the empty corridor.
there is only love
waiting,
waiting,
and waiting still.
2006
there’s someone there, in the empty corridor.
a door creaks open, slowly, slowly, like it’s not meant to be opened. love recedes farther into the darkness, unaware of the light sneaking in, bathing what once was a void of black into a dark grey. almost like a shadow.
“hello?” a voice calls out. it’s soft, small, barely heard over the silence.
there’s no response.
the door closes shut but the light remains.
“she’s not there.”
the light makes love take its first step into the light.
2007
there’s a room at the end of the corridor. just one.
it’s usually hidden behind a door, but sometimes, sometimes, the door hangs open. the door is heavy though, and there are no winds to push it open.
someone must have left the door open on purpose.
its open, inviting.
what is past the door in the empty corridor?
2008
a head pokes past the doorway.
“hello.”
the head belongs to a girl with big bright eyes. she’s sporting a smile with two missing incisors. the head doesn’t wait for an invitation to come in, the girl pulls in the rest of her body into the room. there’s something in her hands— something cradled inside sweaty palms and scratched knuckles— its unclear, even in the light of the room.
“are you done reading?”
she walks on a carpet the colour of plum, too light to be considered black but too dark to be considered purple. she makes her way to the other side of the room where the desk is.
“yerim, are you listening to me?”
the question floats, floats in the air until it falls on small ears hidden under tufts of hair. the hair is clean, neatly brushed and taken care of. it belongs to a girl too, though this one does not have bright eyes or missing teeth.
“huh? hyejoo?” the surprise only lasts for a moment. it’s replaced by amusement followed by a grin. “what do you have in your hands?”
the girl— hyejoo— pulls up the chair beside the other girl, the scraping of wooden legs muffled by the carpet; and sits, smile wide and mischievous.
“i got you something.” small hands open up to reveal… a worm? the creature doesn’t register in the other girl’s head until it moves, oh god, it moves.
she screams. “get it away!” she almost falls off her chair then, but she doesn’t, hyejoo’s knees keeps it from toppling backwards. “throw it! it’s gross!”
“it’s not gross!” hyejoo screams back. “it’s a caterpillar!” oh. a caterpillar. yerim’s never seen one of those before.
“it’s ugly!” yerim makes a disgusted face when hyejoo places it on the book yerim was reading just moments before. frog and toad are friends, her father had given her the book for her weekly reading. the caterpillar wiggles on the drawing of the toad.
hyejoo shushes her. “don’t say that! you’re hurting it’s feelings!” then, to the caterpillar she says, “she doesn’t mean that.”
yerim still thinks it’s weird, but she lets hyejoo’s hands guide her own towards the caterpillar. she’s surprised to find out it’s soft. she giggles. hyejoo does too.
they spend the afternoon talking about it.
the door is left open.
later, when the sun is starting to set, yerim gets called into her father’s study. she immediately knows she’s done something wrong.
what did she do?
the walk from her room to her father’s study is short. the empty corridor not nearly long enough for her to think of what she’s done wrong.
she closes the door.
a large hand makes its way to yerim’s soft cheek, hitting it with such force that the girl stumbles back.
what did she do wrong?
she figures it out by the second hit. sweet music is coming out of the record player in the corner of the room. her father must have put it on because of their noise. because of her screaming.
she thinks it’s unfair, her mother screams at her father a lot and she never got called into the study. she can’t do anything about it though.
hyejoo waits outside.
she figures it out too, when she presses her ear against the door. she hears music. she doesn’t hear the sniffles that yerim makes or the angry footsteps of her father.
she feels bad, really bad. she didn’t want yerim to get hit. hyejoo really just wanted to give yerim something nice, something as equally soft as her. but she didn’t want yerim to get hit.
yerim is silent when she comes out.
they hold hands on their way back to her room. no one says anything about yerim’s trembling fingers.
hyejoo makes sure to close the door.
it’s only when the sun has fully set that hyejoo decides to go home.
she has to, or else her mother will worry. she doesn’t want that. she wants dinner, and her mother had told her they were having braised beef tonight.
they bid each other goodbye. there are no tears involved this time, because yerim knows hyejoo will visit again tomorrow, and the day after that.
and all the days that will follow.
