Christmas Eve

The house remains the same as the old memories you still hold deep inside your mind; playing hide and seek with Danna, the aroma of your mother’s cooking, running to greet your father when he came back from work late at night and you were waiting to see him, to tell him all about your doings, all the family gathered around the dinner table, eating together, sharing food and problems and laughs, lots of them; you, the dork who made them all crack up, youm, the joy of all of them, the boy who made them proud, the troublemaker but, also, their bright star.

You can still hear them, their voices calling your name, hands pressed together, their smiling faces. If you close your eyes you can clearly see, you can clearly feel the missing inside your heart, tugging, bugging; it’s painful - it has been like this for so long your chest has become numb,- but you get easily used to it; to not being around anymore, to make up excuses, to drink them up after hanging on your mother again. You lied to them with promises that everything was ok - and everything was falling apart, all of you were spilling out of control, out of any reach or hold, losing direction and your mind was mired in, confused, dangling. You pretended to be strong while sipping another bottle, swallowing those words that weren't meant to be real, replacing them with fake laughs and sloppy smiles that only your dirty reflexion in the mirror was able to see. 

The door creaks weakly under your touch but your feet are still stopped, entangled on the entryway. You look inside the hall and it is all the same; same colours, same shoes waiting on the step, same old pictures on display – of you and your sister holding hands on your walk to school, giggling cheerfully in a way you have long forgotten, in a way you think you won’t be able to do it again. 

It feels like home and it hits you; hard and plain, directly to your chest like a bullet and you breathe in and out and your lungs are so cold as if icicles were filling them and they are scratching, itching over your flesh. The snow paints the street behind you in pure white and it’s freezing on your back but your legs refuse to move, too heavy, too lazy, too scared of what is waiting for you in.

It’s been three years and a half since last time you were here and the prospective to come back is frightening; even if time has frozen still in this place, you are not the same, you no longer remember that boy who ran and play, carefree – you are now grounded, your rotten roots poisoned by alcohol and too many regrets and burdens that make you shiver, weighting on your shoulders where you carry them all, all your secrets that drill your soul, painting it in black and blue as in a mournful song; light has not touched you in so many time but now it’s different, now you have met Jinwoo, your personal sunshine, the star you keep close in your pocket, the one that makes you feel alive. Jinwoo, the one encouraging you, the force that drives you forward, to push you - the one who has touched you, caressing your heart, erasing with soft smiles all the itching, all the anguish and the wretchedness that until then swirled in you; he is washing you clean of vices and sorrows and bringing back what you thought it was lost for good; hopes and dreams and expectations; a will to live.

The first step is the scariest but, after it, your attached legs move forwards and you draw on into the hall and into the living room and into the core of this house that is more than just a place but where your heart belongs. It feels nice to be here again. 

The snow that has covered you melt with the warmth that irradiates from the tight hug your mother is greeting you with, smiling and crying and kissing all the skin on your cheeks. She talks, loud and happy and she looks at you as proud as always. Your sister runs to you and you have to catch her, making her fly, swirling around like when you were kids and there was nothing to be afraid of, with tears falling down on your feet and she competes with your mother for your affection – and you feel so underserving, you, who has abandoned them, you, who is being greeted as if someone important, as if someone loved (and you are, you know it, but you also know all the crimes you have written with blood and sips and your chest trembles, agitated, skin burning in shame and you have to refrain the tears that are threatening, itching hard at the corner of your eyes).

You father comes back smiling the brightest, bigger than his heart and you can’t hide all the drops that are scorching your skin. They don’t know why you are crying, but they take you to the couch and, sitting together, they ask you why, hands entangled around each other and your head resting on your mother's shoulder, eyes worried but smiling, reassuring faces all on you-you find in them the strength to keep on going.

You tell them. You tell them all; how you have drowned into a spiral of destruction, an endless behaviour that brought you to the last period, to a dim, sombre place where you wanted to be buried, never seen the sun again. You explain to them how low you have been, how trashy, how much you have harmed yourself and them just because you were greedy – needy of alcohol to survive and you have pushed them away so badly that you were scared to ever come back. They tell you that you are always welcome home, that it’s alright.

