L. O. V. E.

What is it really?

Collectively, I’ve had two boyfriends during this short life of mine – not counting the three I had during elementary school as those relationships started and ended with candy being the thing holding us together. The absence of it being what tore us apart. I’ve had my first kiss. I’ve held hands with a boy before.

I wouldn’t say I’m especially experienced but I know how it all works. Parents don’t exactly like talking about that though, it’s a rather embarrassing subject, but mine have never had to. So then, yes, it’s safe for you to assume I haven’t gone that far with someone as of yet.

But, I get the technicalities of it all. I understand the words my female friends say as they look on at me, the one who has yet to go through what they have. Not surprisingly, Sehun doesn’t like to talk about it. “It” as in “love.” “She dumped me because I didn’t buy her anything for White Day,” I remember him telling me in our last year of highschool.

I’d dump you too, Sehun. Because how hard is it to get a girl some candy? And no, saying you forgot isn’t good enough. It wasn’t good enough for her, your now ex-girlfriend, and me, what with the large, rich sweet tooth currently paying rent in the apartment complex I call my mouth.

Like I said earlier, it’s safe to assume my relationships didn’t last long. It’s safe to assume they hinged upon small, insignificant things such as bubblegum or sour candies. Is that what love is? Is love as fragile as a piece of hard candy? Is love made up of all the small things?

Love.

What is it really?

At this moment, love is a word sewn on the aprons Jung Daehyun, the Tokebi, and Kim Himchan, the Gumiho were wearing.

What? Was I being philosophical again? For no reason at all? I tend to get off track sometimes. I tend to ramble. I tend to forget what my main point is. I tend to be a lot of things.

Love.

The word never looked so hilarious.

White lace, pink frills, bow accents, and that word – love –stitched right there, right in the center of an embroidered heart that stretched the span of either spirit’s chest. “My son is majoring in fashion designing,” Ms. Kim had told me as soon as I entered her kitchen and laid my eyes upon the pink items in question. Thank your son, Ms. Kim. Thank him for his glorious work. May he hear my laughter no matter where he is; whether he be in Seoul or on Jejudo.

May my laughter forever ring in the ears of said two spirits standing in the latest of her son’s creations. The older woman’s words of, “They’re a couple set for me and my husband,” only made it that much more hilarious. I let my mind entertain the idea for a moment, just for a moment.

Daechan? Himhyun? Whatever it’s name, I would ship that boat so hard. I’d ship it until it went up in flames and sank into the deep blue ocean depths. Why? Because they looked too darn hilariously cute in those matching aprons of theirs.

Ah, but, it seemed my excitement, my overall glee with the current reality that was displaying itself in front of me, was anything but appreciated by the lovely couple.

“Do you have something to say?” Daehyun eyed me as he cut the peeled pineapple on the kitchen island into nice, even slices – with the help of Ms. Kim, of course.

“What?” I nudged my chin upwards, pursing my lips as I taunted him, , and mocked him, because like I’ve insinuated before, that’s how I show my affection. Okay, maybe there’s another reason my relationships haven’t lasted that long. “You want to hear it?”

Daehyun grumbled to himself and went back to cutting, Ms. Kim at his side patting him on the back, telling him he was doing a good job, the entire way through. Himchan was on her other side, whisking away at a bowl of cake batter. Whisking a little too hard by the looks of it, but what do I know, right? I cook to survive, not for the pleasure of it. Pleasure. That was the thing smeared all over Himchan’s face – aside from a few splattered drops of cake batter – when he realized I was looking at him.

“Yeah?” He asked me, his lips curving coyly, his hand stopping its previous, dangerously fast motion. If only Ms. Kim could see the way those tails of his swayed back and forth in anticipation, white fluffy clouds that were still too far out of my reach, then I’m sure she’d pay more attention to what specific, personalized kind of hell the careless Gumiho was putting the poor whisk in his hand through.

And, that’s when I remembered the words of wisdom he, the Tokebi, and Mr. Demon had supplied Jongup. And, that’s when I couldn’t help but use that piece of information against him.

“Nothing.” I shrugged, shoving my hands into my pockets, dragging my feet to the living room.

And from the corner of my eye, I spotted the moment in which the whisk was released from his sadistic hands, his lips parting as he became panic-stricken. Because the Gumiho knew that when a girl said “nothing” was wrong, everything was. And all the while, I heard him yelling for me from the kitchen, his banshee voice booming, echoing from wall to wall, right then, in that moment, sounded like music to my ears.

