Was it me?
October 31st
Joon
Happy Halloween, jagiya.
[Sent 0822]
I looked down at the message on my phone and smiled. Just seeing his name was enough to make me happy, but the memories of the day all but ensured it. Not least of which was because this time last year we’d gone out into West Hollywood and joined the thousands of other revellers, anonymous in our costumes, and wrung every bit of joy out of the day that we could.
It was also the night we’d headed back home and taken our relationship to the next level. It had been my first time. It had also been the first time Joon had said he loved me, and though I’d suspected how I’d felt for some time, it had been the first time I’d said it to him. The first time I’d said it to anyone.
‘I love you’. The words weren’t enough to convey what I felt.
That day had been the kind you could live inside of, again and again.
Even as I smiled at those happy memories, there was a bittersweet sort of realisation that this year the streets would be free of revellers.
This Halloween felt very different.
Before I’d moved to London, every year my folks and I would go into the village for dinner on just so we could watch the little ghoulies and beasties run around, hopped up on Haribos as all the grown ups pretended to be spooked.
None of that this year.
I was upstairs working on an article, and trying not to feel sad about missing little kids gleefully running through the village, knocking on doors demanding sweets, when–
“Kaiya,” Dad called up the stairs, “there’s a delivery here for you, love.”
Frowning, I rolled off the bed and padded out into the hallway, peering over the banisters.
“Me?” I called down, redundantly.
“Yes, you,” he replied “unless there’s another Kaiya Thompson in this house that might consider paying rent?”
I bit back my retort and headed downstairs.
Closer to the bottom, my steps slowed, finally seeing the delivery Dad had mentioned.
“What is that?” I gaped, taking in the pile of boxes taking up space on the black and white checker tile.
Dad shrugged. “Since they’re for you, I’d have thought you’d remember.”
“I didn’t order any of this,” I insisted, waving a hand at the boxes.
“Well, someone did, and they’re taking up half my front hall,” Mum pointed out, coming up from behind me, drying her hands on a terry cloth.
I moved towards the pile, now able to see it was seven, or eight boxes, ranging in size from one long, thin box, to several much smaller ones.
Wondering if I’d blacked out and gone on a spending spree, I began piling boxes into my arms and heading towards the kitchen.
“I’ll just get the rest of these, shall I?” Dad called from behind me.
I grinned. “Thanks, Dad!”
“Cheeky…” Whatever else he’d been about to say was swallowed by a dramatic sigh, followed by the shuffle of cardboard scraping against tile, and a few moments later, Dad shuffled into the kitchen, struggling to balance the pile.
I’d dumped my few boxes onto the large kitchen island, and Dad followed. Most of the boxes fit on the granite counter top, but the largest had to go on the floor.
