05. THE LIFE WHICH IS OWED.
part i

I think, at some point, the idea that we are our own person is elusive. We at most own half of ourselves at any given time—there are things we must do, rules we must follow, principles we must consider that are placed before our own desires—and most importantly, we owe ourselves to those that surround us.

It's as if for every person that we meet, we tie an invisible thread around our ankles, and a lifetime is made of all those threads crossing and converging into a single knot. To a stranger, we owe decency. To a friend, we owe our compassion. To our parents, we owe our lives—and because of this, they are a part of us in ways other than blood.

Most recently, I finished my collection of Siri Hustvedt's works, starting with What I Loved and ending with The Blindfold. "I suppose we are all products of our parents' joy and suffering." said Leo of What I Loved, "Their emotions are written into us, as much as the inscriptions made by their genes."

I feel this to be very much true.

—

Our kitchen is a wide, open space, with an island in the middle and cupboards surrounding it in perimeter. There's a large sink, five stoves, a microwave and an oven, with plenty of room left for cutlery and display in between.

I sit, bare feet dangling precariously off the kitchen counter, a copy of Norwegian Wood in hand. The remnants of a tangerine are littered beside me, the last bit of the fruit held between my fingers. The marble feels cool through the thin fabric of my sundress, a contrast to the heat of the August summer outside.

The clock ticks past 8 A.M.

Faintly, I hear a sound as Jungkook walks out of the bathroom from his morning shower, and the scuffle of his slippers against the cherrywood floor grows closer as he descends down the stairs.

"Morning." he says when he walks past me, pulling open the fridge door to fetch himself a carton of milk.

"Morning." I hum an acknowledgment without looking up from the pages of my book, and it's only when Jungkook leans against the countertop beside me that I raise my head and feel my heart thumping.

His hair falls over his eyes in slightly unruly, messy waves, still wet from the shower. His eyelashes coat his eyes in sparse clusters as he turns to look at me, his tongue making a soft clicking sound as his lips part like he wants to say something.

It's one of those strange moments where neither of us speak, not because there isn't anything to say, but because there is too much that cannot be said—all the little things that get stuck in your throat, the ones that make your mouth run dry.

"Breakfast?" I finally ask as I leaf the edge of the page I'm on and close the cover. My feet hit the ground as I walk up to the refrigerator. "Secretary Yoon stocked this place up pretty well. There's fruit on the table, red bean buns in the pantry—how about an egg or two?" I turn to question him, only to find him staring oddly at me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Jungkook and I both landed on the fairly early-bird spectrum, meaning breakfast wasn't optional, but in fact mandatory. I didn't like to bring legitimate meals into my office, so I needed something beforehand to last me the first five hours of the day. Jungkook's reasoning behind breakfast was self-explanatory—having breakfast is healthier for your body, and if none of his employees were allowed to eat in the laboratory, then neither would he let himself.

"Did you sleep well last night?" he asks as I rummage through the egg carton and return with two eggs in hand.

"Mm. I didn't dream, which was good." I say, nodding. I place the eggs on the counter before pulling the nearest stool in the area against the island. "Here," I huff as I clamber up the tall, thin stool now supporting my entire weight. I reach up towards the ceiling, where a few pans are stored.

Jungkook takes the skillet I'd grabbed from the overhanging rack and places it on the stove. Almost immediately after, I feel his hands on my waist, warm and firm, supporting me as I make my way down to the ground again.

"Thanks." I utter gratefully, smoothing down my dress and offering him a grin.

"Yerim..." he calls out suddenly as I scuttle past him in search for the oil.

I turn and see him chuckling lightly.

"What are you in such a rush for? It's Saturday..." he says, and I blink back at him owlishly.

"Sorry." I laugh a bit, feeling foolish. "I'm just not really used to seeing you in the morning, that's all. I mean, I don't know if you're hungry or really—"

The truth being, I'm just nervous. Not only for bringing Jungkook home to my parents tonight, but also because just a moment ago, from the way he looked at me—I almost believed Jungkook thought I was pretty.

I hadn't missed the way his gaze had trailed me from top to bottom—the way he couldn't look me in the eye afterwards, and the way he'd wanted to say something but swallowed it. I hadn't ignored the way his voice was quieter than usual, how his hands had felt on my waist when he'd kept me from falling—gentle and hesitant, as if he was suddenly afraid to hurt me.

It was as if, since last night, something had changed somehow. Something I can't name or don't know why—but it makes me fidget, and it makes me get twice the amount of butterflies I'm used to.

