03. DEEPLY, DEEPLY, DRUNK, DRUNK.

It's ironic how the dark can make me so lucid.

Facing the dark, I lose my sight—and in return, the rest of my senses are heightened. Every touch, every breath becomes clear, in an entirely different way.

The famous scholar, Rumi, once said, "Darkness is your candle." We live most of our lives in the daylight, clouded by what we possess and our greed for what we don't, but it's in the dark that we truly question the raw essence of our souls.

So it's no accident, that at 9 A.M., in a tiny, dark storage room, I'm pressed so closely to Jungkook that I can't see his face. A small stream of light filters through a rectangular window, less than 15 centimeters wide, but it elucidates only a tiny square of tile in the corner—Jungkook and I are tucked safely in the shadows, and it's been a few minutes since we've been trapped like this, our bodies kept apart by only a sane, almost undetectable sliver of space.

"This is the second time I've ever gone behind my dad's back." I begin to babble, buying myself time to think. I speak quickly, the nervous adrenaline inside my body spurring on my monologue, and my voice fills with soft, hushed tones, only for him to hear.

"The first time, I was in second grade. There was this boy in my class; he sat in the desk right behind mine. He once bought me a little turtle key chain, the kind that was soft and plush. I loved it, so I put it on my school bag, hanging it where I could see. A few weeks later, when we were waiting to be picked up after school, the boy's mother saw me with it. She bent over and said, 'Ah, my son really likes you.' I got so embarrassed that..."

"That what?" I hear Jungkook whisper, sometime after I'd trailed off. "Yerim..."

The sound of him calling my name runs a warm feeling down my spine. I feel his nose brush the side of my cheek, his breath tickling the shell of my ear, and I catch myself, just barely, before I do something utterly, utterly stupid.

It comes to me then, loud and clear.

Kim Yerim, don't forget that he doesn't love you.

"Sorry." I mutter before I back away from Jungkook, the light from the window finally illuminating a grid of my face. I turn my head, unwilling to meet Jungkook's eyes, and I feel his gaze on me as I muster a faint smile.

Nodding towards the door, I let out the breath I've been holding.

"My father should be gone by now."

—

The truth is, in that moment, I thought of a certain conversation.

"Hey, Jungkook."

It was the day before yesterday.

After coming down from the roof, we decidedly sat across from each other on the carpet of our living room—his legs were stretched in front of him as he balanced his MacBook on his lap, I was sprawled out on my stomach, propping my chin with both arms.

"Hm?" Jungkook elicited a murmur of acknowledgement, his brow furrowed as he read from his laptop screen. As the house had yet to be filled with furniture, he was keeping himself upright by his own means, one arm reaching back to support the rest of his body.

"That night, at my apartment—Why did you say you could only give other women a title?" I asked, absentmindedly. "Today, what you've done for me, the proposal, the house and everything—it's far more than just a title."

He turned his head, then, to look at me. There was a  flicker in his eyes as he mused, "Yerim, you like to watch dramas, right?"

I nodded. Since I was little up until now, a lot of central problems in my life revealed themselves in television dramas. Conflicts within family, dating, and the workplace—the central themes of these were a place of common-ground in the stories I watched through cable.

His thin lips tugged upwards. "Then, don't you think in this situation, it's a common script for a contract or arranged marriage couple to fall in love with each other?"

I sunk into a short pause of silence.

"You're...afraid of them falling in love with you?" I finally frowned, communicating my confusion. "To have a person who truly cares for you and your health, is that not a good thing?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "If the person who is loved doesn't have any love to return...As time goes on, it would all just become a burden."

I formed a blank, yet intrigued expression on my face. "Then, how can you be sure that I won't fall in love with you? You treat me well, we treat each other well—the human heart isn't made of stone, Jeon Jungkook."

He lowered his head to look at me, and I raised my head to look at him. But just like the past ten years, I could never understand what was hidden in that pair of glossy black eyes.

In the end, he said: "Because you wouldn't do that to yourself, Yerim. You've always lived your life with a clear judgement—you make your own decisions, and you don't let others look down on you for them. You know that I won't love you, so you would never let yourself fall in love with me. You'll protect yourself."

Jungkook knew me for ten years, six as a scientist; he never once missed an opportunity to analyze me, to understand me.

He knew that I cut without hesitation the things in my life that would eventually harm me—that I would never lower myself for anyone, that what I hated most was dwelling on issues that had no resolve. The Kim Yerim he knew was unwavering, practical, and honest with herself.

But Jungkook never knew love—and consequently, he wouldn't know its implications—that even the strongest resolve will make exceptions, again and again for it.

—

After Joohyun lets me know my father is back in his office, I don't stay in Jungkook's office for longer than a minute.

It's Jungkook's only male secretary, Secretary Yoon, who sees me out of the building, to where I'd haphazardly parked my car in a front-row spot reserved for staff only.

"Jeon bu-in." Secretary Yoon addresses me with a bow before I leave. He seems to be in his mid-forties, with a few white streaks of hair and a short, aged stature.

My eyes widen at the title, waving my hands profusely in front of me as I insist with a bow, "Please call me Yerim, Secretary Yoon."

Secretary Yoon hands me a small envelope, which I open to find a key inside.

"For the house, Miss Yerim." he explains.

