A/N: I wrote this chapter a bit...differently. I feel that a more 'normal' way of writing would help the plot progress further, so from now on, there won't be any full entries from Jimin.

Cue the angst ;)

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  One bitter evening in the middle of a wet, in-between March, I arrived home to utter, unmistakable darkness.

  This was my life on repeat, a constant and persistent loop of broken glass and spat-out confessions, screaming tears and cold cracked eyes. Possessions were burned out of spite, late bills arrived with never-finished divorce papers, and I was thrown out of the list of priorities with a dinner neither of my parents ever bothered to eat. The phone rang constantly, from the office, from friends, from worried-sick grandparents, sitting silently in the missed calls section. Mornings, evenings, and afternoons passed where I would sit locked up in my room, listening to them argue downstairs, trembling fingers pressed underneath trembling legs as I felt the familiar urge to slam the door open and scream at them to shut up.

  But I never did. Because I didn't want to get caught up in their war. Because I'm a ing coward.

  After pounding footsteps came up the stairs and doors crashed into doorframes, I would go downstairs and clean up the warzone. It was mostly the kitchen; the living room and entrance hall had seen a few fights as well. Other times, I would arrive home and find myself in the midst of shards of glass, conveying a message I was too familiar with to question. The house's coloring was always different- filled with harsh white light; flooded in the warm breathtaking colors of a receding sun; dull and monochromatic as the last of the day's light faded away.

  That day, I'd unlocked the door to what seemed like utter oblivion. The shades were drawn, the space between them reduced to a perfectly vertical line of subtle shadow. Every single light switch in the entire house was flipped downwards, edges of furniture only discernible through varying shades of darkness.

  A fear of turning on any plausible light source blossomed in my chest then; I felt comforted by the blackness, more comforted than I'd ever felt under a light. Not only that, I was afraid of what would meet my eyes once a glaring brilliance filled the house.

  But I had to. I knew I had to. I couldn't retreat into the shadows forever.

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  The phone clicking against the holder was quiet, but in the loud silence, the sound rang through the house. 

  What kind of farewell gift was this?

  My eyes travelled over to the dented mahogany table -was everything in this house a reminder of the darkness present in my life?- where the papers lay, crinkled and torn in obvious carelessness. Slightly puffy spots where ink thinned and bled out served as battle scars with a combination of liquid and neglect. The large title word, bold and screaming, burned itself into my eyelids.

  Orphanage.

  They're sending me to the orphanage.

  That call, it was them. The people from the orphanage.

  The people from the orphanage are coming to take me.

  I'm going to the orphanage.

  I hate you.

  That last sentence took me a little by surprise, but it was the kind of surprise that was felt whenever one said something they'd intended to keep to themselves. Like that one thing had pulled some sort of trigger in the darkest corner of my mind, anger suddenly frothed and boiled in my heart as bitter, hidden thoughts revealed themselves in rapid succession.

  Umma, Appa, I ing hate you.

  Sixteen years of arguing, ignoring my needs, being incredibly, hellishly selfish - and this is all you give me in the end?

  You cowards.

  You pair of self-centered cowards.

  You just wanted to get away from each other, right? You didn't even bother to explain to me, right? I NEVER MATTERED TO EITHER OF YOU, RIGHT?

  You ran away for nothing.

  You're going to be reunited in hell.

  Soon, the rage burned away, leaving only pure, fresh pain behind with the realization that I now had no one left- no one to love, no one to hate.

  My knees gave out underneath me, and I fell to the floor, the impact when I hit the cold tiles barely felt as my consciousness boiled over with a tangle of inexpressible feelings. Somewhere in the back of my screaming mind, I felt a whisper of doubt, but the shadow of memory soon got washed out by all the other emotions that were battling for dominance.

  I curled myself inwards, wanting to collapse, to physically cave in like my heart already had. My knees pressed against my forehead, generating a faint feeling of pain as I felt a slightly alien prickling behind my eyes. When the first drop of warm, thin liquid spilled out between my squeezed shut eyelids, I couldn't stop it anymore.

  For the first time in ten years, I allowed myself the pleasure of crying.

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  The interior of the car was stifling and awkward, overhung by the shared knowledge of exactly why I was here. Although I was the only passenger, my lungs throbbed with lack of oxygen. The woman driving looked tired, weary, and just gray- gray hair, grayish eyes, even her skin was tinted a warm mix between black and white. Creases etched around her eyes marked a good-natured person, but that did nothing to encourage any form of conversation from me.

  She didn't bother with small talk either. I was extremely grateful for that.

  Over the past few hours, the waves of pain and innumerable other feelings had grown smaller and smaller, from crashing into my heart frequently to just barely lapping at the edges from time to time. I satisfied my pride by settling into a state of blunt denial, refusing to think anything about my parents, my house, my life. Instead, I immersed my attention in the landscape outside my window, lit up by the unblocked sun. The laughing children, the happy couples, the groups of chatting friends were all lost on my eyes. I only saw crying, wounded toddlers, a couple in the midst of a break-up, a parent telling their child stone-facedly that they were going home. Even those scenes of relatable sadness were in a blur, the details fuzzy as if my lack of focus had formed clouds on my vision.

  A jolt awakened me from my thoughts, and my head turned sharply towards the front as the driver's under-the-breath words intermingled with the sharp honking of a car horn nearby. I re-oriented myself in the direction of the offending vehicle, and just barely caught the red, mud-streaked back end as it veered angrily into the distance. Just before it turned, a snapshot of black hair flying with sudden movement concealed behind the dark tint of a window captured my attention.

  Black hair.

  Oh, no.

  All I'd left behind raced through my mind in a stampede of bittersweet moments; deep eyes b with tears, pale skin illuminated by the sun, pink lips pressed together in thirst. My thoughts twisted into an incoherent jumble, proceeded to wring my heart out, then reformed to create a name, a two-syllable word that turned mild waves of pain into a frothing storm of intense guilt.

  Jimin.

  I'm leaving Jimin.

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