"Well, you'll have a lifetime to get used to that." he says, before walking over and helping me pull a container of oil from the cupboard. He places the salt on the counter as well, before digging out a spatula from a nearby drawer. "I don't get hungry in the mornings, even though I eat anyways. So take your time, and don't worry."

"Okay." I nod, running my fingers over the fabric of my dress again—it was a loose, airy dress—an evergreen, sleeved chiffon that had little white flowers printed all over it—the kind that swirled around your legs when you walked.

Pouring oil in the skillet, I start the stove and wait for the oil to heat as Jungkook asks me a few questions.

"Are you planning on going out today?" he inquires from behind me.

"I might go shopping." I answer, feeling the air above the pan with my palm. "Now that we're both close to actually living here, it's time to stock up the place with housekeeping—but besides that, I can't just sit in the house all day on a day like this—I need to feel like I'm doing something, I guess. Otherwise, I'll go crazy thinking about tonight."

A pause.

"Would you mind if I came with you?"

My eyes widen as I whip my head around to gawk at him.

"Um," I wheeze out in surprise before turning back around immediately. I crack the first egg into the pan, side-eyeing him discreetly as I ask, "Of course, but Jungkook, when was the last time you shopped? Actually, heck, when was the last time you even went into a store?"

It's Jungkook's turn to cough. "I don't know, I normally have an assistant to manage these kinds of things." he muses, pursing his lips together, "Let's see, the last time was during my post-doctorate maybe...I went to the Lotte tower mall to accompany a few overseas collaborators..."

I sputter incoherently.

The Lotte World Mall took up 11 floors out of the 123 that comprised the Lotte World Tower. There were 779 shops in the tower, of which only 140 classified as clothing, with the rest being everything you could want in between—bars and theatres, supermarkets, restaurants, and a whole floor of an aquarium to boot. There were squealing children, frantic parents, bourgeoise teenagers, and a whole menagerie of chattering tourists jam-packed in one mega-lode of Korea's largest duty-free shopping mall.

If I'm honest, I'm not sure how Jungkook made it out of there alive.

"Kook, that's nearly two years ago." I finally manage to say, but he only shrugs from where he leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely across his chest.

"I'll be fine—I don't entirely dislike public spaces, I just prefer not to go to them—and besides, I owe you a favor." he replies thoughtfully. Then, seeing the emerging lines of a frown on my face, he clarifies himself with a sheepish grin. "Last night, you agreed to hire Seo yimo."

Suddenly, I hear the high-pitched squeals of my inner conscience, the tips of my ears burning hot.

That's right—last night, I'd shared a bed with Jungkook.

It was uneventful, really. I'd been so exhausted that I hadn't thought twice about falling asleep, and by the time I'd awoken the next morning, Jungkook was already out for a morning jog, having left a note on the bedside drawer.

It wasn't until now that the one conversation we'd had finally rings clearly in my head.

"Yerim?" Jungkook's muffled voice sounds from across the mattress.

"Hm?" I pique, settling into my end of the bed. The mattress was large, so large that five people could fit in the space between us.

"What do you think about having a caretaker for the house?" he asks, tentatively. "Just one. It'll be someone who I've known long enough to vouch as trustworthy."

"I thought we agreed that we didn't need help at home." I frown, mid-yawn. My eyes flutter shut as I pull the linen sheets over my shoulder, the goddess of slumber already beckoning me with open arms. "You know, with being our 'double-income, no children' selves and all..."

"I know, but Seo yimo has watched over me since I was four." I hear Jungkook say, "Her daughter's still paying off college debt, and she insists on earning her money fairly. I can't seem to give her a job anywhere else. I'm scared that the overseers of my father's properties would be too harsh on her."

I curl my legs into a fetal position, managing a quiet sound of acknowledgement. "Okay." I mumble sluggishly, my hair spilling over the pillow. "I'm fine with anything you want."

By the time I subconsciously hear Jungkook thank me, I'm already knee-deep in the whereabouts of dreamland.

"Ah." I say as I snap out of my reverie. I flip the egg I'm frying, as calmly as I can muster. "Homeplus it is."

—

Consequently so, Jeon Jungkook earns himself a ticket to the Kim Yerim Shopping Experience at the Homeplus 0.7 Miles Away.

An escapade, which, I would later tell Seulgi, went something like this—

"Ooh, this ramyun packaging makes my mouth water." I'd said as I reached for the gigantic family-size bundle of 20 pouches tucked alluringly in the instant food aisle—only to retract my hand almost immediately, skin stinging.

I then turned to glare at an unapologetic Jeon Jungkook, who had—as I barely saw in hindsight—smacked me square on the wrist.

