Days, Weeks, Months - Chapter 6 - Us, Part Two

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In Seoul, South Korea, a young woman has buried her face in her sister's shoulder - she is crying.

It is their second day back from overseas. It has been four months since she last saw him, and two weeks since they had any contact at all. On the plane ride back she sent him a text message, wanting to meet with him as soon as she got off the plane.

He replied that he couldn't meet her until he was ready to see her. That was it. 

Her older sister saw all this, had seen all this over the past couple of months, and knew what it probably all meant. She didn't say as much to her youngest sister - she had already come to the same conclusion. He was leaving her, and their fairytale was nearing a sad ending. It was the only explanation for his sudden distance, and the abrupt end to his communications.

For the months she was away she had heard the rumours; that he was seen with someone else. He was dating his former drama co-star, and they were found looking at jewelry, the rumours said, while on a date in Seoul. She had refused to listen to them. She knew he must have some explanation. She knew he wouldn't do that to her.

But that was it - his silence had only confirmed what some small part in the back of her heart had suspected. The past four years were gone, just like that. Every smile and frown, every moment of happiness or sadness, gone. Over. Her first love, the one she thought would be her only love, was leaving her.

Her older sister is holding her as she sobs softly into her shoulder. The older woman is crying too - not nearly as much as the younger girl, but almost as much. She was there at the beginning, there at their housewarming party with her other sisters, there when he was dancing on a park stage in Seoul wearing a navy officer uniform. She was there in Japan when their fairytale first became heartwarming reality, watching from a backstage monitor as her younger sister offered her hand to him - she had never been so proud of her. She has seen every step of their relationship, heard every detail of each mistake and triumph they had with each other. And now she is hearing her sister's sobs, and feeling the tears on her shoulder.

She wants so badly to take her sister's pain away, to absorb it into herself if it meant it would make the younger girl happy again. There was no one less deserving of heartbreak than the youngest sister of their group - she was their maknae, their baby. She wanted to fight her demons for her, she wanted to march up to the man who broke her heart and slap him in the face as hard as her muscles would allow. She wanted to bring happiness and joy back into the girl's life, return her to the carefree and innocent young woman she used to be, and take away this heartbreak that she was so undeserving of. 

At that moment the younger girl's phone vibrates. A text message. The last thing the younger girl wants to do is answer it, but thinking perhaps that it could be another one of their sisters, the older woman reaches over and checks on it.

The message is from him. He wants to meet with her. Right now. He will be there in ten minutes.

For a split second she wants to throw the phone across the room. What right does he have to see her, much less speak to her? She wants to hurt him, punch him in the face, ask him what her younger sister did to deserve such heartache, ask him why he would dare leave such a beautiful young woman for the arms of another. She wants to ask him why, after so much trial and tribulation, he would leave her now, when she has come back to the country after four months of absence, her love just as strong and her heart eager to reignite their relationship. She wants to ask him what possible justification a human being could have for bringing such pain into another person's life.

The younger woman raises her head weakly from her shoulder. She asks who it is.

The older woman wants badly to say that it is no one important. But she knows what she must do - she must tell the younger woman who it is. She deserves to know. As much as she wanted to guide and protect her, her sister must make her own decisions. She tells the younger woman who it is, and the contents of the message.

The younger woman cries fresh tears and buries her head in her shoulder again. 

They sit there in silence for long minutes.

Eventually, the older woman whispers softly into the younger girl's ears. She tells him that she has to see him. She has to face him if only to hear it from his own mouth. If this truly was the end, she needed to face it on her feet. She needed the closure. She needed to fight her own demons.

She says that she will be here for her, waiting right here in this room, no matter what happens.

Long minutes pass. The older woman her hair. The sobbing slows, but does not end. The younger girl raises her head. Gone is the idol persona, gone is the mask that she wears whens she is on stage. There is only heartbreak there, written all over the features of a young woman who, until two days ago, was deeply in love. Tears are the paint on the sad canvas of her beautiful face.

But somewhere beneath all that, there is also conviction.

The younger woman stands and walks, shakily, to the door. 

The older woman wipes the tears from her own face. No matter what fate was in store for her younger sister, she would be here waiting with open arms.

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In Seoul, South Korea, a young woman is standing under the shelter of her apartment building's entrance. 

It is raining - raining hard. She notes, absent-mindedly, that the weather matches her mood. It matches the state of her heart.

A red car pulls up to the front of her apartment building - for whatever reason, the red of the car isn't as bright as she remembers it being when she saw it last, as if the paint itself has taken on the bleakness of the day. It parks on the side street. A man steps out. It is him.

Her heart skips a beat at the sight of him - usually this would be because of joy, the sheer and complete joy she normally experiences when she first catches glimpse of him - but no, now that skipped heartbeat is borne of fear. The fear that this might be the last time she sees him. The last day she can call him her boyfriend, her lover, the closest thing to a soulmate she has ever had. She is almost afraid to see him. 

