I snorted. Relevant for what? What the fuck was I doing?
I leant my forehead against the window, feeling the cool glass against my skin, helping to ground me a little in the present. Slowing down the spiral of my thoughts.
Mum was having a nap, so we were trying to be quiet, which meant dad was downstairs reading the newspaper, while I was upstairs, sitting on my window seat, looking at the main road.
Calling it a main road was probably a bit generous, as my folks lived on the outskirts of a village in Cumbria. Traffic was never exactly heaving around here.
But even so, I’d begun to notice that it seemed quieter than I remembered. I only saw the occasional car go past. The only traffic I’d seen regularly was the postie, or the supermarket delivery vans.
I’d been sat there, mindlessly staring at the green hills in the distance for so long, that when my phone rang, it felt like I had to drag myself up from semi-unconsciousness.
I looked at the screen before answering.
Becka.
“Babes,” she sounded harried. “Are you okay?”
I frowned at her question, automatically giving myself a mental pat down, checking for injuries I’d been unaware of, but finding none.
“Yes. I think so, why?” I asked suspiciously.
“Shit,” Becka exhaled. “You haven’t seen them.” It wasn’t a question.
My heart seemed to simultaneously sink even as it skipped a few beats. Oh, for fucks sake, what now?
“Seen what?” I asked, clinging onto a sense of calm I suspected was about to be shattered.
“The photos,” Becka groaned.
“What photos?” I asked, heart beginning to hammer.
“Oh, babes,” Becka sighed. “The ball-”
“The ball?” The words burst from my mouth as I launched upwards, banging my head on a little hanging cat marionette my parents had brought back from a trip to Venice. The wooden struts clacked angrily as though in protest of my clumsiness.
“Shit!” I bit out.
I’d been peripherally aware they existed. Hana had said as much that last day we’d sat in the canteen at ENT, but so much had happened since then… I’d forgotten to keep tabs on it.
Becka groaned again. “Not just those. Look, I’m not playing twenty questions, Ky, just get your laptop and sit down.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I lumbered over to the little dressing table I had been using as a desk, and sat down, opening my laptop, and impatiently waiting for it to wake up.
“I’ve sent you the link,” Becka said, and sure enough, a notification popped up on my desktop, directing me to a well-known tabloid.
Heart pounding, I clicked the link. The page loaded, and it was immediately obvious what Becka had meant.
“Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuck…”
“Yes. Oh fuck,” Becka replied, flatly.
My mind flashed back to when I’d first moved to Seoul, and Becka had called to tell me about the conference room footage. This was such a close mirror that I experienced a moment of déjà vu. I had to look around my room to ground myself in the present.
“Are you still there?” Becka’s voice filtered through time to reach me here, in Cumbria, not Seoul.
I closed my eyes against the sudden pang that knifed through me. I cleared my throat.