2009
hyejoo doesn’t bring gifts anymore.
she still visits yerim’s house every day, like seeing her at school for six hours a day isn’t enough.
she still picks up whatever poor caterpillar she finds in bushes and gives them to yerim, who now has a collection of butterflies in her room.
but she doesn’t bring gifts to yerim’s house.
yerim’s learning how to play the violin. hyejoo isn’t, but she might as well be, because yerim teaches her everything she’s learned anyway.
the violin has strings called e, a, d, and g. yerim takes a marker and writes it on hyejoo’s hand. it’s sloppy, barely legible, but hyejoo memorizes it by heart. the strings are attached to a pegbox, and hyejoo thinks they look like the madeleine cookies her mom makes.
the day after, she brings those same cookies to school and gives them to yerim.
it goes like that.
when either of them gives the other something, anything, the other makes sure to give something twice as much.
2010
the corridor isn’t empty anymore.
yerim’s collection has grown past the enclosure of her room, it decorates the walls of her house, the once empty corridor now littered with frames of preserved butterflies.
so when hyejoo breaks one of the frames on the wall, yerim throws a fit. she should’ve known better than to play with a ball inside the house. she should’ve known better than to bounce it around the corridor.
hyejoo is pushed away by strong hands, hands that are too delicate to pick up broken pieces of glass, hands that are bleeding.
“yerim, stop!” hyejoo tries to grab her but she’s pushed away again. blood gets on her shirt but she doesn’t care. there’s blood on yerim’s hands. “you’re hurting yourself!”
she’s not sure why, but she starts to sob. she’s not scared, not really, but the sight of yerim with blood on her hands is too much for her nine-year-old heart, and she cries, she cries.
it was the first time either of them ever truly felt hurt.
yerim gets in trouble.
it’s expected, they both knew it was going to happen regardless of how fast they picked up the pieces of glass, but it doesn’t make it any less worrisome.
hyejoo waits outside with ears pressed to the door. she doesn’t hear anything.
when yerim comes out, her cheeks aren’t red. that’s a first. she doesn’t take hyejoo’s hand in hers either. also a first.
“sorry for getting you in trouble.” hyejoo apologizes.
it’s expected, she’s apologized plenty of times before and she’s always meant it, but it never stops the shaking in yerim’s hands.
“sorry for pushing you away.” yerim apologizes.
it’s expected, because yerim will always apologize for things she shouldn’t have to, for things that aren’t her fault, for things she has no control over.
they spend the following weeks arguing over which colourful band aids they should use. yerim always wins. she always picks out red or pink or purple.
part of her thinks hyejoo lets her win on purpose. even when they play games, hyejoo would always let her win. this time is no different.
not that she cares, it’s winning all the same.
2011
life is a series of firsts and lasts.
hyejoo doesn’t quite remember the first time she lost, but she does remember the first time she wins. it was during a soccer game with some of the boys in her class. it was nothing serious, but the satisfaction of winning against someone supposedly better than her was incomparable.
she’s ten now and the scrapes on her skin isn’t from shards of glass but from playing too much.
soccer is fun. she gets to run around while she waits for yerim’s violin class to be over. the other girls on the soccer team are nice too, which is a bonus. they’re mostly older, and they never let hyejoo forget. they dote on her, ruffle her hair and worst of all, they tease hyejoo about being short. as if it’s her fault.
she doesn’t mind. not when they give her cream buns and show her cool tricks like getting free snacks out the vending machine near the volleyball court.
she makes sure to tell yerim too, because, well, the walk home is long and yerim is worse than her mother when it comes to knowing how her day went, even if most of it was spent with her.
