xiii. “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.”

― Robert Frost

_____

There’s one problem that I realize with ignoring the past, and it manifests itself almost too perfectly in Kim Jongdae.

It’s not so much moving on that he’s doing as much as he blocks it out, tries to remold himself into a different person, and distract himself from something that’s happened so long ago but is still begging for his attention; an untreated wound left to heal on its own with no proper care and never could truly close.

Kim Jongdae is popular, smart, athletic. He’s extremely good at basketball and has that group of friends everyone knows about. He’s extremely helpful to people; he’s always smiling.

Kim Jongdae also misses his father terribly but never speaks about him, never even thinks about him. He loves singing but he thinks it’s impossible so he doesn’t do it anymore, even if it’s the one thing he truly wants to do. He misses his mother too, even though she’s right there, but it’s piled under unsaid resentment and distance that he doesn’t speak to her anymore, and she to him. Kim Jongdae’s tired of the countless people he barely knows asking him for favours, and even his friends.

All of this Jongdae ignores, and I’m not sure if he remembers what he truly wants anymore.

***

Jongdae sits next to me in chemistry again. Then eats lunch with me. That’s Monday. Then it happens on Tuesday. Then Wednesday.

I figure it’s a step; after all, his friends can’t push him around all the time. However, by the time Wednesday lunch rolls around, it seems less of a step than an excuse to not have to talk to them because he feels uncomfortable with confrontation.

I’m equally uncomfortable, apparently, because I battle internally with myself for a good while, unsure if I should bring it up or not, before I manage out, “Are you even talking to any of your friends?”

Jongdae blinks at me. “What do you mean?”

I’m pretty sure he knows what I mean, but I elaborate, “I mean, you’ve been hanging out with me for most of the week.”

Jongdae frowns. “That’s two classes and lunch.”

I do a double take at that. There’s a snappish tone in his voice that I don’t expect to hear. Defensive, too, but almost bordering on irritated.

Or, in better words, it’s what I’ve always partly expected and was scared to. Jongdae’s never snapped that I can remember; he’s always soft-spoken, patient, and even though I know he won’t lash out, part of me is waiting for the one day his patience finally frays. It wouldn’t be surprising after all.

But it is surprising too. It’s a mixture of things that I can’t put into words when I hear him, so I stare, slightly scared and slightly hurt. He lowers his gaze immediately.

Silence follows. Heavy, dreadful silence that I don’t think I remember settling—ever—between Jongdae and I. If there’s one word I can think of, it’s pure miserable.

Finally, he looks back up at me. “I’m sorry,” Jongdae manages out. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me. I’ve just been really tired and I haven’t been able to sleep lately and basketball and Chanyeol and a bunch of other things have been stressing me out and—” He breaks off. “Sorry. I shouldn’t make excuses. I didn’t mean that.”

I know he didn’t. And I know that I shouldn’t be so put off just because of this, but part of me is, and very. It’s unnerving sometimes, asking him questions, pushing, but I didn’t even think I crossed any lines this time. We’ve talked about more, about things that were much more personal, and this question—it doesn’t feel like it’s something that should have ticked him off so much. Tired—when is he not?—I can’t help but wonder if there’s another reason.

Still, I shake my head at him. “It’s okay,” I tell him, even though part of me is already dreading the next time I have to ask him something similar. It’s funny how memory works, sometimes: doesn’t matter if there are a thousand successes, because one failure will blemish everything forever. “Have you not been sleeping well again?”

Jongdae wince-smiles at me. “I tried chamomile and milk,” he said. “And before you ask, I kind of mixed them together because I found a recipe to make milk tea.”

I’m grateful for the change of topic, so I go along with it and gag. “That’s absolutely disgusting.”

“It tasted fine,” he protests. “Like, it actually tasted like milk tea. Except it didn’t really help me sleep, so I’m a bit tired. And I guess a couple nights of, well, bad sleep has made me grouchy. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“It’s okay,” I reply. I do mean it, of course, but at the same time, part of me is slightly wary. Happened once; can happen again.

Of course, we don’t speak on it again, although I have the distinct feeling (I’m a bit scared to ask) that Jongdae has still avoided my question of why he has been completely ignoring his friends and that it’s gone on for too long.

***

Surprisingly, it’s Chanyeol that corners me next in the hallway. Which is slightly surprisingly, because I genuinely thought that he would be too proud to even acknowledge my existence.

There aren’t any happy words exchanged, obviously. I’m sorting through the rest of my belongings for the afternoon classes when a tall figure comes into my line of vision.

I can tell it’s Chanyeol without looking up at him, although my heart does an uncomfortable plummet before I summon up the patience to look up at him, still carrying an armful of books and binders. He’s not holding anything, though his arms are folded in front of him and he’s staring at me with a disapproving expression. Looking at him makes me mad, and I want to toss something that I’m holding at him. It takes a lot of self control to stand up, keep a straight face and ask (as coldly as possible, though I don’t know just how irritated I sound), “Is there something I can help you with?”

Like that one sentence opens a damn to something else, Chanyeol’s face twists into a scowl. “You,” he starts, then breaks off and shakes his head and jumps right into the accusations. “Ever since you came along, Jongdae’s been—”

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so blunt (not that I associate Park Chanyeol with any sort of small-talk or niceties given that the first time I’ve properly talked to him he’s started teasing Jongdae about a girl he didn’t even know existed until that moment). Maybe it’s because he’s gotten straight to the point, no-nonsense, and the point is harsh, untrue, and a bitter, resentment accusation point blank. Whatever the reason, I lose my temper right then too. “Been what?” I demand, even though I know for a fact that yelling back at Chanyeol is stooping to his level. Still, I’m too mad to think more about it—been what? How is it that he still is so blind? As if all this is still my fault?

It doesn’t help, either way, because Chanyeol takes a threatening step forward. I stand where I am even though my mind is screaming at me to leave. This is a terrible idea. Even acknowledging him after that first sentence was an absolutely idiotic idea. “Ignoring his friends, skipping practice? Stopped coming to our team events?”

“So what?”

“So what?” Chanyeol echoes back, voice getting louder. Behind us, a group of students have stopped to watch, wide-eyed. This is when I stop the fight or leave. But I don’t. “That’s not right! Sure, he can have other friends, but I don’t know what you’re saying about us and why Jongdae’s practically avoiding us, but do you seriously think that this is just because of him? Coincidences can only go so far.”

“Have you ever considered the fact that he’s ignoring you because something you did and not something I did?”

He sneers. “This started happening when you came along.”

“Yeah, well, take a look at yourself now,” I bite back angrily. “No wonder he stopped hanging out with you. I’m surprised he didn’t do so earlier.”

For a moment, Chanyeol looks like he’s actually going to hit me. I brace myself; if he hits me, part of me can’t help but wonder that maybe I kind of deserve it. He doesn’t, however, even though his hands are clenched into trembling fists at his side and his eyes are blazing. It’s not that I don’t regret what I say, though. It’s uncalled for. It’s mean—no, it’s spiteful, and it’s not true. I’m not proud of myself fo