“Sora? What’s wrong? Sora, baby! Wait, wait, I. I can’t leave right now. Come back! Sora!”

But, I didn’t stop. Instead, I walked all the way to the front porch, ignoring the other lovely, newly formed couple in the living room, and I joined an uncharacteristically quiet Youngjae sitting on the small bench there. And the question came out before I could stop it.

“Why aren’t you in there making fun of Daehyun?” I mean, the two are best friends. He’d be missing out on at least a thousand years worth of embarrassing ammunition to use against the Tokebi as black mail if he didn’t at the very least take a look.

Youngjae shook his head, drawing his eyes away from the front gate he was previously gazing at so intently, locking them with mine instead, “I was.” He paused, a sigh leaving him followed by a tight frown stiffening his expression, “But, then I got to thinking that maybe he likes it. And, then it wasn’t fun anymore.”

Love.

I love the way the Youngjae and I just seem to click. The way our thoughts align so easily on almost any and all subjects. This Shakespearean Dokkaebi is most definitely my second favorite – as first place will always go to Jongup: the overly courteous, “Miss Sora” spewing Haechi.

“Have I ever told you how much I like you?” I nudged his shoulder with my own, grinning at him so widely I was sure my smile stretched from ear to ear.

“You have.” He stated matter-of-factly, staring back at me with impassive eyes. And before I could question why, he said that same annoying sentence of his that I hadn’t heard in so long that I had forgotten he had ever said it in the first place, “And the fact that you haven’t stopped since makes me wonder whether or not you were lying about not being into spirits.”

“I hate that I like you.” I corrected myself with a lie, just to prove him wrong. Because I didn’t hate it. I loved it. But, if I said that, his usual snarkiness would be directed towards me and as much as I like that aspect of him, I already have more than enough snarkiness stored in my own body to last the rest of my lifetime.

“That’s more like it.” Was all he said as he crossed his arms against his chest, his eyes gazing forward once more. Keenly. Resolutely. As though there was something there that was worthy of his attention. I followed his eyes, turning to the front gate of the house. But, in the end, there was nothing. There was no one.

And I wanted to question him about it. I wanted to ask him what it was that he found so interesting. But, as it turns out, the Dokkaebi has another trait I didn’t exactly know of at that point in time.

He has the ability to change the topic of conversation before the conversation itself can even begin.

“She’s not like us.” He started, stuffing my own words right back down my throat. He continued on, and I found his eyes to be looking at something else: the unblinded window right behind us that looked into the living room. In particular, someone else: the nameless woman sitting in the living room with Mr. Demon. And, just a small note, just something I noticed, the two seemed to be having a grand ol’ time together – the reason I ignored them earlier. The reason I called them a “newly formed couple” earlier.

Youngjae’s words drew me back though, out of my wayward thoughts, “She’s a wandering soul who knows how to pass on, but refuses to because of whatever help she came to you for.” His eyes casted a glance towards me, slight admonishment, slight scolding, in his voice, “All of us know already, so there’s no use thinking you can hide it by not talking about it.” 

And his focus was back on her, his hands uncrossing from his chest, slipping into his pant pockets instead, “We’ll help you anyway. After all, it’s help she needs. She can’t maintain a physical form in your world: the world of the living. If she becomes a spirit like us, she can. But, like this, like she is now, only those like you and your grandfather can see her.”

“And exactly what does that make us?” I was referring to my grandfather and I. I was referring to what made us so different. What made us able to see this entire world? Why did my father tend to that old shrine in the first place?

“Special.” Youngjae deadpanned, not blinking even once. I faked a laugh, nudging him again but this time, not on purpose. Not out of jolly jest. Not for the fun of it.

“You’re hilarious.”

And he shrugged, like he knew, but then explained not a single thing more.

And I let him stay that way, the window that peaked into the living room so much more interesting at that point in time. At that point in time in which Daehyun, adorning his lovely pink apron, was talking with the nameless woman alone now, a smile on his face, his eyes forming those waning moons shapes I had never seen before.

“What’s with him?” I asked out loud without meaning to, taking offense a bit too much to the fact that he was grinning this way and that so easily when I wasn’t around.

And Youngjae merely shrugged again, his eyes on the front gate once more, his lips forming a firm line.