yerim clearly remembers the first time she skipped violin class. it was to go watch hyejoo play. they lost horribly. she swore it was going to be the last time she lost. hyejoo cried all the way home and didn’t stop crying until she fell asleep on the couch.
when yerim comes home that night, happy despite having watched hyejoo bawl her eyes out, she’s forced to sit in her father’s study while he lectures her about something. she isn’t listening. she’s wondering if she should get something to cheer hyejoo up tomorrow.
her heart races in her chest for the next hour she’s in there, fingers automatically curling into her palms when her father would come closer. she braces herself for impact but it doesn’t come.
not until she’s on her way out, heart still racing, and she gets hit. again. and again.
she remembers what she looked like in the mirror that night.
it’s the first time she genuinely wonders if skipping violin class was worth it. if anything was worth it, really.
yerim skips school for the rest of the week. hyejoo visits her everyday but yerim keeps her door closed. she’s not mad. she doesn’t want hyejoo to see her like this. when she comes back to school, she finds out hyejoo quit the soccer team.
2012
it’s yerim’s birthday.
there’s music playing. it’s not coming from the record player in her father’s study. yerim likes this song.
hyejoo does too. she’s singing along, her lyrics are wrong but yerim doesn’t have it in her to correct the other girl. there’re wide grins on their faces but for entirely different reasons.
it’s moments like these that yerim treasures the most.
later, after the cake is brought out and yerim makes a silent wish, hyejoo pulls her to the side. she asks, with the most serious face a ten-year-old (she’ll be eleven soon too!) could possibly have, what yerim wished for.
yerim’s not sure why, but she doesn’t tell hyejoo. she’s always told her before, and this time should be no different, but it is. hyejoo whines and threatens to eat all of her cake if she doesn’t tell her. it’s an empty threat, yerim knows, because hyejoo doesn’t like chocolate cake.
she waits until the party is over to open hyejoo’s gift.
it’s the last one she opens, always the last, because hyejoo’s gifts are always special. what’s that saying her mother likes? ah, save the best for last. right.
yerim almost drops it as soon as she sees it. it was a jar, placed inside a box with a note saying “handle with care” in hyejoo’s handwriting. what surprises her isn’t the note or the box or the jar, but its contents.
she lets out a confused but otherwise relieved laugh when she realizes what it is.
it’s a caterpillar.
2013
some things are expected to happen.
no reason or thought behind it, only expectation. the sun is expected to rise at dawn and set at dusk. the planets are expected to continue revolving.
son hyejoo is expected to marry a man she’s never met.
even worse, she’s expected to understand why. she doesn’t. she doesn’t get why she has to get married. she doesn’t get why she doesn’t get to choose who she’s spending the rest of her life with.
she finds out over dinner.
her pasta gets stuck in her throat when her father tells her about it.
“what?” she breathes out.
she’s only eleven! she won’t be turning twelve for another week, she’s a kid, but she’s expected to understand why she’s being married off to a random man?
yerim doesn’t understand either, which tells hyejoo all she needs to know.
if yerim— sweet and understanding yerim— doesn’t understand, then it must not make a lot of sense.
“it’s stupid!” hyejoo exclaims. they’re old enough that they don’t get in trouble for saying words like that. “what am i, a princess? this is ridiculous!”
“you could be,” yerim says, “a princess, i mean.”
hyejoo gags. “no thanks.”
“what’s he like?” she can’t believe yerim is actually asking about him.
she shrugs. she doesn’t know. “i’ve never met him.”
“what if he’s nice?” oh, of course yerim is saying that. “he could be sweet. and dreamy.”
“what if he’s not?” neither of them want to think about that, really.
they start talking about what they want their ‘dream man’ to be like. neither of them knows, really. they list off basic things like ‘must smell good,’ ‘nice teeth,’ and ‘must like them.’ that’s about it.
