Caught (Sangwoo x Reader)

20: Stupid x3

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Both of you nearly simultaneously called this out to yourselves the next day, reflecting upon the situation that had happened.

Sangwoo called it out as he laid out flat on his hard surface pathetically named a bed. He couldn't believe how fucked up he had been. It felt like he was coming out of a twenty-year fog. If all he wanted to do was protect you, then why hadn't he just been your friend? Why hadn't he simply watched over you, been like a big brother? He had taken it too far. He always took it too far; whether it was being disgusted with himself for sleeping with yet another random person or torturing that man he had kept in his basement.

Yoon Bum... I wonder how he's doing... He thought to himself sadly. Probably better without me. Just like the rest of the world.

He was spiraling and he felt it.

She's never going to come back. She got her 'closure' or whatever. Why would I ever see her again? I don't deserve to. I'm fucked up. I'm a piece of shit. He stood up and ripped his pillow until he had large strips of fabric. Within seconds he had fashioned a noose.

"Will it work this time?" He wondered out loud as he tied it to the vent in his room. "Let's hope for the sake of society..."

Meanwhile, you were muttering to yourself on your way to therapy.

"Such a bad idea. Now I just want to see that fucker again. Writing a letter isn't enough anymore. I just threw away every paper my pencil touched..." You rolled your eyes at yourself. "And how am I supposed to explain myself? She's going to think I'm spiraling out of control... I'm not though... I feel... well-- not better-- but no worse than usual."

You stopped in the street.

"Fuck it, I can't keep telling her. I can't handle her telling me 'that's not a great idea for your recovery' like I don't know that. I know I keep fucking it up." You shrugged. "One step forward, twenty steps back."

As you kept walking, you metaphorically walked through the conversation in your head that you were about to have.

"How are you doing today?" The therapist would start.

"Fine. Not particularly bad, but not really much better." You could be honest about that.

"How is painting going?" Insert menial small talk.

"Eh. Fine. I'm not the next Picasso. But it's something I suppose." This could go on for a while until the big question was asked.

"Are you writing letters still?"

"I tried, but it's not really doing much for me anymore... Unfortunately."

"Do you think that's because of the incident?" The push. "Are you looking for more now?"

"No... I guess maybe less. Like it was reality. I wasn't writing to a made-up bad guy. I was writing to my..."

"Your own bad guy."

"Yeah."

And that felt okay. That conversation felt doable to you. But in reality, you were also thinking about the next time you might go berate your own bad guy in person.