I nod, bidding him a polite good-bye before opening the door to my car. I stash the envelope, key and all, into my purse before fishing out my phone—Seulgi is on speaker as soon as I buckle my seatbelt, and the solid shriek she emits immediately after I pick up nearly causes me to swerve on the street.

"I've been M.I.A. for two months, Kim Yerim. Two. ing. Months." comes the muffled, crackly voice of a hysterical Kang Seulgi on one bar of signal.

In truth, the first person I'd told about Jungkook wasn't Bae Joohyun—my first confession was in fact a fifty second recording, located in none other than Kang Seulgi's voicemail.

Seulgi was my roommate in college, and she was different than all the people I'd grown up with—she came from a poor background, one that couldn't afford the future she wanted for herself. At age eighteen, Kang Seulgi was already fully independent from the household that raised her. She was alone, left with only her grit and large ambitions, ones she never let go of.

From the moment I met Seulgi, she was always working. Our dorm room was often left empty because she never rested, even for a minute. She had all sorts of part-time jobs to pay for the parts of her tuition which her scholarship didn't cover—I'd see her at the bar, at the bookstore, at the coffee shop, at the fried chicken restaurant down the street.

As overworked as she sometimes got, however, Seulgi never let her responsibilities take away from her happiness.

Seulgi loved her jobs. She was a self-proclaimed people-watcher, with a social sciences major to boot. There wasn't a face she didn't know in all of campus, and there wasn't a secret that could be kept from her intelligent, sharp-witted eyes. She was a free-spirit who thrived on MMORPG video games, sung along to cheesy pop songs, and never lost an opportunity for a healthy dose of lung-wracking laughter.

"I'm gone for two months, and I find out you're marrying this doe-eyed, big-nosed, bunny-toothed  donor."

Did I also mention she had the strangest sense of humor?

"Seul—"

"I'm serious, Rim. He promises you children, and you let him tie the knot just like that. How good can his genes be anyways?"

I wheeze a little in reply. "Good enough, apparently."

"Good enough to give your ol' Sluggie a heart attack when she finally goes through her voicemail, eh?" Seulgi snorts. "This is supposed to be my writer's hiatus, Rim. Think of it—the Kang Seulgi, after four months of peaceful silence, having travelled every corner of the world, is back to challenge the views of society as you know it—but now, all I can think about is you, Bunny Boy, and you-making-babies-with-Bunny-Boy."

"While Bunny Boy's fresh on your mind, maybe you can help me think of some ideas, Seul." I chuckle, drumming my fingers on the wheel. "I'm not really sure how to explain things to my parents yet. You know, marriage and all."

Seulgi hums a few distorted notes of an unidentifiable song. "Actually, lucky for you, I happen to have a pretty good idea."

It's my turn to scoff in disbelief. "You promise it'll work?"

"I promise your dad would be very happy to walk you down that aisle when he hears this, my precious Yerim-ie. Just tell your parents..." She begins quite seriously, before erupting into a fit of low snickers, "...that Jungkook's your baby daddy."

"Yah! Kang Seulgi!"

—

The reason I don't talk about my mother much is because she's never really been around.

In my early years, my mother was home less often than my father was, and even now, I often see her for only one week in a month. Sometimes, I still wonder if she ever gets lonely, if she ever regrets not being there for me—and it's only when I grew up that I stopped blaming her for her absence, because now I can finally see how hard it is to sacrifice your career for less imminent things.

Parenthood isn't always the best thing that happens for everyone. Family doesn't always equate to the most rewarding thing in life for everyone, either. That doesn't mean either is less important, it just means that they're not as enjoyable.

"Mom, when did you come back?"

I stand at the door of my father's wide, private office, where my mother is seated at one of the couches, reading a magazine.

"This morning." She stands from her seat to approach me, and as I sift my gaze over the features of her face, I see an older, faint version of myself. She wears a white, flowy blouse with a thin stripe of black along the collar, and a matching skirt with a stripe along the hem. Her heirloom ruby necklace hangs around her neck, the teardrop jewel catching the light from the windows. They all say sons look like their mothers and daughters look like their fathers, but I'm nearly a spitting image of the woman before me.

I flinch as my mother picks up my left hand, her fingers skimming over Jungkook's ring.

"This is from the Jeons' youngest?" she asks, voice not too loud or too quiet.

My throat runs dry.

"Ahyoung, let her sit down." My father suddenly says from his desk, where he is still signing a few papers. He looks up afterwards to meet my glance, before placing his pen down as I take my seat.

In the car, Seulgi and I had come to the conclusion that nothing would convince my parents, unless I told them half of the truth—that I had feelings for Jungkook. Things wouldn't go well, however, if I told them that Jungkook didn't return those feelings. Regardless, as long as I was firm on my stance that our marriage was consensual, there was nothing that they couldn't understand.

"So, no, this isn't some drunk mistake, Mom and Dad." I say, finally raising my head. "I want this for myself." Then, staring back at each of their gazes, one perplexed, and the other glimmering with quiet consternation, I say, "Please."

In my many years of upbringing, there were very little times where I asked of my parents to bend against their will for me. I never once hesitated before to follow the path that they set out for me, from school, to career, to my own social circle.

But now, with Jungkook, it's different.

"Tomorrow evening, family dinner." is all my father says. "Invite him."

My mother nods with a small, defeated smile. "It's time we meet our son-in-law, Yerim-ah."