“Can you…”

 

There is a pause, some hesitation preceding a request. 

 

Beat, beat, beat.  

 

Then, silence.

 

And oh it is so loud.

 

Minjeong could hear her own heartbeat dangling in the thick air. She coughs, biting the insides of her cheek and mustering up whatever little courage she has.

 

“Sure.”

 

Jimin nods, turning around, gracing Minjeong with the view of her exposed back. The lines and the curves, the little marks and moles mapped like trails leading Minjeong to a place filled with undulled affection.

 

Somewhere, deep inside, while the yearning is completely repressed, it is still very much present. A battle Minjeong strives to conquer every waking day.

 

You don't love someone for three years and unlearn them in months.

 

Minjeong reaches out for the zipper, her finger grazing both the dress and Jimin's skin. It was instant, the cold running through her spine, the struggle of choosing between running away, and clawing back in, just diving head on — and the consequences be damned, this is Jimin after all.

 

But that is the thing: this is Jimin.

 

Jimin is done. 

 

They are done. 

 

It was something they both had agreed on, sitting across from each other instead of sitting side by side, Jimin ordering coffee when she never liked the taste in a cafe they never got the chance to go to until that day — it was enough , she said, not quite believing the implications, and you're right, was Jimin's meek reply.

 

They were both kind and human, at the time. Both rational and mature.

 

But do we ever get to rationalize pain? Is it something we fold, tuck, and forget? Is it something we eventually throw away?

 

The tattoo on Jimin's ribcage glares at Minjeong with untold regret. It's just a number, but it says a thousand words.

 

'1'

 

When the zipper reaches its destination, the sudden realization hits Minjeong like a jab in the gut. Disappointment engulfs her as she pulls back. 

 

However, despite the distance, Jimin lingers. Her perfume swirling around the room with a sense of unfamiliarity. It's been a week since Minjeong noticed the new bottle of perfume sitting on Jimin's vanity. Her old one trashed immediately the second after it was emptied. 

 

It was a gift from her.

 

“Thank you,” Jimin smiles, sitting in front of her vanity to put on her earrings.

 

Minjeong smiles back, genuinely so, as she sits on the bed, watching Jimin from the mirror, “goodluck on your date.”

 

She notices the slight blush on Jimin's cheeks, how quick she is on flicking her hand away, a weak attempt for defense.

 

Jimin is shy.

 

Minjeong hums, inquisitive and quite intrigued. Jimin looks beautiful tonight — she always is — but the way her hair is tied in a loose bun, stray tendrils framing her small face, dangling elegantly on the back of her neck and on the side of her ears would guarantee more than just a casual hanging out.

 

“It's not a date.”

 

Minjeong shrugs, “If you say so,” she grins, lying on her back as she stares at the ceiling, “you look beautiful, by the way.”

 

“Thank you, Minjeong.”

 

“Will you be home tonight?”

 

A pause. Jimin keeps the door half-way open. One foot outside, one left behind. Minjeong fights the urge to laugh. It screams Jimin. Always prepared, scared, one foot already out the door in case things get out of hand. How selfish, and so, so unfair.

 

“Please,” Jimin looks back, eyes pleading, “don't wait for me.”

 

“Jimin,” Minjeong shakes her head, closing her eyes, “you know I won't.”

 

[---]

 

Jimin came home at 3:17 in the morning.

 

Minjeong went to sleep at 3:20.

 

[---]

 

“Humans are creatures of habit,” Yizhuo mumbles, she said it with the vigor of someone who's lived a hundred years, “that's something I learned in class today.” She beams at Jimin as if waiting for validation. 

 

Jimin isn't one to deny, she messes up Yizhuo's hair to imply a  job well done, “Good job, Plato.” Yizhuo frowns and Jimin chuckles, shaking her head and pushing the cart as the younger girl buys supplies for her new pet.

 

“Unnie,” Yizhuo stops on her tracks, her eyes wandering around in inhibition. Jimin raises her eyebrows to urge her to go on, “ how… how are you?”

 

“I am okay.” 

 

Jimin says without any pause, without any hesitation nor croaking in her voice. Just plainly letting it out like it doesn't matter anymore when a few months ago it would take her longer to answer, fully marinating in the question before completely breaking down. God , she would pat herself on the back right now, if she could.

 

I am okay .

 

However , her pride easily crumbles when a small voice inside her head starts telling her — I am okay — that the words had become more like a mantra now — I am okay —  rather than a genuine admission of how she is. That regardless of her repeated assurance — I am okay — and stone-cold denial, she's still not okay. That she's broken — I am okay — and irreparable. 

 

Jimin sees Minjeong everyday. The moment she opens her eyes, she sees Minjeong's back, smells the scent of her skin, of her hair, and craves the way the younger girl used to leave no distance, loathes any inch of a gap between them. Jimin misses how Minjeong's hand used to rest on her waist, under her shirt, with her nose on her cheek. Sometimes, a selfish part of Jimin wishes she could just bridge the gap, pull Minjeong back — but she couldn't. Shouldn't.

 

 

Tell me we're going to be okay.

 

Assurances are something Jimin cannot spare, especially when her mind is a mess. She needs time to sort things out before —

 

Please, Jimin.

 

I just need some time to think, Minjeong.

 

Then tell me you'll be back, that whatever you decide about, nothing will change — that, that it's not just platonic, you and I. Tell me something, anything, I'll take it.

 

I can't. I can't promise you anything, you know that. I don't know what the future holds. Stop asking me to make a decision right now, it's not gonna happen.

