CHAPTER ONE: Ten Years

They only have red balloons at the convenience store.

Byulyi glares at them for a moment, as if doing so would magically turn the balloons into the color she wanted – black, naturally – but laziness wins, and since the next closest store is several blocks away, she just gives up and snatches the package from the shelf with a resigned sigh. She briefly entertains the idea of painting over them, but then, nah, even that’s too much work.

She supposes red balloons are more appropriate anyway, given the occasion and all. Byulyi didn’t even realize until the cashier started ringing in her purchases that, ironically enough, they were heart-shaped too. 

Fun.  

It’s a bit too on the nose – but it’s fitting, so it’ll do.

The balloons were a spur of the moment purchase, as were the can of red spray paint, the roll of twine, and the canvas drop cloth. She’s surprised she was even able to afford it all with the paltry amount of cash she had with her. When she ambled out of the house earlier, sleep-deprived and hungover, she just stuck a hand in their loose change jar and grabbed a fistful of coins, intent on simply buying another six-pack of beer and a bottle or two of soju. Breakfast of champions, Wheein would always say back during their university days, when all they did was party and, occasionally, study.

Though, sadly, she didn’t have enough money left to buy an air pump; not that it matters - it’s completely unnecessary when, in her opinion, she has more than enough air in her lungs to fill all ten balloons herself. 

You are a capable 30-year old woman. 

You are enough.

She tells herself over and over later on when her lungs start to burn and the insides of her cheeks start stinging after just the third balloon. Despite her growing discomfort, she powers through and inflates all ten. 

She is nothing if not stubborn, after all. And if Hani were here, Byulyi’s sure she’d say something about her finally being able to put all that hot air to good use. 

Thankfully, compared to inflating them, it takes less than half the time and effort to put the balloons up and tape them by the front door. All done, she steps back on the cement walkway and admires her handiwork.

It looks like the way a pre-pubescent teen would envision a great romantic gesture.

Needless to say, it’s tacky as hell. But… it’ll serve its purpose when all is said and done, so Byulyi soldiers on to her next project.

Walking onto her front lawn, she goes down on her knees before the drop cloth she had unrolled previously, and reaches for the can of spray paint.

The uncut grass tickles a bit, and dammit that’s on her because she forgot to mow the lawn again after Yongsun had reminded her numerous times already, but what’s (not) done is done. So instead of focusing on her discomfort, Byulyi stares unblinkingly at the blank canvas, finger on the button, her right hand shaking the can up and down. When she’s ready, she exhales, bites her lip, plants her free hand down to steady herself, and then presses the nozzle. 

Red fills up her vision as the canvas starts to bleed with her words. 

WELCOME HOME is what she wants to write, but as she begins spraying down the letters, as if possessed, her hand moves on its own accord and writes a completely different thing on the drop cloth.

Unable to stop once she’s begun, and having no choice but to commit to the sudden change in plans, she just lets it happen.

Brows furrowed in concentration, Byulyi doesn’t even dare breathe until she paints the exclamation point at the very end, and after she does, she straightens up and then sits back on the balls of her feet, her eyes flitting to every letter she’d written down. 

It’s far from perfect — she doesn’t have Wheein’s steady hand and legible penmanship, after all — bu