Hyukjae wakes up to a familiar yet disturbing sensation down on his stomach. 

His head doesn’t feel any better, and even after so long, the painful throbs only seem to get worse every time. His heavy eyelids finally open after a struggle, and he sees how the darkness is already fading as the sun starts to arise in the far horizon. The air feels stuffy as he takes a short breath in. He tries to get his stiff body into a sitting position, but the movement makes his head spin, and the coldness of the room causes shivers run down his bare arms. He can’t recognize the room he is in. He can’t remember the name of the person who’s snuggled beside him under a thick cover, and he can’t really grasp which neighborhood he has stumbled to. 

It’s hazy. Every detail is wrapped into a big vortex of memories and brief flashbacks of the garbled night filled with hard liquors, loud music, flashing neon lights, ominous whimsies and girls who think they can get him on his knees with their sloppy kisses.

But it’s nothing new.

Hyukjae has already lost count how many times it has happened. It’s more of a rule than an exception these days.

There’s one thing that catches his train of thought when he’s about to get out of the bed though. He halts on the edge, dangling his head downwards—feeling like a bomb is ticking inside at the back of it—trying to reach the jeans lying messily on the floor. He remembers the distant, penetrating sound of his ringtone that kept bothering him as they were halfway into the steamy act, around the time when his eyes drifted towards the red numbers of the digital radio placed on top of the nightstand, showing it was 1:12am at one point, and 1:42am the other.

Hyukjae isn’t sure why, but the sound managed to distract him way more than he liked. The words harder and faster were continuously moaned under him every time he was about to grab the device only to turn it off, but the sound echoing in his ears always broke his focus.

The first pocket is empty, but from the second he’s able to pull his phone out. He takes a quick peek of the young woman sleeping behind his back—a brunette it seems—and returns his attention to the screen which brightness causes his eyes to hurt. As he reaches out for his t-shirt, Hyukjae notices the seven unanswered calls, and three text messages. Two of the calls are made by his friend who accompanied him as per usual to their habit, and the rest are from an unknown number.

He then starts to remember the first call which came during their second round of vodka shots; around 10pm, when they were sitting at the bar talking bull and flirting with the pair of younger girls sitting at the opposite side of the counter.

Hyukjae doesn’t give a second thought who the caller would be, when he’s already running through the text messages. It doesn’t surprise him that the oldest is also from his drinking buddy, telling him that he had gotten the girl he wanted. The second is a bit inappropriate picture—most likely about the same girl—and it immediately makes the man smirk a little. But the last one is from the same, unknown number, and what puzzles him more are the simple four words, without any kind of a signature.

we need to talk

In his mind, he tries to go through all the people who could have something to say for him. There are, however, probably more than a dozen of people who he has screwed with, more or less, but none of them rings any bell.

And because of that, he lets the matter go, having no interest to unnecessarily dig deeper into the matter.

The brunette on the other side of the bed gives out a quiet moan in her sleep, and Hyukjae knows it’s time to go. He picks his boxers and socks from the floor as quietly as he’s able to, unaudibly groaning when the headache clearly seems to not want to leave him alone. Stumbling to get his clothes on as fast as he is capable while having a hangover, he steals a last glance of the clock; 6:59am, and he wants nothing more but to go home and sleep off the terrible nausea.

The door creaks slightly when he presses down the metallic handle, and steps into the hallway. There’s nothing to look at because he doesn’t care to remember any of it, and it doesn’t take longer than a minute for him to get out of the tiny apartment. And at the same time the door closes after him, Hyukjae’s already contemplating if it would be a bus or a subway ride home from wherever the hell he is. 

It’s near to an hour later when he finally steps out of the bus, and he thinks next time he should pick a one-night stand a little closer to home.

A leather jacket is left lying on the floor next to a half empty water bottle settled on top of a random pile of dvds. Two emptied ramen cups are abandoned on a small, painted wooden box that is trying to occupy as a coffee table. The vertical blinds are almost fully closed, but rays of late afternoon sun still manage to glimmer through it. The apartment is messy, old, and certainly 'designed' with a heavily manly touch, yet for Hyukjae it's still something called home.

A hand is placed over the bridge of his nose, eyes closed under the touch. The same weary feeling is there, lingering. His stomach is growling for something unhealthy, greasy fast food, but he's too lazy to do anything about it. It's been a while already since he woke up, but he's still rooted on the same couch he fell asleep on when he returned home some hours ago.

The dyed light brown strands of his hair are a bed head at its finest, as he runs his fingers through it and lets out a tired sigh. For some reason, his aching head has been buzzing with thoughts about this and that ever since. It's nothing in particular, but at the same time, too much of everything.

He just had so much fun last night.

Or did he, really?

Why is he even thinking something like that? Of course he had fun with Taehyung, his official let's-get-wasted and ed-up co-company team mate. Yet a certain feeling of brokenness doesn't leave him alone, but actually gets worse time after time. For his own sake, he usually ignores it. It's more than likely just the alcohol leaving his body that makes him feel overly emotional.