He makes no effort to shield himself from the relentless downpour. No umbrella, no arms upraised to cover his head, no quick dash to get under cover. He does not lock his car, like he usually does - there is no beep-beep of the alarm system that they knew so well, that she had come to love as one of his small quirky habits. He always hit the alarm twice because he was always so paranoid about making sure his car was locked.

He doesn't do so today. This is no time for small, quirky habits that she loves. Perhaps he has parked the car in front of the building to allow for a quick exit. Perhaps he wants to leave as quickly as he can, once he has done the terrible deed he has come here to do.

He walks to her - the rain is already starting to drench him. His hair is glued to his face. She motions, softly, with one hand, for him to move into the shelter with her. He shakes his head weakly, and the crack in her heart deepens. He reaches into his pocket.

In his hand is his ring - their ring.

The sight of the ring, that small, dull band of silver in his hand and not on his finger, is a knife to her heart. It has all become clear now - he is there to return the ring, and in so doing end their relationship. Her heart shatters. Her world falls apart. She harboured some hope, some small wish that he was here to explain his absence and distance with a legitimate reason, that he would take her away on another one of their sweet dates and they would talk and hold hands and eat dried mangoes and play guitar and make love - like any one of the other pages in the fairtytale that was their relationship. 

But all that has come crashing down. There is only the sight of him in the rain, holding his ring. Her tired eyes blur with fresh tears. Would the tears never end?

Her hands go to her face - she wants to be rid of it all. She wants to run away, to a place where he did not exist, to a place where her heart was still young and innocent and naive and knew nothing about boys and love and heartbreak, to a place where he could not hurt her the way he was. Her knees shake. She wants to run away from all this. She wants to punch him and shove him and hurt him - she wants to do anything but stand there and cry, but her body does not follow her commands. All she can do is bury her face in her hands. All she can do is cry.

She has been strong all her life. She has been the mature one, the smart one, the proper one with all the knowledge and manners. She has kept her emotions in check every day of her life, handling every situation she faced with a clear head, dependent on hard facts and knowledge to make the right decisions. Her brain always trumped her heart. She has handled every hurdle of youth and career with this attitude and mindset and passed with flying colours - but now, when she needs it most, it has failed her. Heartbreak is the one thing she cannot be prepared for. The one thing she cannot endure.

He moves to her - she is dimly aware of him stepping closer. Every step is another stab into the shattered pieces of her heart. Each step sends tremors into her soul. She wants to back away from him, because she knows that when he gets to her their relationship will be over. She wants him to stop. She wants him to turn around and go away and never see her again. But she cannot move, much less form the words she needs to tell him so. She is frozen.

He reaches his hands up to hers - his hands are wet and so cold, so different from the warmth she was used to feeling whenever they touched, whenever they held hands and their fingers entwined as they walked down the street, whenever they wrapped around her in their closest, most intimate moments. But now they are cold and unfamiliar, almost as though they belonged to someone else.

He draws her hands away from his face and pushes them to her waist. He is watching her. 

Her eyes are still shut. All that exists in her world are the pathetic sound of her own sobs in her ears, the feeling of tears falling unbidden down her cheeks, and the deep anguish on her heart at knowing that someone she has loved so much is about to leave her - that something that has brought so much joy into her life is coming to a permanent and pathetic end. 

He pushes a small object into her hands. She expects - she has come to expect the worst at this point - that it is his ring. But through the intense sadness and agony, her fingertips register that it is a small box.

She hesitantly opens her eyes. He is not face to face with her, like she expected. He is kneeling, on one knee. The box is open. 

Inside is a wedding band.

It is a new ring - and yet it looks very familiar to her. The band is crooked, like the ring that meant so much to the both of them, but it is crooked on both sides of the bright, clear diamond that somehow manages to shine despite the rain and the tears. It is a burst of light in what has been a dark and dreary day. For a split second, she focuses on it as though it were a bright light at the end of a tunnel. She is almost convinced that it is the first glimpse of brightness she has seen in days.

More impactful than the shine of the precious stone is the man's eyes when she finally manages to look at him. It is a look that warms the very depths of her heart. It is a look she never wants to forget, for as long as she lives; she wants to sear it into her memory and hold it in her heart until her last breaths. His hair is plastered to his face, and the rainwater makes it look like he is literally crying a river - how much of it were tears, and how much of it was rain? There is a look on his face that cannot be faked, cannot be acted out or scripted by the hand of a writer. There is only sincerity there, pure, undiluted honesty. As he opens his mouth and speaks softly, his voice shakes and quivers, as if every word, every syllable, takes every ounce of strength for him to say.

He tells her that she is everything to him. He tells her that every fibre of his being exists to make her happy. He says that she is his first thought when he awakes, his last thought before sleep claims him, and she is every thought in-between. He tells her that his mind, his body, his very soul are all hers to do with as she wishes, and that they are pledged to her for all time.

