2010

A lot can happen within a year or two.

Just as a timeless artist once said, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” Love is nothing but a tool, just like how a knife is a tool. Is a knife complicated? No, only in the way it is equipped makes it complicated. Is a knife bad? It is only bad if the wielder is bad.

One may think, “I had a crush” sounds immature, childish… sure, it does. However, a crush is like a knock on your door in the middle of the night, with a ring of unexpectedness, like a sudden itch in the back of your throat and then, ‘cough!’ A crush is abrupt and harsh in the way it contracts so cruelly within; so sudden, so inevitable, and you’re utterly helpless to stop it.

The more you love, the more you hurt, he guessed. But Junhong was only sixteen and he was still too young to understand any of these things, much less, know the essence of Love itself. He had read somewhere, most probably in Junhee’s room, that the strength of a person’s Heart was only proportional to Time. But Time of what?

He didn’t understand time.

Life was a gift, his mother would say, but could he still trust his mother after everything? Besides, Junhong was certain Life was a long stretch from a Gift. A gift was something to be grateful for, a gift was a choice one could choose to either accept or decline, and most importantly, a gift was that joyous anticipation of the unknown.

But…

Life was a chunk of metal inside his heart. It was a burden, a baggage.

He didn’t understand life.

So there were many things Choi Junhong did not understand, he understood that much. He was naive, gullible and, once, a carefree kid who knew nothing but laughter and a girl who made up his life.

That was no more.

Oh, but most importantly, Junhong did not understand Love.

As an undead boy sat there, by the windowsill of a dark unknown room that seemed to embrace him, accept his silence with patience, he recalled a memory… just a flash of it. It made his insides sink and burn at the same time for he, somehow, knew that that had been such an obvious hint. It was right there, glaring at him right in the face and Junhong should’ve known! He should’ve known and he should’ve grabbed for Junhee right then, clasp his hands over her ears, pull her close—never letting go—and run away.

Don’t listen, he would beg, please don’t listen to her, Junhee…

If only he had known what was going on.

If only he had never grown up.

Only if Junhee had not listened.

It was a Friday, closing in on summer. That year had been 2009.

Around a month after high school began, Heeyoung, Junhong’s mother, had had little to no comfort knowing that her youngest son was not mingling with the wrong people. For some reason, she felt the pang of irritation that she had been simmering for quite a while.

Junhee was a lovely girl, of course, Heeyoung would once have traded Junhong for her. However, it was only a month since high school, and there had been rumours going around that did not sit well with Heeyoung. The people in the neighbourhood who owned a kid or two would talk. At the market, at the grocery store, Heeyoung had heard things, things concerning ‘that gangly boy of the Choi from Phase Two’ and ‘the odd girl with the book’.

“Son,” Heeyoung called out solidly as Junhong barged into his own house in the early morning, his uniform buttons half-done, staggered up the stairs, ignoring his mother completely.

Heeyoung pursed her lips and sighed. A few seconds later, Junhong ran back down the stairs, skateboard, backpack and a textbook in his arms, his uniform still not fully buttoned.

“Junhong,” the woman tried again, to catch her son’s attention as he fumbled with his shoes at the doorstep.

“Mum, hang on, I’m busy–“ Junhong panted, his untidy blonde hair forever uncombed. “Junhee said she’s going to leave without me since I woke up late and– and I forgot my textbook so–“

“Choi Junhong.” His mother’s tone was firm as she cut off his childish rambles.

Junhong froze, his head snapped up at the contained emotion in his mother’s voice. He swallowed, throat bobbing and warily straightened to his full height.

“Mum? Something wrong?” Junhong asked, a frown of utter confusion between his brows. He was one-eighty-five, downcast dark eyes and an unlikely pale complexion.

His mother blurted out the unexpected, “Stay home tonight, Junhong.” The look on Heeyoung’s face showed no hint of a smile. She urged, “Hm?”

This was all very wrong, Junhong could feel it. His mother was a bubbly person, had always been and always would be. He had never seen this look on her face nor did he want to ever see it again. However, the sharp eyes and terse lips remained solid on her once beautiful face.

“Mum…” the boy began only to have his mother hush him.

“Stay at your own house, this weekend, would you?” Heeyoung asked, but it sounded like an order. She tilted her head questioningly, waiting for his reply. Her son’s face immediately faltered, and his shoulders tensed.

“Mum, is… is something wrong?” He felt sick. He was worried. Did something happen? Was dad okay? Did hyung get sick abroad?

Heeyoung sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. She dropped the bomb, “Don’t you think it’s time you make other friends?”

At the time, Junhong had not known it was a bomb.

“I don’t need other friends,” Junhong had said, pursing his lips, starting to feel uncomfortable with this new un