the anatomy of love / jungri

05. 父母之命: 1

05. THE LIFE WHICH IS OWED.
part i

I think, at some point, the idea that we are our own person is elusive. We at most own half of ourselves at any given time—there are things we must do, rules we must follow, principles we must consider that are placed before our own desires—and most importantly, we owe ourselves to those that surround us.

It's as if for every person that we meet, we tie an invisible thread around our ankles, and a lifetime is made of all those threads crossing and converging into a single knot. To a stranger, we owe decency. To a friend, we owe our compassion. To our parents, we owe our lives—and because of this, they are a part of us in ways other than blood.

Most recently, I finished my collection of Siri Hustvedt's works, starting with What I Loved and ending with The Blindfold. "I suppose we are all products of our parents' joy and suffering." said Leo of What I Loved, "Their emotions are written into us, as much as the inscriptions made by their genes."

I feel this to be very much true.

—

Our kitchen is a wide, open space, with an island in the middle and cupboards surrounding it in perimeter. There's a large sink, five stoves, a microwave and an oven, with plenty of room left for cutlery and display in between.

I sit, bare feet dangling precariously off the kitchen counter, a copy of Norwegian Wood in hand. The remnants of a tangerine are littered beside me, the last bit of the fruit held between my fingers. The marble feels cool through the thin fabric of my sundress, a contrast to the heat of the August summer outside.

The clock ticks past 8 A.M.

Faintly, I hear a sound as Jungkook walks out of the bathroom from his morning shower, and the scuffle of his slippers against the cherrywood floor grows closer as he descends down the stairs.

"Morning." he says when he walks past me, pulling open the fridge door to fetch himself a carton of milk.

"Morning." I hum an acknowledgment without looking up from the pages of my book, and it's only when Jungkook leans against the countertop beside me that I raise my head and feel my heart thumping.

His hair falls over his eyes in slightly unruly, messy waves, still wet from the shower. His eyelashes coat his eyes in sparse clusters as he turns to look at me, his tongue making a soft clicking sound as his lips part like he wants to say something.

It's one of those strange moments where neither of us speak, not because there isn't anything to say, but because there is too much that cannot be said—all the little things that get stuck in your throat, the ones that make your mouth run dry.

"Breakfast?" I finally ask as I leaf the edge of the page I'm on and close the cover. My feet hit the ground as I walk up to the refrigerator. "Secretary Yoon stocked this place up pretty well. There's fruit on the table, red bean buns in the pantry—how about an egg or two?" I turn to question him, only to find him staring oddly at me, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Jungkook and I both landed on the fairly early-bird spectrum, meaning breakfast wasn't optional, but in fact mandatory. I didn't like to bring legitimate meals into my office, so I needed something beforehand to last me the first five hours of the day. Jungkook's reasoning behind breakfast was self-explanatory—having breakfast is healthier for your body, and if none of his employees were allowed to eat in the laboratory, then neither would he let himself.