Everything was RED.

It's the color of her lips, plump and glossed with a sheer coat of something both sticky and sweet. It's the kiss you give her before leaving your apartment, closing the door gently behind you. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the lie behind those words: It's never just one more night.) 

It's the stoplight on your way to work, glaring at you, taunting you. It's the anger in your boss's voice as he chides you for being late; you've been late three times this week and you're treading on thin ice. It's the look Tiffany gives you, smirk painted on lips that you remember against your skin. It's the blush that creeps up your neck, spreading into your cheeks, threatening to give you away. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the deception behind those words: You don't know if it would ever just be one more night.)

It's the name on your phone as it light's up your screen, ringtone blaring just a bit too loudly for your coworkers' liking. Jessica. It's the way she asks you what time you'll be home tonight, the edge in her voice that tells you she has something planned. It's the gleam of your imagination, picturing her sprawled out on the bed in the room you share, fingers running down a taut stomach from years of exercise. It's the shake of your breath when you tell her you have to work late, that there's work to be done and you're the chosen one to do it. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the guilt behind those words: You know she deserves better.)

It's the color of the cup you've brought to your mouth, sipping the contents as you look across the break room. It's the color of the shirt Tiffany is wearing, hugging curves you wish you could say you didn't know existed. It's the memory of the way the curve of her waist feels beneath the palm of your hand, the way her fingertips feel as they a fire along your skin. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the heat of your gaze when you look her over: You should feel shame, but you don't.)

It's the feeling of her fingers when they brush your hand as she passes you a packet of papers you need to look over. It's the curve of her lips as she asks you what you're doing after work as if she has no idea what you do in your spare time. It's the pang of realization: you do her in your spare time. She knows it. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the battle you have with yourself daily: What was more important? Love or lust?)

It's the disapproving glance Hyoyeon gives you as she returns her gaze to her papers. She caught you staring -- everyone does. Everyone does, except Jessica. It's the promise you made to Hyoyeon a week before: either you would tell Jessica the truth, or she would. It's the shake of your head when you try to clear your thoughts. It's the scarlet letter you wear metaphorically on your chest -- A. Adulterer. C. Cheater. L. Liar. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the moment of regret you feel as you find yourself typing an email to Tiffany, inquiring about the specifics of tonight. You type a text to Jessica telling her not to wait up. It's unnecessary -- she never does.)

It's the thought in your mind. You wonder if she knows. You wonder if she's read the signs, if she's read between the lines scattered with ink she didn't write. It's the moment you wonder if Hyoyeon told her, if Hyoyeon had told Yuri who in turn told her. It's the question in the back of your mind as you wonder if she's just playing along, waiting for you to choose. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the bitter taste in your mouth as you realize you don't want to choose. It's the color of selfishness. You want to have your cake, and you want to eat it too.)

It's the color of your car, fingers fumbling for keys in the bag slung on your shoulder. It's the lacquer on your nails, filed to a comfortable length and painted with a delicate touch. For a moment, you remember that it's also the color of the devil sitting on your shoulder. It's the temptation you gave into months ago, swearing that you would never to it again. It's the color of a one time occurrence, the color of history that continued to repeat itself. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the color of the "ignore" button you press when that familiar name lights up your screen, phone playing a tune that makes you sick to your stomach. You think for a moment that you should feel sick to your stomach. But the unease has never stopped you before, and it isn't going to start today.)

It's the color of the picture hanging on the wall. It's the overwhelming scent of cinnamon as you find herself in the living room of a familiar apartment -- it isn't your apartment. It never is. It's the color of the wine in your glass, the taste on your tongue as the warmth of the alcohol warms your body and loosens your muscles. It's the realization that you could never do this sober. It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the color of a smirk you know all too well. She knows what you're thinking; she can see it in your eyes. It's the glint in her own eyes; she knows you won't willingly give this up.)

It's the kiss you share, searing and blinding. It's the way your back slams against the wall, fingers attacking every inch of exposed skin they can reach. It's the nails digging into your back. It's the marks she leaves, marks that should claim you as hers. You aren't hers. Are you? It's the unease in your stomach when you realize that you don't know anymore.  It's the vow you make -- only one more night. (It's the pant of your breath as you beg her for what you came here for; it's the flood of warmth in the pit of your stomach.)

It's the mark on your shoulder you don't see in the mirror as you redress yourself, head hung in the shame that only comes after a moment like this. It's the feeling of betrayal, the feeling of the act you've just engaged in weighing on your conscience. It's your tone when you tell her this is the last time, breathy and threatening to follow her back into the bedroom you just came out of. It's the way you both know that this isn't the last time, that if you keep this up, there will never be a last time. It's the vow you made -- only one more night. (It's the list of broken vows: the vow you made to yourself -- one more night. the vow you made to Hyoyeon -- it's ending. the vow you made to jessica -- I will always be faithful. I love you. It's the list of promises that you never kept.)

It's the color of your screen when you press the phone to your ear, eyes focused on the road while your mind is somewhere else entirely. It's the sweetness in her voice as she asks if you're on your way home, as she tells you that she left dinner in the oven, as she asks you to hurry because she's been waiting for you. It's the pit in your stomach. How could someone be so faithful to a person that wasn't faithful at all. It's the mystery that keeps you up every night. It's the vow you fail to keep -- only one more night. (It's her place in your life: a world of black and white, and her standing there in blinding color. Whether you're talking about Tiffany or Jessica, you aren't entirely sure.)

It's the look on her face when she sees you, features brightening the second you walk through the door. It's the feeling of her fingertips dancing along your skin as she presses a kiss to your cheek. It's your lips, still bruised from the lover you came from. It's fingers pulling your shirt above your head. It's the vow you've tried to make -- only one more night. (It's the realization in her gaze, pieces of the complex puzzle that is Jessica Jung shattering into shards right in front of you.)

"Get out."

You blink, wondering if your ears have misled you. It's the anger in her voice, it's the hatred that seeps from every pore as she backs away from you. It's the disgust etched on her features. It's the mark on your shoulder you never saw in the mirror. It's the mark she didn't leave, and the mark that she did. It's the vow that you never intended on keeping in the first place -- only one more night. (It's the pit in your stomach.)

"If you won't go, I will."

It's the blur of her hands as she throws clothing into a duffle, the speed of her actions forcing a searing pain through your body. It's the pain that you deserve as you stand there open mouthed, gaping, trying to figure out something to say. It's the way the words die in your throat. It's the color of her cheeks, of her eyes. It's the sound of her sobs wracking her body as she pushes through it, continuing to throw items into the bag with her name on it. It's the vow you should have never found yourself making -- only one more night. (It's the disgust that sinks into the core of your very being: you could have prevented this, if you weren't so selfish. But you've always been selfish and you've always been rather cruel. This doesn't come as a shock to you.)

It's the sound of a door slamming in the distance.

It is the vow you made -- only one more night.

(It's the anger that seeps through your bones, spreading into your muscles, overwhelming your senses. It is the color of blame. And you can't blame anyone but yourself.)

It is not the color you see when she leaves.