He says that beyond all these things, his most important possession - his heart - is also hers. That it always has been, since the moment of their first meeting in the lobby of their practice building, and so it will be until his last breath. If she will have him, he, all that makes him who he is, will be hers until the end of his days.

She is everything to him. 

He asks if she will be his wife.

She collapses to her knees - finally, her legs have given up their vain struggle to keep her standing amidst all this emotion. Her eyes are blurry with tears that will not stop spilling from tired eyes, but somehow she sees more clearly than she ever has in her entire life. She clasps his head with her hands and hugs him tightly - with every ounce of her strength she pulls his body into her own, as if hoping the two of them would become one by the force of her will alone. Her eyes are tightly shut and she sobs uncontrollably, but she composes herself enough to press her lips into his left ear and whisper one syllable, with the last of her physical strength but with all the conviction of her heart:

"Yes."

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In Seoul, South Korea, an old woman is cleaning out an apartment.

She had received a voicemail earlier this morning from someone interested in renting out the apartment, and the potential renter was looking to view it that same day. She had spent the last hour or so making sure it appeared presentable in advance of the appointment.

It was a small place to live - "cozy" was how a realtor would have described it, being little more than a small living area, a tiny attached kitchen, and a single bedroom and bathroom. It was the kind of place that was perfect for a visiting foreign student, or a young person moving away from home…

…or a young couple living together for the first time.

A buzz on the downstairs ringer informs her that the potential renters are downstairs. They are a little late for their appointment. Taking one final glance around the living area to ensure it was clean and tidy, she heads downstairs to meet them.

At the foot of the stairs leading up to the apartment are a young man and a young woman. She knows instantly who they are - they had lived here before. He is absolutely drenched; a rainstorm had taken over downtown Seoul this morning, but it had since calmed down and now the first rays of sunlight were beginning to penetrate the dense cloud. On his back is a carrying case for an acoustic guitar. To his left, her hand and arm tightly entwined with his, was a beautiful young woman wearing a bright smile that is at odds with the tired, red eyes on her face. In her left hand, clutching the man's upper arm, she is holding an open package of what looked to be dried mangoes - and on her left ring finger is a bright diamond.

The old woman isn't quite sure about the details of what just happened between them in the preceding hour or so, but she has an idea. It is a tale as old as time - a scene repeated a million times, for young men and women in every corner of the world, on every day since the dawn of time and every day until the earth is no more. It is a tale of love - of that moment when everything becomes crystal clear - when passion and companionship are joined by commitment; the commitment that binds two human beings together for the rest of their days. Love is made of those three things. She saw all three, bright as day, in the young couple before her.

She asks, half jokingly, if they are here to film a continuation of their show.

The young man answers no - they are married for real this time. His voice is tired, but the conviction and happiness in his words are sincere. He looks to the young woman, who returns his warm smile with one of her own. There is only love in the look they share.

The old woman chuckles to herself. She welcomes them back. She reaches into her pocket to take out the house keys, which she tosses to the young man.

With smiles as brilliant as the quickly brightening day, the young man and woman climb up the stairs, their hands clasped tightly together.

The old woman smiles, her heart warmed by the sight. Love truly was a beautiful thing to behold.

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Chapter Note:

Hyoyeon is the SNSD member being a shoulder for Seohyun to cry on in the first part of the chapter, in case I wasn't being clear enough. :)

This is by far the most difficult of these chapters that I've ever had to write - probably the most difficult thing I've had to write in years. It wasn't difficult to come up with the words or anything like that… it was difficult for personal reasons.

Suffice it to say, Yonghwa does in this chapter what I should have done in real life.

Anyway, I hope I didn't scare anyone away with my hints at a sad ending - how could someone possibly give these two a sad ending!? lol. I knew from the very beginning this story would end with them getting married, but for real this time. The little added part with them moving back into their WGM apartment was a nice postscript that I thought of literally thirty minutes ago, and I knew I just had to add it into this chapter to wrap things up. I bet Seohyun gave Yonghwa a hard time for making her think he was breaking up with her before they went to the apartment. :)

I have some ideas for an epilogue that I may or may not get to - either way, don't hold your breath for it. If the mood strikes me (and if you people want to see it) I'll write it up, but I'm perfectly happy with ending things here. :)

To all my readers, new and old, I thank you for your support. It was what got me here - I was originally intending for this to be a oneshot that ended with Seohyun's first chapter and maybe with Yonghwa's chapter, but here we are, at the end of Chapter 6, and it was purely because I was motivated by your comments and votes and hits. I wrote that first chapter with the intention of it being the first and only k-pop fic I'd ever write, but it grew into something unexpected and now I'm even thinking of starting a separate story! So thank you, one and all, for reading this poor goguma's deranged ramblings. :P

Finally, I will end with this:

Dear Yongseo:

Thank you.

Cheers,

-goguma21