LuNew.

It was a Sunday.

And Sundays were meant to be the best for Onew. Sundays was the day for pancakes with freshly picked strawberries and whipped cream. A side of black coffee and sloppy kisses in between her neck was the start to a good Sunday. He could almost imagine the smell wandering in the air as he quickly slips himself into anything he could find and stumble into the kitchen.

But the kitchen is empty. And so is the space on the bed beside him. This was not a good Sunday.

He paces back and forth beside the phone box. The cold air grimed its way into his skin and he still contemplates. As idiotic as it would seem a few months ago, right then hearing her voice would be the instant cure. So he picks up the phone and without a second later, he presses her numbers.

“Hello?” she answers, her voice sounds a little weary and busy, “Hello?”

He slams down the receiver, holding his breath as he does and kicks himself for being such a coward. He runs back to his apartment and makes himself coffee. It tasted bitter, just like his heart.

Hours later after a few terrible attempts of making coffee, he finds himself right back at the phone box, kicking the snow off and settling himself on the floor of the phone box. He acknowledges his stupidity and childishness, but all he wants is a good Sunday.

He becomes nervous, hands trembling, as he picks up the receiver. It was a payphone so she wouldn’t know who it was, right?

“Hello?” the same voice echoes into the small space and his lips quirk into a smile, “Who is this? Onew? Are you playing a prank?”

/click.

Her voice disappears and he feels wronged. He decides that this Sunday was a terrible one. And his coffee tasted nasty. So, why not drink alcohol?

Hands deep in pockets, he marches to the nearest convenience store. He strolls to the beverages aisle and grabs an 8 pack alcoholic drink. Maybe it was enough to wash away the bitter coffee. Or wash himself away. Either way, he’d forget her. Then it would probably be a good Sunday.

Wrong.

In retrospect, she never leaves his mind. And it frustrates him. As he gulps down another can, he can’t see the phone anymore. With hands grabbing onto the sides of the phone box, he presses her numbers.

“Hello. This is Park Sunyoung. She isn’t available right now so…” . “…leave a message after the beep.”

He stays for a while. His finger gripped mercifully at the receiver and thinks hard about what to say. His voice betrays him right at that moment and nothing comes out. Maybe it was the cold weather. Maybe he was nervous.

“Thank you,” signals the end of the call. He fishes out a few leftover coins and pops them in.

“Hello. This is Park Sunyoung. She isn’t available right now so leave a message after the beep.”

“Sunyoung-ah, today is a good Sunday,” he mumbles, “My coffee tastes fine. No, I’m not drinking. I’m perfectly fine. I just miss you. Come back quickly. I love you. I really really do. Are you listening? I love you.”

It ends quickly and he immediately regrets everything. Onew hates Sundays.

*

Onew hates Sundays.

That morning there is that terrible warm smell of freshly baked pancakes in the air and he can’t help but drag himself out of bed. His eyes are half open and his breath reeks of last night’s lasagne. He doesn’t prop his head on the spaces between her shoulder and neck and neither does he curl up his fingers onto her plane tummy. A few Sundays has passed and he is still filled with regret.

With shame, he settles on the chair opposite of her. He waits for her to speak but she doesn’t. Instead, she pushes the plate closer to him and hands him a fork.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, “And sorry.”

 Tapping the edge of the table, she waits for him to continue.  He doesn’t; he’s too ashamed. Silence engulfs them and he swears he can almost hear a pin drop.

“For what? Drinking and then calling my office? Or maybe you’re sorry for confession to me via my voicemail, which of course the whole office could hear? No, you must be sorry for awfully singing to Come Back Again by Infinite. You could be sorry for…”

She doesn’t continue. He doesn’t let her; his lips doesn’t let her. And right that moment, she tastes like the coffee she makes on Sunday mornings.

Onew decides that he loves Sundays after all.