 

Jimin does not know how to make Minjeong understand how she feels without invalidating the younger girl's feelings. It's tiring. It's like they hit a wall, and whatever they do, no matter how long they talk things through, nothing happens. 

 

 

“I am okay,” Jimin whispers, this time less confident, quieter.

 

Yizhuo grabs Jimin's hand, squeezing it three times before kissing her cheek, “you have me, Unnie.”

 

Jimin presses her lips together, booping Yizhuo's nose with her free hand, “I know.” 

 

When they passed the grocery aisle, Jimin automatically reached for three cartons of milk, carefully putting it down on the cart. Yizhuo shakes her head, eyeing Jimin questioningly, “Unnie, you don't even like milk that much.”

 

“Minjeong does.”

 

Oh.

 

It's instant, like a reflex. She knew it the moment she saw Minjeong earlier that morning snacking around the apartment with a box of cereal in hand, a bowl left unattended on the kitchen counter and a carton of milk discarded at the bin. I ran out of milk , she said, grinning  at her like it's the old times — as if nothing happened, like it's just a casual morning between them inside the bubble of three years.

 

Horrified, Jimin picks up the milk and puts it back on its respective shelf. Yizhuo watches her closely as she does so. Jimin feels ashamed. Of herself. To herself. Like all her hard work isn't really hard work at all but a pretentious, weak-hearted initiation of putting her pieces back only to topple it down at the slightest chance.

 

“Unnie, it's okay, you can buy it.” Yizhuo assures her, “nothing wrong with doing groceries for your roommate, just make sure she pays you back, or else.” Yizhuo smacks a fist on her palm.

 

Jimin halts, looking at Yizhuo with helpless eyes. It's not what you think it is, Jimin wants to say, I am okay. A futile attempt, because it's not Yizhuo that she should be trying to convince, it's… it's herself.

 

“Unnie,” Yizhuo pats her arm, seemingly trying to pull her back, “really, it's okay.”

 

It's really not. 

 

Jimin is not okay.

 

The walls Jimin had been keeping were already chipped from the start, but she was foolish enough to pretend she could still hold it long enough to survive Yizhuo's questioning glances. And just like how mildly damaged things eventually shatter — Jimin broke down.

 

And maybe the bitterness of admitting it would not be so bad if she said it out loud, “it hurts so much.”

 

At that moment, in between aisles of groceries, she pours her heart out, exposed and utterly defenseless. Just like she always does, at home, at work, in between breaks, and in silent moments where she could afford some time to think.

 

She cries, blocking out everything and clutching the cartons of milk closer to her chest.

 

Humans are creatures of habit, after all.

 

 [---]

 

Minjeong grabs a freezing beer, walks out of the balcony in the cold of November eve. A punishment. Or a blessing. Perhaps the sharp wisps of air would numb whatever pain she so unwillingly carries.

 

Jimin is not home, again. Not that Minjeong expects to see more of her now that they've broken up than when they were together. She was barely home before, but now she's reduced to nothing but a ghost that haunts her every now and then.

 

Minjeong likes to think Jimin took the break-up well. She has always been the one who was better at keeping things anyway.

 

The day they settled their relationship for good, Jimin did not cry. She was impassive, composed, and horrifyingly calm. But in between Minjeong's silence and exhausted sighs, a greed-driven voice inside of her wants Jimin to lash out, just completely break apart, bit by bit, tear that goddamn wall she had been so keen on keeping up. That would have been more comforting, at the very least that would put Jimin in the same disposition as she is, broken and vulnerable at best.

 

But no, Jimin did not cry. Jimin seemed to take it so well. She even managed to ask for the bill unaffected, offering the waiter a smile so bright it trampled Minjeong's shattered hopes even more. 

 

Is it selfish to wish for someone to be as miserable as she is?

 

Minjeong takes two full swigs, delighted by the cold streak running through . It would be much better if Aeri is around to share a bottle with.

 

Jimin and her, they have been together for so long, but it feels like Minjeong was the only one in the relationship who mourned incessantly, it is pathetic. It is as if Jimin was already past grieving — above the inconvenience of getting hang-over from a relationship that wasn't making her happy.

 

I'm no longer happy , she said.

 

Sorry ,  Minjeong bowed her head, refusing to look at Jimin, her fingernails digging at the palm of her hand, but the pain did not amount to the sound of her heart falling in its wake — smashing into thousand smithereens Minjeong's afraid there's no gluing it back.

 

I'm not happy either, haven't been for a long time, Minjeong had said, laughing shakily, harshly, knowing all too well that it was a lie. Jimin was always unavailable, but in the rare circumstances that she was present, they had time. In between conflicting schedules, they relished each other's presence, bathing in each other's warmth. They exchanged stories and laughed together and nothing really mattered except the sound of Jimin's voice and the way her eyes crinkle at Minjeong's poorly executed jokes.

 

It was enough. At least at the time, it was.

 

I'm no longer happy.

 

Minjeong's life collapsed — derailed by merely one sentence. 

 

On the other hand, Jimin's life is still on track. Intact, planned up to a t. Nothing changed, except she got even more preoccupied with both work and graduate school. Not even a hint of break-up can be seen, she carried life easily and beautifully. 

 

How does she do it? Minjeong wondered, did I even matter at all? Was there a we in the first place? Or was it just me?

 

And above all things that is Jimin, Jimin is organized. She's structured, and disciplined, never lacking, a