“that could be anyone in the world!” hyejoo groans. thinking about the future is hard.
“it could be you.” yerim argues. she starts to count on her fingers. “you smell good, you have nice teeth, and you like me. you like me, right?”
hyejoo nods. of course she does. but that’s not the point, the point is that their list is too vague.
“okay, what if we thought about what life we’d have? where would we live, what house we’d live in, that kind of stuff.” hyejoo suggests.
neither of them has a definite answer for that either.
“that’s it.” hyejoo sighs. “i give up.”
“what if we got married?” yerim laughs. that’s silly.
hyejoo grins. “oh yeah, and we could live together.”
“where would we live?”
“wherever you want.”
“do you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”
“definitely.”
2014
the random man is ham wonjin.
and he’s not a man, not in the slightest. he’s just a boy. his name is kind of silly, he brings it up first and asks hyejoo not to make fun of it. she wasn’t going to. she actually likes his name.
he has nice teeth, and his smile is really pretty. he smells good too, hyejoo is delighted. yerim was right.
their friendship progresses quite quickly over the course of dinner.
they’re sitting across each other. he makes funny faces at her and hyejoo almost chokes on her food trying not to laugh. they don’t get in trouble, but wonjin’s older brother tells them off multiple times. they resort to playing footsie under the table.
after dinner, their parents send them off to play on their own. wonjin protests saying they’re too old to play like little kids. hyejoo disagrees when she finds out wonjin has a playstation.
she has one at home. she had begged her father for it last year not knowing he was planning on getting it for her. she tells this to wonjin, who is listening intently even though his focus is on the game in front of him.
wonjin is very competitive, she finds out.
but she’s spent years playing against yerim, who, despite being terrible at videogames, is very competitive. hyejoo wins game after game. discs pile up on and beside the console.
the night almost never ends.
yerim is ecstatic when hyejoo tells her about him.
part of her is kind of disappointed yerim isn’t sad or angry with her for finding a new videogame partner, but she’s mostly happy that yerim isn’t sad or angry with her.
they meet up weekly.
their parents have scheduled ‘playdates’ for them, to which they both groan and complain about. it was entirely because of the name, not because they don’t want to hang out, because they do.
wonjin dances. he’s actually very good at it.
he shows hyejoo a few dances he’s learned and ones he made himself. she’s very impressed.
she tells yerim about it.
the following week, yerim starts to dance too. hyejoo’s even more impressed at how quickly yerim learned all the basic dances. she’s very good at it. amazing, even.
wonjin also bakes. he’s not old enough to use the oven unsupervised but hyejoo still thinks it’s cool.
she doesn’t expect wonjin to know— there’s so much about her that he doesn’t know— but she’s still bummed that wonjin made chocolate cake for her. she appreciates it, but she hates chocolate cake.
wonjin notices— the boy notices more than he lets on— and he asks if it isn’t good. hyejoo tells him the truth. he only laughs in understanding. he swears he won’t make chocolate cake for her ever again. he asks her what she does and doesn’t like.
maybe it’s love.
they don’t walk home together now, because yerim still has violin class after school. she has dance class now too. she’s busy, busy, busy, but she always has time to listen to hyejoo’s rants and stories.
they don’t spend the weekend together either, because hyejoo has to spend it with wonjin, even when they don’t want to. it’s fine. she still drops by yerim’s house on her way home. she takes naps on her bed. yerim reads to her sometimes. other times they spend the afternoon together in silence.
hyejoo places a different caterpillar in the tank by yerim’s windowsill every week. yerim’s butterfly collection continues to grow. hyejoo learns all the different names yerim gave to the butterflies.
maybe it’s love.