“He’s got a thing for dead girls.”

The pineapple upside down cake? Delicious. Watching Daehyun and Himchan fail four times before finally succeeding in making it? Hysterical. I let Zelo have half of mine after finishing his own, his sweet tooth appearing to be just as big as mine.

Besides, if I wanted another cake, I just had to ask Ms. Kim to bake me one. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t take advantage of the older woman! Of course not! She told me she was willing to help the Tokebi and the Gumiho bake again anytime, as she mostly stayed at home each day.

Which meant free sweets.

Which meant Ms. Kim just became my favorite living person in the world.

I exaggerate and, obviously, I digress. After promptly eating our afternoon snack and washing it down with some warm tea, it was time to get down to business. The spirit helping business that is – I’ve set up shop only recently so you can’t blame me for taking things slow, can you?

Right now, I was getting ready, slipping on my jacket and hanging my purse from my shoulder. Right now is when I received a call from my bestie. My childish, crybaby of a best friend, Oh Sehun.

I slipped my phone from my purse and started off with a pleasant, “Sehun, what’s up?” You can be sure that I had no idea the turn the phone call would take. You can be sure I had no idea what shoved itself up his, okay, I’ll stop there. The main idea is, he was in a bad mood. I could tell the moment that first syllable was transmitted over the transceiver of my phone.

His lisp was heavy, and he wasn’t even stuttering or pausing in between his words as he usually did when he talked on the phone – because another one of his pet peeves was that talking on the phone was super awkward. Thus, he tried to limit calling me as much as possible. Though, lately, he had been doing it with much more frequency, these “awkward calls” of his.

And, well, Oh Sehun, way to make things super awkward between us. Good ing job on that one. Freaking fantastic in fact. I hope my sarcasm is apparent. I really hope it is.

“Are you busy?” He asked, though he didn’t even give me a single second to answer his question, “Scratch that, I don’t care if you’re busy. I want you to meet my friends today.”

“You have friends besides me? Now this is breaking news!” I mused in an attempt to lighten his mood. And apparently, he was unamused. Sehun right now seemed impossible to amuse. Upon hearing his unamused silence in response, I gave myself up, “I’m joking. It’s a joke.”

He continued on then, undeterred in the least, “So, then I’ll be at your house in ten?”

“Well, you see, the thing is,” I could practically see him sighing as he huffed a breath on the other side of the phone, like he already knew exactly what I was going to say but was still disappointed that I said it, “I’m kind of busy today.”

“What are you doing?” He spoke his question so fast that his words mumbled together, that speech impediment of his not helping in the least when it came to understanding him.

What am I doing? I’m helping a dead girl pass on, Oh Sehun.

“Stuff.” I replied, not willing to put up with his temper tantrum any longer. If he wasn’t going to listen to me, I was resigned to not listen to him either.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” I nodded as I looked down, holding the phone to my ear as I stuffed my feet in my shoes.

“Then I’ll just come over tonight instead. When you’re done doing all of your stuff.” He mocked my use of such a word. And mocking did not suit that voice, that usual temperament of his. That usual Oh Sehun who I, in that moment, wanted to apologize to. Who I wanted to explain myself further to if he only gave me the chance to do so.

“Sehun—“

“See you then.”

And he hung up, just like that. Just like that, without me being able to get a single word in edgeways. Just like the tantrum-throwing boy he is.

And when I opened the front door to my grandparent’s house, my phone still in hand, Mr. Demon was there, but his usual smile wasn’t. I couldn’t help but wonder: had he heard? But, if he had, why would he say what he did then? Why would he act so naïve if he was anything but?

“You done?” He cocked his head to the side, dressed in a thick jacket of his own, a thick red scared that matched him all too well wrapped around his neck.

“Yeah,” a sigh of my own left my lips as I stuffed my phone into my jacket pocket, resigning to my current situation once more, “let’s go.”

Where were we going? I didn’t know until we got there. But, once we did, I had a good idea how it was that such a young, beautiful woman could have died. On the outside, she received a pirate’s bounty. On the inside, she had gotten the short end of the stick.

Where were we going?

To a hospital.

And the nameless woman’s next words were, “This is it.”

This is it. This is where she died. Of what? Of a brain tumor. What did she need help with? She needed help helping someone else. Who was this someone else?

A resident doctor at this same hospital, Miss Victoria Song.  

L. O. V. E.

What is it really?