For three days Taemin had stayed locked in his room, stubbornly refusing to talk to anyone. He ate only when he became so hungry it hurt, and ignored all knocks on his door whether they came from his mother, Kibum or the hired help.
Taemin's parents, being well-off, lived in a big house just outside of Seoul. His father was away most of the time on work, while his mother filled her days with trips to the spa and outings with friends. Two housekeepers visited every day to keep the house, though half of it was rarely even used, clean and dust-free.
Taemin couldn't stand the place. Ever since he could remember he had felt like a visitor in his own home; not that anyone, in his opinion, could feel comfortable in such a silent, soulless house. The place had the untouched, pristine feel of a house that had never been lived in - a house with no memories.
He pulled his duvet cover over his head and replayed the last moments he had spent with you for the fiftieth time. Kibum had arrived early Monday morning, and from there things had happened too fast. Taemin had clung to you desperately, hoping you'd change your mind at the last second, but though your eyes filled with tears you made no attempt to hold him back.
"Please," he had begged as Kibum fetched his suitcase.
"You can't let him take me. Don't you love me?"
"You're not being fair," you had said desperately. "Please stop making this harder than it already is. I can come visit, or you can visit me, it's not like we'll never see each other again--"
Taemin rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut as he recalled the look of anguish on your face. You didn't know his mother, he reflected bitterly. Not in a million years would she allow you to visit. Just as he'd predicted, the moment he'd arrived home his mother had been upon him with faux-concern, giving him a ginger hug and wringing her hands about how he'd been taken advantage of. She had even invited Kibum to stay for a week or two, to look after him. Taemin snorted. How easily she forgot that the last time she had talked to Kibum she had told him she never wanted to see him again.
He no longer had his collar, Kibum having forcibly removed it before leaving your apartment, but while packing he had smuggled one of your shirts into his suitcase. He pulled it out from where he kept it under his pillow, and nuzzled into it, inhaling the remnants of your perfume that clung to the fabric.
He wondered if you had tried to visit. Kibum had, reluctantly, written down the address at your request, but even Kibum knew that if you so much as tried to set foot in the house you would be shooed away immediately. Not that his mother would reveal that; if asked, Taemin knew she would deny you had ever been there. A miserable little groan escaped him, muffled by his pillow.
He had to escape. He had to see you.
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