2015
they get into a fight.
hyejoo doesn’t remember what she did to make yerim ignore her.
it’s odd, because she remembers everything when it comes to yerim. but not this. she doesn’t remember why yerim walks ahead of her when they walk home. hyejoo trails behind. watching yerim like this is fine.
she doesn’t remember why yerim slams the door shut in her face, leaving her in the empty corridor, forcing her to go home because she has no reason to be there if yerim doesn’t want her to be.
it’s alright. they’ve fought before. they’ll get over it.
they don’t get over it.
it’s been a week, and hyejoo walking behind her on their way home has become a cycle. walking behind her is one thing, but having her slam the door in her face is another.
it’s friday, and hyejoo is so, so angry.
why can’t yerim just tell her what she’s so mad about? is it really so bad if she forgets one thing?
before yerim closes the door, hyejoo jams her foot in the doorway. the door is so heavy.
“will you please tell me why you’re mad?”
yerim tries to push the door close. “you know why-”
“no! i don’t!” hyejoo whisper-yells. she knows better than to raise her voice here. “i need you to tell me because it’s driving me crazy! what did i do?”
it’s taking all of her strength to keep the door open.
“please, just tell me. i- i want to be friends again.” hyejoo pleas. a second passes and yerim isn’t pushing the door against her anymore. it must be safe, so she adds “i don’t like it when you’re mad at me.”
there’s a sigh. hyejoo thinks the door is going to open, and yerim is going to let her in and hug her. she’s wrong.
yerim slams the door shut.
they’re both sad.
yerim knows hyejoo is sad because she wears her heart on her sleeve— but only yerim knows. she’s the only one that knows because she’s the only one who bothers to. hyejoo knows yerim is sad out of pure intuition. she must have a sixth sense dedicated to yerim or something.
it’s been three weeks— almost a month, really— and they still haven’t made up.
they still walk home together, because whoever is up there has made sure never to separate them. hyejoo still drops by to give her another caterpillar every week, and yerim still tells her their names because hyejoo is just as excited to see them turn into cocoons and butterflies as yerim is.
but they don’t talk or hang out anymore.
it’s as if all their years together has been put at a standstill. a movie on pause.
they’re- ah, how old are they? yerim is fourteen. hyejoo is thirteen, still, and she hates it. they’re older now, they shouldn’t be fighting like this.
their fight reaches its climax one afternoon, when yerim knocks the caterpillar tank out the window open. why did they leave the window open?
“you idiot!” hyejoo yells. she races outside with yerim behind her. “look what you did!”
she’s not mad, really, she’s not mad.
“don’t call me an idiot!” yerim is though. she’s mad, she’s so mad. she’s never been like this before. she’s allowed to feel this way, right?
there’s shattered glass on the ground and they both feel like they’re nine years old again.
strong hands grab hyejoo by the wrists, suddenly she’s being pulled down into the ground, on her knees. “pick it up! pick it up!” yerim’s already starting to grab pieces of it.
the glass is thick and the edges aren’t sharp. they don’t have blood on their hands this time.
“this is your fault.” yerim mumbles. “you opened the window.”
hyejoo scoffs. “you knocked it over.”
“but you-”
“it doesn’t matter.” glass. glass. there’s glass in their hands. “let’s just clean this up before your dad gets home.”
blood. there’s no blood on their hands, there’s no blood on their hands. “you won’t tell him, right?”
“of course not.” still, hyejoo takes yerim’s hands and checks. gentle fingers against yerim’s delicate ones. if hyejoo looks closely, she can see the faint outline of a scar on her index finger.
but there’s no blood. not on her hands.
instead, there’s blood rushing to her neck, to her cheeks, to her ears.
it’s love.
“sorry for opening the window.” hyejoo apologizes.
it’s expected, she’s apologized plenty of times before and she’s always meant it, and this might be the only time it stops the shaking in yerim’s hands.
“sorry for knocking the tank over.” yerim apologizes.
it’s expected, because yerim will always apologize to hyejoo if it means holding her hand in the dark corridor. today though, the light from the window reaches the corridor and basks it in the soft orange glow of the afternoon. yerim holds her hand tighter.
it’s love.