It is not; their forgiveness don’t clean the crimes and the sins but around them you feel better, it’s quiet in a loud, lovely way and your sister hugs you tightly, as if breaking your bones to touch your heart – and you let her in, you allow your family to see all the empty bits of you, all the scars that are still bleeding, all the ugliness that your soul contains, the stains writing Lee Seunghoon's name on your skin and under your void eyes. You highlight all about your reckless abandon, how drinking has substituted them, bringing courage to face that thing that was life for so long for you, a behaviour that nearly was your end, an addiction that started without noticing but took away all of you, all the people you once cared about; you tell them about Jiho - how he found you spinning, covered in your own vomit, how he was the one to put a halt to your destroying actions - and Jinwoo - the one who saved you, the one you own your life to.

Your sister catches a glimpse of the light that the mere name of Jinwoo’s sparkles on you and so she asks you about him, about that person who has glued back the parts that were falling apart, the one who has brought you back home. You show her a drawn you have of him and confess your love for him – being honest has always been easy for you and there is no way you can’t conceal nor deny the fire that burns inside your chest and whose first glint was ignited by Jinwoo alone; like a spring day the flowers are blooming only for him and your heart throbs at the pace of his face whirling in your blood like your remedy, your salvation, your redemption has begun with him, sitting on the chair in front of his desk, his eyes on you, his smile like a reminicense of another time when you were able to feel. That’s how you love him, too deeply, too much, but you don’t care; he is the light that shimmers at the end of the road, the only force that is pushing you out of the ditch you are stuck in. Danna smiles at you and listens to all you have to say about Kim Jinwoo.

“He is so pretty” she states and you can only nod disappointingly because in real life he is so much better than your simple drawn could ever be – there is no way to capture the gleam that lives in his eyes when he smiles, or the way they creak when he giggles or laughs and you remember it and it’s all beautiful - he is beautiful, he is caring and thoughtful and devoted to his work.

Christmas goes on well; dinner with them turns to be normal as it has always been, as if you hadn't avoided them for so long; they look at you, still amazed of your presence, of the fact that you are back, for good, for real, after three burdening years that have felt like a storm to them – and you lose count of how many times you have apologized for it, but they are just laid back as if nothing much, as if understanding his reasons. They act the same way and you feel it, the familiarity, the normality of an easy, simple life - and you miss it deathly, desperately, you want what you forbade yourself back.

They try their best not to drink and it feels bad to you – dinner without soju is not the same and also it's Christmas Eve, it deserves a shoot for them to celebrate your return home, so you tell your father to go ahead, that it is ok (but you know, deep inside, that it isn't alright, that you still have some wounds to heal still).

You feel the stingy pinch over your skin - like rashes they itch, leaving red traces and gleam in your eyes - while watching intently at him taking his glass, cold and translucent; you know this taste way too well and it smell swirls into your nostrils as if perfume, it makes you feel dizzy, an illusion of it wetting your lips; you are caught in awe, half opened mouth, salivating over a forbidden door you have closed for good. You shake your head and clean the fog inside, the haziness that memories bring to you; you can do it, you can resist – and your father bottoms up and throws away the bottle before your sister covers all the stillness with joyful, pretending laugh. You thank her silently for breaking the ice, for the effort of making it feel normal again.

Winter slips into your chest as it covers the streets with white and springs its coldness like wings over the city; you contemplate it from your old room, your mother has handed you a hot cocoa drink and it steams, warm, pleasantly, and with it taste dwelling on your tongue washing away any other flavour lingering there, you think about Jinwoo – you think about him always but on a day like this you think about him more; this is the last snow of the year, pilling white outside in the frozen streets, the last change you have to see him again.

You are leaving, going back to your own apartment, not strong enough to force others to remain sober for you - you bid your farewell to your parents and promise them to call them every day, to visit often too and, this time, you believe in your own stamen; you can do it now because you feel cleaner, better; your life is in the open and they have discussed it with you so, even if it’s not perfect you are walking the path to be ok. Now you are not totally alone, you have them back, you are not powerless, they have given you courage. 

