A day after Christmas, Son Seungwan receives a surprising guest at her doorstep.

"Why are you here?" the brunette asks icily. The unexpected tone makes her flinch instantaneously.  

The words Seulgi have formed mentally immediately vanish. Her feet freeze as if they are sealed inside two buckets of concrete. Suddenly, the blonde feels so small. "I-I-"

"Sorry," Wendy intervenes, voice reflecting her guilt. "I didn't mean to sound harsh."

Seulgi gulps. "I-it's o-okay,” she manages to say. The cold December morning is not making things any better.

"Do you want to come in?” Wendy asks carefully. “It's cold outside."

"Ye-yeah. Th-thanks,” Seulgi responds, offering Wendy a small, grateful smile.

The moment Seulgi steps into the house, the first thing that stings the blonde’s nose from all directions is the overpowering, sterile smell of disinfectant.

"I’m sorry,” Wendy says apologetically upon noticing the blonde scrunching her nose, “The smell bothers you, doesn’t it?”

"It doesn't,” Seulgi answers truthfully. “It just reminds me of a hospital. Does it always smell this way?"

Wendy breathes out a tiny sigh of relief. "Only when my parents aren't around. Disinfectant makes the house smell clean. I like cleanliness."

"Oh." Seulgi notes how spick and span the hall is. The floor tiles look so polished and shiny that she wonders how long Wendy had spent on scrubbing them, or how many rounds of cleaning it took to get that sort of end result. "The house does look clean. Extremely clean."

Wendy beams. Being alone in the house used to upset her terribly. Until one day, she discovered the beauty of cleaning the house. Removing the dirt in all nooks and crannies. Organizing things. Putting things in place. And then everything falls through, like letters through the front door. When she’s done, everything around her agrees: the walls gleam hearteningly, the curtains nod their approval, the furniture gives her a grin. It’s as if the whole universe has got her back - she doesn’t have to worry about her psychiatric treatment records, her suicide attempts, the condescending gazes and ignorant remarks from her school mates.

Until she feels the scars on her wrists, finger pads skimming on those memorised jagged lines.

The brunette shrugs the negative thoughts away, remembering that she has a guest at home. She slides a glance in Seulgi’s direction. "Have a sit on the couch. Want any drinks?"

Seulgi shakes her head. "It's fine. I don't feel thirsty."

"Alright,” Wendy nods. She settles on couch adjacent to the one Seulgi is sitting on. "How did you know my address?" she begins, curiosity lacing her voice.

"Joy. She gave me your address and asked me to fix things."

“Joy asked you to fix things?” Wendy responds, surprised. She has never told Joy the cause of her attempted suicide.

"Yeah... When you didn't come to school, I got punched by Joy.” The blonde winces inwardly at the remembrance of Joy’s strong blow which broke her nose. “She said I was at fault but she didn't tell me the reason." She fiddles with a frayed bit on her sleeves, occasionally giving Wendy tentatives glances. "I wanted to visit you but Joy told me you were admitted to the hospital so..."

“Oh.”

"So…” Seulgi becomes hesitant. She isn’t sure if it is appropriate to mention what she is about to ask. “How was.. um-"

"Psych ward?" Wendy finishes the question for the blonde.

"Y-yeah, psych ward, is that what you call it?"

"Not really. I call it home."

"Really?" Seulgi asks, wide-eyed.

"No, of course not.” An image of the nonexistent clock in the isolation room pops into the brunette’s head and makes her cringe. “Being in there reminds you that you're not the same as the people out there, those people beyond the fences. And even if you get well, there's your psychiatric record that will remain.” She shudders as she pictures the thick pile of her records settled graciously on the desk in Irene’s office. “Irene told me I shouldn't worry about not getting a place in the university though."

"Irene?"

"She's my psychiatrist."

"Oh. Is she nice?"

"She's more than just nice. She's kind,” Wendy says, and with a slight frown on her face, she mumbles, “ - and very careful."

Seulgi doesn’t say anything. So Wendy lets the conversation end there and then.  

"I'm sorry, Wendy,” Seulgi begins after a moment.

"What are you sorry for?"

"For hurting you."

"How?"

“I don’t know.”

An anger flashes through the brunette. She clutches the underside of the couch. Self-regulate, she tells herself. She takes in a deep breath, before exhaling a long one. She glances at the clock. All of a sudden, time stops to mean much. Apologies stop holding the weight of guilt or remorse for inflicting pain on someone else. "Some people don't know how damaging their words can be. Irene told me one of the factors could be their ignorance. Then I wonder if I should constantly pardon them for their ignorance."

The blonde swallows the lump in her suddenly dry throat. The hall is actually cold, but she can feel the beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

"Do you think of us as a challenge?"

"What?"

"People like me. Are we just something that you need to make use of?" Wendy squeezes her eyes shut, as she feels the zinging in her nerves intensify. She can’t afford to lose control right now, she reminds herself, she needs closure. She doesn’t want to go back to hospital. She doesn’t want to be surrounded by the wired fences which make her feel small, like an insignificant fry which has no chance in a sea full of barracudas. “I’m not asking you to understand me. Or my struggles. Or my obsession with certain things that make me feel at ease.” She pauses to swallow back the rush of emotions that is choking . “I’m just asking you to respect me,” she continues, laying the words out one by one like coins on the counter of the cafe just a stone's throw away from her house. Her eyes drift up to meet Seulgi. "Maybe you should volunteer at the hospital when you're free. Sometimes you need to do something good for t