2016
hyejoo understands now.
she understands what it means for her to be married. wonjin understands this too. he’s always so understanding, hyejoo feels bad for him sometimes.
they don’t quite know what love is yet, but they’re certain their parents don’t care.
she has to be married, or else everything she knows will cease to exist. the new videogames coming out this year and the next, those new shoes she wants to get— she won’t be able to get any of those things if she doesn’t get married. her father tells her they might have to move. she’ll have to transfer schools, make new friends, and- oh no, oh no. what about yerim?
hyejoo understands why she has to get married.
it’s to preserve everything she has, everything she cares about. she places it all in a box— all the caterpillars, the band aids, the books with doodles in them, the violin strings, the tears and laughter— she closes it shut and wraps it up with a ribbon. she’s preserving it. she won’t open that box.
she hides it in one of the empty corridors in her brain, past a heavy door and inside an empty room.
wonjin seems to have done the same thing.
understanding comes at a cost. for hyejoo it is that box in her head. for wonjin it is the attic in his house he refuses to visit again after his brother leaves for college.
he gets it now. he understands why he has to be the one to get married, not his brother, him. if he doesn’t save himself no one else will. his life is great the way it is now and he intends to keep it that way. he just hopes hyejoo doesn’t mind.
it’s all for self-preservation, after all.
neither of them wants this, really, they don’t, but they have to keep what’s theirs, so they pretend that they do.
yerim wants to understand.
there’s a lot of things in her life she’s accepted she will never understand: why the light never reaches the corridor, why her father’s study is the darkest place in the house, why hyejoo insists on keeping doors closed, why she reads book after book knowing she doesn’t like reading anymore. and that’s fine, really, it is. she doesn’t have to understand.
and then there are thing she so desperately wants to understand.
she wants to know why she begged her father to let her take dance classes after hyejoo told her about it. she’s never been the slightest bit interested in dancing, especially not contemporary dance. the throbbing pain in her cheeks is worth it when she sees hyejoo’s huge smile when yerim tells her she’s taking dance classes though.
maybe that’s why.
she wants to know why she keeps walking home with hyejoo even though her feet are beyond sore and she’s one push away from falling flat on the ground. it’s nice. she likes hearing the other girl talk.
maybe that’s why.
she wants to know why she was so angry when hyejoo forgot toad’s death anniversary. she doesn’t expect hyejoo to remember all the caterpillars that die but toad was different, it was the first caterpillar hyejoo gave her. it’s silly. she shouldn’t have been mad.
yerim thinks she’s not allowed to feel that way.
there’s guilt laced with every emotion she feels. maybe that’s what she wants to understand. maybe all she wants to understand is why there’s guilt where it shouldn’t be.
there’s blood on her hands.
maybe it’s guilt.
2017
yerim is sixteen when she gets her first kiss.
they’ve long since blown out the candles on hyejoo’s birthday cake.
“shouldn’t you be home by now?” hyejoo whispers as she puts icing on yerim’s nose again.
it’s ten pm and way past her curfew. she’s risking her life by being here but she can’t find it in her to leave. she wonders if she’ll be able to go to school tomorrow if her father catches her sneaking inside the house.
“i don’t wanna leave yet.” she says it with a giggle, like she isn’t scared. she isn’t, really, she isn’t. she wipes the icing from her nose.
most kids have gone home, the only ones that still there are the ones nice enough to help them clean up. hyejoo goes somewhere yerim can’t see her, probably to wash her hands or get some more trash bags.
“do you know where the bathroom is?” a guy asks. she recognizes him as one of wonjin’s friends, who is hyejoo’s friend by extension, so that makes him yerim’s friend as well. she doesn’t know him.