You call him, twice. He doesn’t pick up the phone and your heart palpitates, agitated, scared of a rejection for which you haven’t formulated a question. It’s intricate, the way you love him, openly but in secret, for everyone to see but him. You ring him again. This time he answers.

“Jinwoo – hyung?” this is another thing that bothers you; you aren’t that close to speaking informally to him, but you feel like you have met him for the longest, years of friendship that happened in a matter of months and that isn’t exactly this, he is your therapist and it’s weird that you have felt so hard for someone so unreachable like Kim Jinwoo. In the end you know it’s impossible – not only due to the deontological issue that forbids him to date his patients (even when you don't understand why), but because you are not enough for someone as great as him; he has seen all the darkness and shadows that crafted you, that have shaped you since that infamous day when the snow covered the road tainted in red, all the empty void that echoes in your chest; he knows all the times you have attempted to rip your wrist open, to bleed into a sink in a dirty bathroom splashed with alcohol and scarlet. You are nothing but another dot on his schedule, a pen mark at most - you are just another one of his patients even if you want to believe different, this is the truth and nothing will change it. But, at least, you can call him, you can try. 

“Minho-ya!” he exclaims as is surprised and you can hear the way his lips are curving up in a beatific smile, “what’s up?” he wonders next, not familiar to random calls last day of the year from a patient that seems to be alright – you are not crying nor cursing your sole existance, you are only driving your sister’s car to a city where the roads are iced and the sky is grey and dark.

“I was wondering if you are going to do something tonight?” you find the determination to ask him in the portrait your sister has hung on the rear mirror and that you had drawn years ago. You touch the laminated paper in one motion; it swirls and the purple thread twists and tangled around it, your face becoming blurred until you can’t recognize yourself again – it feels so familiar, like a pang in your chest.

“I was going home, but the trains aren’t working due to the snow, so I’m staying here,” he says, sad, with a hint of something that resembles hope and you cling into it as if a lifesaver.

“Can I get you? I don’t think I’ll be able to do it alone” you explain, fireworks ready to fly and explode inside your heart.

“Minho-ya – It’s not a good idea” he replies, sighing harsh as if regretting what he has just said – and you pray to the Almighty for him to take his words back.

“Why is it not? Isn’t it – part of the therapy to help me when I need it?” you ask, half curious and half broken and completely missing him.

“It would, usually, but I can’t do that with you, Minho-ya – There is this thing that forbids us to date our patients, do you know?” he states and yes, you do know what he means, but you don’t know why it is relevant at the current moment, you don't understand why is he bringing this topic up now - does it mean what you want it to be? “Look, I like you. And this is alright for me since I can keep it professional - and, in the end, it's only me, right? - but if I meet you again, outside our commonplace, if I see you under the light of something else, this won’t help you, I won’t be able to keep working with you. I can’t do that to any of us. I’m sorry.” Your heart shakes and his sincerity drowns into your skin; he likes you. You want to scream, to jump, you want to let all your emotions go with the wind. 

He hangs up suddenly. You can’t deny him. You can’t reply him that you also like him – more than this; like is not enough to reach what you feel toward him – that this is fine; you have been waiting for this since the start, you can wait for the next few months until finishing what you both have established.

Instead, you send him a message:

“Hyung, if I’m no longer your patient, would you promise me a date?

Happy New Year.”

“I meant when we are done with my recovery” you clarify, frightened that he might misunderstand your words.

His text is what wakes you up, swollen eyes tinted in red and scarlet from all the weeping you did last night waiting for his reply to get to you, foreseeing a future without him, without the light in your eyes brightening the sky over you, his smile opening the doors of forgotten memories, a presence that you need to grow up to be who you were, a free, happy person with passion and ambitions and dreams'a whole human being not this shattered bits that hang around your bones, creating only a pipe dream. 

You read it once and twice until you can close your eyes and see it under your eyelids, your smile so bright that blinds you and you don't need alcohol to feel the frenzy that runs in your blood.  You don't need anything today because, right now, you have it all.

“Promise”.