17.

'You need to see a psychologist.'

They were the first words I heard that Friday. I had barely noticed my mother watching me from the living room as I ambled into the kitchen after morning tuition; my mind set on eating something, yet the moment I reached the fridge, I felt my stomach clench with refusal.

This had been the gruelling routine since the last nightmare I experienced. My appetite had receded significantly. Sleep was no longer an option. And the tell-tale signs of my exhaustion were evident in the dark bags I found growing more prominent under my eyes. Of course, with the exam period in full swing they could go by unasked.

I still, however, opted to pat them down with as thin a layer of concealer I could before emerging from my room; the idea of being prodded at by Gayoon and my mother unfavourable enough to do so. I had become unwillingly – albeit frighteningly – accustomed to this morning ritual over the past week.

That is until Mum seemed to notice.

'What…?'

I stared at her with a combination of surprise and confusion. However, my mother shared none of these emotions. Her lips were pressed in a thin line and her eyes were hard, searching my own for something I couldn't place.

'This can't go on, Saerin.'

It was bizarre to see my mother look so stern. The last time I'd seen her this incredibly serious was perhaps when I was still in tenth grade, a few months subsequent Donghyuk’s death; a vehement argument that escalated to the point of shouts and frustrated tears when she refused to let me stay over at a friend's house for the weekend. I had been petulant for the duration of those two days, torn between understanding my mother’s point of view and my own childish desires.

But this time, she looked infinitely more sombre than the last. Such demeanour concerned me. But her words were far more alarming in nature as she repeated them in a low, grievous tone.

'You need professional help. If you're not willing to speak to your father and I about it...,' she paused, her steely mask falling only briefly to accommodate a flicker of pain. 'Then I think it's time you speak to someone who can help you get through this, Saerin. For your sake, as well as ours.'

I didn't respond. Rather, I could not. Because as much as I detested the notion, there was a cutting truth to my mother's words. Sharing my troubles didn't seem too bad of an idea. And yet the more comfortable I grew with this thought – with the promises of relief, of help, of no longer being alone in my struggles – the more I realised the truth would not aid in this road to recovery. It would prove nothing but a temporary rehabilitation before the nightmares returned to remind me of the fact that what I experienced was all too real to smother with such fantasies.

Wolf. The word returned to me with the stabbing reminder that if no one believed me, there was simply no hope of a solution.

'I don't need help,' I smiled to convince her of such words, but in light of this realisation, the expression felt far too empty.

'I'm OK, Mum. Really. I'm getting through this...'

'You said the same things when Donghyuk died,' she said so bluntly I felt all traces of my façade fall. 'You said you were fine. That you didn't need help. That things would get better in time, but up to this day, you haven't breathed a word about your brother.

'The same could be said for Hansol. Saerin, you haven't said a word about him since the accident. I don't think you've noticed, but you force the bad things that happen away; it's like you make a conscious effort to forget they even happened. But willing away the things that hurt you isn't going to help. It's only going to make it worse.'

I listened to my mother at a loss for words. We stared at each other for a long moment, unsmiling, tense, on tenterhooks, when she was the first to drop her head; her following words leaving a deep, aching impression on me.

'Or did you really forget about them? About Donghyuk, too?'

'Don't you dare,' I snapped, feeling my emotions spike at the knife her words lodged at the centre of my chest, staring at my mother in outrage. 'Don't you dare – for a second – decide what I remember and what I don't. Just because I don't talk about him; unlike you and Dad who can't seem to leave the past; doesn't mean I'd forget. Ever.'

My mother rose from her chair, approaching the kitchen now that whatever traces of her clinical approach to the issue had dissolved; her face a mask of pain and disappointment as she neared me by the counter.

'At least we don't keep secrets, Saerin!' she cried, clearly hurt by my words. 'What's going on with you these days? Why do you always look so tired? Where do you disappear off to on your own sometimes? Did you think I wouldn’t notice? You aren't even eating properly anymore... talk to me, please. Talk to your father, talk to your friends! We only want to help.'

'You can't help me.'

The words left me with such unexpected venom that my mother flinched. I would have been lying if I said I didn't regret them. But it was too late. I frowned, concentrated on my breathing that grew erratic, and quickly tore my eyes away from the hurt clearly written all over her face to hide my guilt.

'No one can help me, Mum.'

'Why are you like this, Saerin...?' she all but whispered. 'Since when did you become this...'

Perhaps my mother noticed me tense in anticipation of her words. Because she stopped at the last minute, and I was only grateful she did before I turned for the back door.

'Saerin,' Mum called after me, but I didn't wait for her to continue.

I threw open the door and stepped back out into the midday sun, feeling the stark contrast of the sun bearing down on me from its zenith and the cool, creeping fall wind raise goosebumps on my skin. I clambered down the back porch, thankful I was already in clothes decent enough to head out, and made for the side of the house in long strides.

'Again, running off! Where are you going?' my mother followed me outside, staring after me as I fled.

'Saerin!'

'To talk to the people who found me after the accident. People who’d at least tell me the truth!'

The words silenced her. And true to my predictions, the moment I my heel to face her once more, my mother paled, staring at me with no longer hurt, but a creeping—was it guilt? Remorse? The realisation that her hypocrisy had come to light? I made to speak again but held my tongue the more I stared at my mother, taking in the fact that she had no more to offer. Her silence spoke volumes. Whether or not she had her reasons, I found myself incapable of standing my ground any longer than necessary.

Because the tremble in my legs appeared with the more distance I put between us; my strides turning into a full-blown sprint when I made it down the first block of houses, listening to the thumping of my trainers against the pavement, the beating of my heart in my own head. The combination drowned out the chaos in my mind and settled the b vessel that was my heart, if only temporarily.

I came to a slow stop when I recognised the familiar logging road that branched off main breathing heavily, combing my hair back with a trembling hand. I could feel the sleeves of my shirt stick to my arms; sweat turning ice cold against my hot skin. It was hard to tell if I was coming on with the flu or if it was all a product of the heated altercation from earlier. The sickly sensation prompted me to slow down; the familiar cabin appearing from behind the seemingly infinite row of pines I passed.

I clambered the wooden steps to the front door, but the moment I raised a fist to knock, hesitated. Surely, I'd intended coming here ever since my last visit. Just how impromptu my presence was, however, had me deliberating the occasion entirely. But with nowhere to go to at this