ix. “Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.”

—By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

_____

There is, I realize, a lot that Kim Jongdae wants, but more importantly, knows that he can’t have.

Or, more accurately, that other people have convinced him that he can’t have, that circumstances have said are impossible. So he sits in between yearning and regretting, all the while trying to forget and all the while unable to.

***

Part of me absolutely dreads Christmas because I still stand by the fact that my dad made a huge mistake in inviting Jongdae for dinner and service and that it’s going to be the most awkward day of my life, though on top of that, I’m worried for Jongdae. Sure, it’ll be uncomfortable for me, but I can’t imagine what it’s like in his shoes, and I also can’t help but wonder if he accepted the offer simply because he didn’t want to let my dad down. I never quite find the right time to ask him, though, so I keep the thought in the back of my mind.

School seems to go back to normal. Hwang Yusah comes back so there’s no way Jongdae can sit next to me in chemistry, and he returns to his group of friends as if nothing’s happened. I find myself watching him and Chanyeol, especially, but there doesn’t seem to be any difference so I try to tell myself that it’s probably because they’ve reconciled and talked it out. Still, that’s not the only… lack of difference I see. Jongdae’s still as friendly as ever, and I can’t help but wonder if the boy who’d been so frustrated by everyone using him was the same person as the one who smiled at everything, no matter how tedious.

I feel like I’ve pushed enough, though. More than I should have, at least, so I try not to mention it to Jongdae. Instead, I try to observe, but there’s only so much I can deduce and too much to guess.

The opportunity to ask comes when I go to find Jongdae in the gym again on a Thursday, the meet-up once again rescheduled because of a conflict with a game (he says they’ve gotten into quarter finals, which is why he can’t miss the one on Sunday).

As usual, Jongdae’s on time, having already changed and showered. He’s packing his bags when I see him, folding clothing and tucking in workbooks into one of his two textbooks. I round the gate and make my way towards the bleachers.

The team’s somewhat used to seeing me, I suppose, because no one really says anything when I wait quietly for Jongdae to finish. He’s speedy enough, and by the time he’s pulled on a beanie and zipped up his winter jacket, the clock only reads 4:01.

He glances at me. “Want to grab food?” he asks. “There’s a really good place near my house.”

I blink, though I manage to recover quickly. I hadn’t expected him to throw it out so casually, though I suppose it shouldn’t be that surprising. “We’re not going to the library?”

He shakes his head. “I figured it would be easier just to go to my apartment,” he says, though before he can finish, I see the familiar figure of Chanyeol in my peripheral vision (or maybe the only thing familiar about him is his height, because he practically towers over everyone in the school) sauntering towards us.

“Go Anna,” he exclaims. “Damn, I should’ve known it was you.”

I glance towards him. The last thing I remember, really, of Chanyeol is him and Jongdae in the halls as he watches on in surprise because Jongdae has yelled at him. As if it’s odd that he, for once, doesn’t want to do the same thing they do.

“Yeah?” My tone sounds frosty to my own ears. Chanyeol picks it up.

He raises his hands in what should be a placating gesture, but it feels a bit more like mocking. “Woah,” he says. “Where’s the hostility coming from?”

I fold my arms. “There is no hostility,” I reply sharply. “I’m in a hurry.”

Chanyeol glances towards Jongdae. “Never thought the day would come, man,” he says. “Ditching the team for a girl. I’m proud of you.”

It should be a joke, really. In any other circumstance, it might’ve felt like a joke, but instead, here, there’s something more veiled under it, and I realize that Chanyeol hasn’t quite gotten over the fact that Jongdae had skipped out that one get-together. Or, perhaps, he hasn’t forgotten the time Jongdae’s yelled at him in the hall. Or even maybe he hasn’t gotten over the fact that Kim Jongdae doesn’t always want to do what he wants.

“We’re working on the project today because he has something basketball related on Sunday,” I shoot back. “Unless Jongdae leaving twenty minutes before you all do is somehow detrimental to the team, I don’t think he’s ditching the team for a girl. Maybe he just prioritizes his school work. Or maybe his whole life doesn’t revolve around basketball.”

Chanyeol raises an eyebrow at me, no doubt about to say something back. Jongdae intervenes before he can. “It’s fine, Anna,” he cuts in. He turns to Chanyeol. “I’ll see if I can figure out an alternative time if you think I’m not coming to practice enough. You’re the captain. Tell me if I’m missing out on too much.”

He’s trying to pacify the situation, but at the same time, there’s something else hidden under it, a quiet anger that reminds me a bit of that day in the hall. It’s been over a month, I think, but looking at Jongdae and Chanyeol, it definitely has yet to be resolved. I remember Jongdae mentioning, too—I gave the captain position to Chanyeol—and I wonder if that’s why the other boy has suddenly gone so silent.

Chanyeol finally waves a hand at us. “Whatever,” he says. “If we’re going to make it into the finals, we need to practice more. I’ll see if I can sort out a new schedule.”

He turns away sharply at that, leaving Jongdae and I standing at the bleachers.

***

I don’t talk about Chanyeol at all to him, and neither does he mention his friend to me during the short bus ride. The restaurant Jongdae’s talking about is Japanese, to my surprise, and for the next while, our conversation consists of which dish is good. It almost feels as we’re both avoiding one topic with the knowledge that it’s hard to touch upon, so no one wants to let the other know its there, even though we both know at the same time that it’s a dark cloud hanging, unignorable.

Jongdae breaks first when his food arrives. He gives it a couple of unenthusiastic jabs with his chopsticks, not seeming very hungry, before he picks up a noodle of his ramen. “I’m sorry about Chanyeol,” he says, and I can tell that he’s trying to choose his words carefully. “We’ve… we haven’t really been on the best terms since that day.”

I wince. “I’m sorry.”

Jongdae glances up hastily. “It’s not your fault,” he reassures. “I guess part of me already expected that to happen when I made the choice of not going, but I hoped he’d be… more understanding about it. Maybe it’s because I yelled at him too.”

The waitress then arrives with my dish. The aroma is heavenly, but, like Jongdae, I can’t really find much of an appetite after Chanyeol. “It’s not like he didn’t have it coming,” I mumble. “I mean, he was being really pushy, and the only way he was going to take no for an answer is if you physically screamed it at his face. Even then, I wasn’t sure if he’d understand the word.”

Jongdae snorts. “I guess. But still.” He winces. “We haven’t really been talking, but I guess… at least it’s personal. I don’t think he’s told any of our other friends, so that’s a bonus, I guess.”

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