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1

“-I said you’re not going out dressed like that.”

That’s the first thing I hear when the world snaps back into focus. His voice, sharp enough to cut through the thin walls of our house. My shirt is just a shirt; plain, grey, nothing special, but he’s glaring at it like it’s a crime.

“It’s just clothes,” I say, trying to keep my tone flat. Neutral. Safe.

“Clothes?” He scoffs. “You think I don’t see what you’re trying to do? Walking around like some… some artist. Some dreamer.”

I don’t answer. If I do, it’ll only make him louder.

He steps closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight. “You’ve been acting strange. Hiding things. Sneaking around with that camera.”

“It’s not sneaking,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

I swallow the rest of the sentence. My throat feels tight, like someone’s pressing a thumb against it.

He moves past me and yanks open the drawer of my desk. My stomach drops. I know what’s in there; the photos I haven’t sorted yet. The ones I took of the river, the old train tracks, the empty skate park. Places I go to breathe.

He flips through them with a disgusted snort. “This is what you waste your time on? Empty places. Broken things.”

I want to tell him that empty places are easier to be in than full ones. That broken things don’t yell.

But I keep my mouth shut.

He slams the drawer shut. Toto squawks from his cage in the corner, feathers puffed in alarm. My father shoots the bird a look like it personally offended him.

“And that damn parrot,” he mutters. “No wonder you never talk to real people.”

“I talk to people,” I say quietly.

“Who?” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “You don’t have friends. You barely leave this house unless I tell you to.”

He’s not wrong. But hearing it out loud feels like being pinned to a wall.

“I’m going out,” I say, reaching for my jacket.

“No, you’re not.”

“I need air.”

“You need discipline.”

He grabs my arm - not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to warn. His fingers dig into my sleeve, and for a moment I feel twelve again, small and cornered.

“Beomgyu,” he says, voice low. “You’re nineteen. Start acting like it.”

I pull my arm free. “I am.”

His eyes narrow. “If you walk out that door-”

I don’t wait for the rest.

I step outside. The door clicks shut behind me, muffling whatever he shouts next.

The cold evening air hits my face, sharp and clean. I breathe it in like medicine.

The street is quiet. A dog barks somewhere far off. A car engine hums down the main road. The town feels half-asleep, washed in the orange glow of streetlamps.

I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking with no destination in mind. Just away.

Rumours drift through this town like cigarette smoke - about the boys who hang around the skate park, the ones who dress strange, laugh too loud, don’t care what people think. I’ve never met them, but I’ve seen flashes of them from a distance. A blur of wheels. A burst of colour. A voice carried on the wind.

They look like they belong somewhere.

I’ve never felt that.

I walk until the houses thin out and the cracked pavement leads toward the river. The water is dark, reflecting the moon in broken pieces. I sit on the railing and let my legs dangle, the metal cold against my palms.

For a moment, it’s quiet enough to hear my own heartbeat.

Toto will be waiting for me when I get back. He always chirps when I open the door, like he’s relieved I returned. Like he trusts I will.

I wish I trusted myself that much.

A breeze rustles the trees. Somewhere behind me, a skateboard hits pavement - a distant clatter, faint but unmistakable.

I turn my head, but the street is empty.