"Y-you..." I pointed a finger of accusation—but he only shook his head with a click of his tongue, subsequently scolding me:

"MSG, Kim Yerim. Do you know how bad MSG is for you?"

Needless to say, by the end of our trip, my wrist was practically burning red.

"Nuh-uh, there's partially hydrogenated palm oil in that."

"Too many preservatives! Just look at the ingredients list."

"Yah, Yerim! Sodium nitrate is a carcinogen!"

Then, there was the highlighting issue of the day.

"I'm surprised everything was on sale today." Jungkook had said when we left the store, carrying our bags across the parking lot.

"That wasn't a sale, Kookie." I'd snorted in reply.

His expression quickly morphed into one of confusion. "But the receipt says that our total was 15% off." he said as he held the thin slip of paper out for me to see. "It doesn't say why, though."

I cackle deviously in reply. "Oh, Jungkook. I should really start bringing you with me every time I go shopping from now on. You're my money-saver—my lucky pass into the world of 15% off employee discounts galore."

"Employee discount?" Jungkook exclaims in a hushed tone, bewildered. "How did we get an employee discount? And how did I have anything to do with it?"

I shrug as I opened the trunk of Jungkook's car, placing the bags in my hands inside. "Let's just say you're an investment worth capitalizing on."

Then, when we arrived at the house:

"Yerim, I still don't get it." he admitted to me.

I then explained, "The cashier gave you her discount because she was attracted to you. She thought you were cute."

Jungkook's eyes widen in alarm. "But...Yerim, you were right next to me..."

"You see, I tend to be invisible when I'm next to you." I laugh as I wash one of the apples we bought under the sink. "It wasn't only the cashier, actually. When we left the grocery store today, at least three women tried to slip you their numbers. Remember the one that bumped into you near the frozen section? The one whose grocery list 'flew' into our cart? How about the one whose melon dropped, then coincidentally rolled over to you?"

Jungkook protests, eyes wide. "That's—"

I turn off the faucet and cross my arms over my chest, smirking. "Even the ahjummas in the lane beside ours were rating your while we were loading our items on the conveyor belt. If you're wondering, they rated you 11 out of 10."

He shakes his head, studying my face carefully as he murmurs with both helplessness and guilt: "I'm sorry, Yerim..."

I shrug again. "I'm not bothered."

"You are."

"Am not."

"Yes."

"No."

"Then why are you eating that apple so aggressively?"

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away."

"See, you are mad at me."

"I am not—"

That's when Jungkook walks across the kitchen, wraps his arms around me, and picks me straight off of the floor.

"Jeon Jungkook!" I screech, flailing about like a frantic koala as my legs and arms clung desperately around his neck and waist. "Let me down—"

"Accept my apology..."

"..."

"Please, Yerim-ie..."

"..."

"..."

"...No."

—

Around 6 P.M., Jungkook and I set out for my parents' house.

I don't remember the last time I had a family dinner, a real one that meant sitting down and talking even after finishing your food.

My parents were never around each other that long. My mother was always abroad. My father was always working. I was always alone.

Since my youth, my parents made sure to teach me the importance of family.

"Family is the basis of dignity," my mom said. "It's a source of honor."

"Family is the only thing that transcends you after you die," my dad said. "It's the one namesake you must uphold with your life."

Yet, as much as this was true, my parents never showed me the value of family.

In my life, family substantiated itself in the form of a house that was large, but empty. A house that looked pretty and perfect on the outside but was broken apart, crumbling on the inside.

In my life, family meant three people who were always disappointed in each other, who expected a certain degree of something from one another, but did not feel those expectations fulfilled.

Family meant three people who hurt each other because they loved, and hated each other because they hurt.

That's when—at the memory of this beautiful but empty house, at the thought of facing my family who hurt and loved and hated—I suddenly felt afraid.

"Jungkook." I say quietly, when we step out of the car that evening. "Can I hold your hand?"

When I meet his eyes, I can feel him staring straight through me, and I know he knows that I'm hurting.

Silently, he nods, reaches out, and slides his fingers through my own. His knuckles catch on mine, and I count our fingers, one by one, one to ten.

Ten.

"Ten years from now, when I'm thirty-five, I don't want to be like them, Kookie." I tell Jungkook, as we stand in front of the front door.

His thumb grazes the back of my hand.

And perhaps, that was the irony of it all—ten years ago, when I was fifteen, my parents were everything I wanted to be.

The door opens, revealing a politely smiling Kim Heechul.

Behind him are the approaching figure of my parents—to whom, despite it all, I'll always owe my life—who are, and always will be a part of who I am, their joy and suffering my own.