Cityscapes (Jumin Han x OC)

Chapter 42

Breaking up with Jumin hurt me more than I expected. I anticipated crying over my mother's kimchi, but instead I found myself bawling into my covers uncontrollably, that this was now my third time replacing my pillow cover because I seem to soak through each one. Not to mention the very act of sitting in my own apartment was a reminder that I wasn't with Jumin.

I can't imagine he's doing much better, although Jumin has the uncanny ability to put on a mask and act like nothing ever happened. Sometimes, I envy that.

I very well can't head back to my job. It was given to me because Jumin asked for me to have it. I also can't very well phone up Jungsoo and say "I broke up with Jumin so I can't come to work on Monday."

Maybe it's better just to skip work and get fired. But sitting here in my apartment feeling sorry for myself feels terrible. I packed myself a bag, headed downstairs to the garage and got in my car which feels like it hasn't been driven forever. I considered my options carefully, and drove across town, to Incheon. I pulled into the small parking lot outside of the small house. I walked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

"Miran?" My father asked opening the door. He opened his arms, and I hugged him. I immediately began to cry into his chest.

"Oh, sweetie," he mumbled. He carefully dragged me in and closed the door behind us. "What happened?"

"Everything!" I bawled. "Haven't you seen it?"

He sighed. "Well, no. I've tried avoiding all the coverage of you. I won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me worry over it."

"That's smart," I cried a little harder.

"Do you want to talk about it? You're going to have to calm down to talk about it," he said quietly.

"I would like to talk about it," I nodded. My father gestured towards the couch and walked to his kitchen. I sat down on the couch and tried to calm myself. My father and I have a way of talking to one another that's quite direct, and when one of us needs comfort, it tends to leak in. Only around my mother do we have a conversation style that even borders on normal, but it doesn't bother us. It's like having our own language.

"I think your mother worries about me," he called to the living room, smiling a bit as he did so. I could hear him taking out pots and pans. He's trying to distract me and help me calm down.

"What makes you think that?" I answered, trying to wipe my tears. My eyes were getting itchy from just how much I was crying, and I could tell I was rubbing them raw.

"Sometimes, on the spur of a moment, she will drop off a huge bag of various canned things that she's made. Always food. Kimchi, soup, fish, even cake. She will jar it, can it, and drop it off. She'll say 'Hojun...you're losing weight. Eat. I brought you some food so you can eat.' I can't help but laugh as she places this bag of groceries in my fridge as though she assumes I'm not even eating."

My mother was right though. My father has always been quite slim, and as he's gotten into his 50s, the gray hair and wrinkles just make him look thinner.

"She's right. You need to eat more."

"I'm just tall. You both forget that I'm almost 2 meters tall. My weight is just distributed differently."

I could hear the faucet run, and realized my father was making tea as the pot whistled. He slowly brought a tray and sat it on his coffee table. The tray was covered with items for tea and various foods my father had heated up that my mother had made.

"Your mother is worried about you. I'm sure she's following the coverage though," he explained, pouring me a cup of tea.

"She's like that."