His almond eyes drift to stare at the ceiling, and an older song starts to play quietly in his head. Hyukjae thinks he must have heard it the night before, back at the bar, and hearing it makes him reminisce a night back in the past as well. The memory is bittersweet, but for a moment the familiar, bubbly laugh he's associated with the song makes him think about the one whom it belonged to.

He shakes his head in disbelief, and finally sits up on the burgundy colored couch to grab the water bottle to have something to drink because his mouth feels like sandpaper. But just before he manages to reach it, a noise echoes inside his apartment.

It's silent; sounding a lot like the maker of it is being very uncertain, but it's definitely a sound he recognizes.

In the same careful manner the doorbell shortly rings again.

The man halts on his place to listen and to cautiously glare the front door he’s able to see straight from his living room. Few seconds pass before he actually makes to stand and walk towards the door. Thoughts fly to and fro inside his head, and he’s not so sure if he wants to know who it could be. There’s no reason for him to feel anxious, but something about facing the unknown behind his door terrifies him today.

It’s probably just Taehyung. He must have lost his wallet again.

Hyukjae’s legs feel heavy as he steps forward. Having only some black, worn-out skinny jeans on, he decides to pick a loose, gray hoodie from the hamper on his way. His hair is sticking out to every cardinal point and the yesterday’s spontaneous decision to put on some eyeliner has probably exploded, most likely being smudged around by now, so he really hopes it’s no one too important.

A wary inhale is taken when the door opens. But there’s no one. Furrowing his brows hard the brunet shrugs and closes the door. It could have been a neighbor’s bell – the walls are thin as paper anyway.

His stomach gives him another needy growl, and Hyukjae’s about to finally go get some food, but the noise happens again; and now he’s sure that it is not his neighbor’s door.

God damn it, he huffs inaudibly, glaring the door in despise.

He will definitely kick Taehyung’s very hard if this is one of his stupid and childish jokes again, but he consents and returns the few steps to get the door open – again.

Still, no one.

He’s about to curse out loud when he takes a look behind his door—just in case that the would be hiding there—but he gets the shock of his life, when instead of his stupid brick of a friend, it’s a… Little girl.

“Bloody hell!” the man cries out, boggling onto the wall next to him in surprise, fingers tightly clasped around the doorframe.

Breathing still erratic and inhales short, Hyukjae stares at her.

The girl is standing there close to the corner of the door and the wall of the hallway, grasping her tiny hands around a threadbare stuffed toy dog that’s almost the same size as she is. Her dark hair is long and put into a ponytail, but most of the strands have already fled from the bun. The stray hairs are now scattered all over her head, but he can see the dark eyes that are trying to avoid his gaze. His eyes keep wandering. The girl’s clothes are shabby, and even in the dim-lit hallway, Hyukjae can see that she’s scared and confused. Her appearance puzzles him, and makes him think if her parents actually look after her very well. But then, the man realizes that there’s something strangely familiar in her.

His pulse suddenly speeds up, and for a brief moment he feels extremely dizzy.

It can’t be.

The girl doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t say anything after his outburst—and she barely dares to look at him. Until she cautiously raises her left hand, and Hyukjae notices the piece of a squared paper handed to him.

Trying to get words out of his mouth, he slides down against the wall, squatting to the same level with the girl who barely reaches over his knee. His legs are shaking, both from the lack of energy and fear.

The paper touches his fingertips, and at that moment, she glances at him.

“T-this—,” Hyukjae splutters, “M-me?”

She bites her lower lip.

“You want me to—“, he has to swallow, “—read it?”

A little, tiny nod answers, and Hyukjae takes the paper properly. And immediately, his eyes are glued to the folded piece. Horrified.

Oh ing hell.

He doesn’t want to know what this is about. However, even her features give him hints he doesn’t want to see through. The paper doesn’t mean anything. His eyes turn to look the child one more time. She must be somewhere from three to four years—and that’s probably why this scares Hyukjae the most.

This must be a joke. Just a stupid joke.

A joke.

With trembling hands, he starts to open the paper.

He closes his eyes. Maybe it will make it less of a possibility to be something he fears.

There’s just no way.

Eyes now wide open, he stares down at the small, a little messy handwriting.

Hyukjae.

 

I can’t do this.

I tried to call you.

Take care of your daughter.

I’m done.

I can’t do this anymore.

 

—Jiah

“N-no…”

His legs betray him, and he slides down to the floor. His throat contracts, heartbeat increases, and everything buzzes so loudly in his ears even when it’s death silent in the hallway in front of his apartment.

I never wanted this.

Hyukjae covers his face into his hands, his breathing far too fast and erratic to even be normal anymore, and what is worst is the burning sensation in his eyes and down on his stomach that beats even the most horrendous hangovers of his life.

I can’t do this.

His life is a mess—he is a mess. He’s a disappointment. Stupid. Selfish. He has no disciplines, he hasn’t achieved anything.

 A failure.

A soft, cautious, and cracking voice—merely a whisper—catches his ears when he’s just about to run back inside and slam the door closed after him.

“D-daddy…?”

She looks at him with her fear-filled eyes, nervously twiddling the fluffy ear of her stuffed toy dog.

And Hyukjae thinks he just might be the worst thing that could ever happen to her.

an29/05: umh, there you go.
thanks for reading!

ps. the trailer is now on the foreword.