“second door down the hall,” yerim replies. “the one with the silver doorknob.” it’s the only door in the house that doesn’t have a gold doorknob. yerim vividly remembers running into it when she was younger, breaking it and bruising her forehead in the process.
the guy nods. “thanks.”
what happens after that is an accident. yerim knows.
he stumbles forward— trips on the opened gift box yerim had placed an inch away— and crashes into her. his body moves, moves, and doesn’t stop moving until it hits yerim’s own. his hands flail as he tries to grab something to hold on to but doesn’t find it. yerim feels herself falling, falling.
there’s nothing to stop her descent.
the second before her body meets the carpeted floor of hyejoo’s house their lips meet. it’s only for a fraction of a second, barely a peck, but yerim is so so unbelievably shocked that she pushes the guy off of her and runs.
it’s an accident.
it’s not her fault.
still, she blames herself.
she’s upstairs, in hyejoo’s room, because that’s where her feet took her. she’s not crying, there aren’t any tears. she’s just… scared? shocked? she doesn’t know.
the fear she tried so hard to ignore all night is now knocking on the doors of her heart angrily, angrily.
she’s not supposed to be here. if she went home two hours ago this wouldn’t have happened.
it’s an accident.
it’s not her fault.
the guilt is all the same.
“yerim?” oh. it’s hyejoo. “what’re you doing?” there’s a giggle. “can i come in?”
“it’s your room.” yerim points out. she doesn’t go to open the door though. she wonders if hyejoo will.
“what’s wrong?” the girl asks. it’s her birthday. yerim shouldn’t ruin it. she’s already ruining it by running up here.
hyejoo opens the door when yerim doesn’t answer. light floods in the dark room. it only lasts for a second, because hyejoo closes the door and keeps the light out.
yerim looks at her hands. there’s no blood on her hands, there’s no blood on her hands. she can’t see it in the darkness.
“someone kissed me.” she says silently. it’s the only thing hyejoo hears.
“what?” she sounds genuinely shocked. she must be. “who? when?”
there’s no blood on her hands. “i don’t know- it just happened.”
it’s an accident.
it’s not her fault.
“he tripped and we fell and he just- he kissed me.”
they both feel like they’re nine years old again.
she felt like that snail hyejoo picked up a few years ago. the girl poured salt all over it. yerim remembers watching the snail writhe in pain.
hyejoo doesn’t know what to say. “did you… like it? sorry- i mean, how was it- or, like- ah, nevermind. we don’t have to talk about it.”
“i didn’t like it.” she says immediately. why does it feel like there’s blood on her hands? if she looks down, will she see red?
“oh.” is all hyejoo says. the room is dark but she knows exactly where yerim is. there’s light seeping in from the space under the door. it’s enough.
she’s taller than yerim now. she hasn’t noticed.
she does notice how sad yerim is. it’s not the kind of sadness she gets when she fails a quiz, or when she comes out of her father’s study, or when they fight. it’s different. it’s new. hyejoo doesn’t know what it is, but she knows it’s wrong. yerim is one of those people that shouldn’t ever be sad.
“you know,” hyejoo starts. she’s not sure where she’s going with this, just that she wants to make the other girl feel better. “you haven’t given me your present yet.”
“huh?” yerim doesn’t step back when hyejoo approaches her. in fact, she moves closer to her embrace. “yes i did. you said you’d open it later, remember?”
“i want another one.” she doesn’t, not really, because she’s not greedy, and anything that yerim gives her is enough. she just wants to cheer her up. she doesn’t know if this will work, but she has to try.
“what do you want?” yerim asks. she knows. she knows.
there’s glass in her hands and she’s about to bleed.
“can i kiss you?” the question sounds silly to yerim’s ears. hyejoo doesn’t have to ask. but she did and now yerim has to answer even when the words die down in her throat. she can’t speak. she can’t say yes, or i’m sorry. instead, she leans in, closing the gap between them.
yerim feels herself falling,
falling,
and falling still.
their kiss lasts for a lifetime. forever within a single breath, infinity trapped between soft lips.
it’s her gift to hyejoo but why does it feel like she’s stealing something priceless?
there’s blood on her hands.
maybe it’s guilt.
maybe it’s love.
