The photo had been innocent, for the most part, but I couldn’t unsee the way he had smiled down at her. The expression on his face was seared into my brain, and even now, jealousy stirred in my stomach.
There was a pause, before- “I remember.” His voice seemed to settle in the quiet of my room. A mill pond before the stone hits the surface. Of course he would remember it. I had shoved it in his face moments before all-but accusing him of cheating.
“Hana took that photo.”
The stone hit the pond.
“She did what?”
“I know, I’m sorry, I should have told you,” I blurted out.
“Why didn’t you?” The hurt that seeped into his voice made me shrink back into the pillows, but it was my own shame that weighed me down, because I absolutely should have.
“I was too angry at the time, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Taking photos of performers while in the building was absolutely prohibited. Career-ending. The sudden realisation that I’d unconsciously chosen to protect Hana over Jihoon was sickening.
Jihoon sighed, but it was a harsh sound. “Shibal.”
I felt my cheeks burn, but I took a breath, desperate to not turn this into a fight. “Joon, I’m sorry. I really wasn’t thinking at the time, and since then… a lot’s happened.”
He hummed, and it was several moments before he spoke. “I’ll pass this onto the managers. They’ll look into it.” A pause. “Is there anything else I need to know, Ky?”
“No.” I cleared my throat, and then, “No,” I said in a clearer voice.
“Okay. I need to go.”
“Okay. I love you, Joon. I wish you were here.”
“I wish you were here,” he replied.
The call dropped, the sound splitting through me.
It felt like I was constantly trying to rebuild myself, brick-by-brick, while he seemed content to paper over the cracks.
How did it get to this?
And more importantly, how do we get past this?
Chapter 8
March 23rd
Iidly watched as Becka applied her makeup, her phone set up against the vanity in her bedroom as she got ready for work. I was sat at my little window seat, occasionally looking down to where my Dad was washing the car in the driveway. Two very different worlds, bridged by WiFi and microchips.
“How’s Valerie?” Becka asked, snapping my attention back to the phone propped up on my knee.
“She’s doing better. Her bruises are fading, and she says she’s not as stiff.”
Even though she still winced every time she reached for a mug from the cupboard.
“That’s great!” Becka shot me a grin, and I rustled up a smile to match hers.
“When does she start chemo?” she asked.
I shifted slightly before answering. “Next week. She’s been given a really strict schedule to follow.”
Becka paused momentarily in her contouring to scowl down at the screen. “Fuck. That feels fast.”