2018
the box in hyejoo’s head gets bigger every day.
she’s there again, in the corridor where the light doesn’t shine, waiting for yerim to come back with a hook to hang the picture frame with preserved butterflies in it. she looks at the frame in her hands, then to the frames on the walls. she wonders what kind of butterfly toad would’ve been if it made it past the chrysalis phase.
yerim walks back silently, feet almost hovering over the floor, and she shakes the chair hyejoo is standing on ever so slightly. it’s not enough for hyejoo to fall over but it’s enough to give her a mini heart attack. the grin on yerim’s face is enough to give her another heart attack.
“hey! i could’ve died!” hyejoo shrieks.
“you’re barely off the ground.” yerim argues. she’s laughing. hyejoo almost fell to her death and she’s laughing.
it’s just them today. it’s just them everyday but today there’s actually no one in the house but them. it’s nice, being able to talk without whispering and moving without being worried about what comes after.
“what if i got hurt? what if i died?” hyejoo raises her arms animatedly, forgetting that she’s holding a picture frame and almost hits yerim’s head. “what’ll you do then?”
yerim hands her the hook. there’s already a hole in the wall. she drilled it there two summers ago, back when she was still taller than hyejoo. when did she get so tall? “calm down, you big baby. you’re not gonna get hurt.”
hyejoo’s busy with pushing the hook in. “how are you so sure?”
“i’d never let anything hurt you.”
suddenly, the corridor doesn’t seem so dark.
before she goes to sleep later that night she makes sure to tuck that memory away in the box. she can’t lose it.
wonjin catches on.
it’s not like it’s a secret, but she isn’t exactly broadcasting it to the whole world either.
“are you gay?” wonjin asks one afternoon. it’s direct, like all of his questions.
hyejoo considers lying. she’s talking to the man she’s supposed to marry. she should lie. she doesn’t. “yeah…”
she’s not actually sure if she’s a lesbian, considering she really only likes yerim, but the last time she thought too hard about it she got a fever. she chooses not to think about it most of the time.
wonjin slaps his palms on his thighs. “great!”
the reaction takes hyejoo by surprise.
“so you’re not in love with me.” wonjin clarifies. hyejoo makes a noise in the back of her throat, disgust clear on her face. “i’m not in love with you either.”
they’re young. they still don’t quite know what love is.
but they’re certain whatever they have isn’t it.
“are you…?” hyejoo trails off. is it normal to ask? she feels like she’s overstepping. “you know…?”
wonjin smiles instead of answering. it’s fine.
“are you two…?” he trails off. is it normal to ask? this is his bride-to-be, after all.
“together.” hyejoo finishes for him.
“no one can know.”
the part of her that likes yerim— the one that spends hours looking for the perfect caterpillar to abduct, the one that turns cherry red when they kiss, the one that’s learning to dance because yerim asked her to— that part of her is locked away in the box in her head.
no one can know.
yerim thinks she’s being selfish.
keeping hyejoo in her room like she’s a secret never meant to be told feels wrong. and yet, yerim doesn’t want it any other way.
her hands bleed more than it should.
hyejoo reminds her time and time again she shouldn’t feel that way. she’s right. she shouldn’t feel guilty for feeling, for being.
it isn’t an accident.
it’s still not her fault.
the guilt is all the same.
but it’s fine, really, it’s fine. the glass, the blood on her hands, the guilt, it’s hers.
this love too, is hers.
2019
love stays in odd places.
under old unmade beds. on top of desks with tanks and unread books. inside closets with sets of clothes that belong to two people. past light corridors that seem to stretch on to eternity, walls decorated with happiness.
past the corridor is a room, and that is where love is.
there is only love.