[1] Gone Groom | Seonghwa ✓

seven | sad inebriated moodmaker

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I WATCH SEONGHWA WATCH ME.

   His eyes spiral almost lifelessly, scheming from my face, down to my chest. They rest on his shirt.

   Yes, the same one I winded up in, half-concious. Not an A-choice for clubbing on a normal given day, however, circumstances had Bae agreeing with my terms: I go out. The shirt stays.

   That simple and it passes the message, loud and clear, leaving no room for altercation. Always used to having the last say in discussions, the brunette wasn't happy.

   With a disgruntled, fine, a quick pull up of the first skinny pants I can find, and a pair of three-year-old uggs, we were on our way. Though too far gone to care, I still acknowledged I was a mess. Thank goodness nightclubs despised the concept of bright lighting.

   We haven't seen all day and I hardly expect him to look to alcohol. Due to his poor tolerance for strong drinks, Seonghwa's hates drinking. Yet there he is, downing only heaven knows what number. There's nothing there to hinder a larger constituent of my being from thinking I'm responsible: He's regretful but knows he must stay away. For me.

   Yet, a more bantam part relays to me how naive and deluded I truly was: He's feeling celebratory tonight even if it doesn't show.

   Again, I feel the urge to hightail out of here; it hits with full force. This time, I'm willing to go against anything Bae might try to cajole me with. No sugarcoating is worth the unpleasant activity going on in my chest. It's unexplainable yet it's not pretty.

   I glance away from Seonghwa to her. She is full on flirting with Gikwang, the latter leaning in closer than necessary just to hear her clearly. I already see them kissing before the night is over. Perhaps the wedding could be pushed a little up the calendar.

   At the moment: 'What best friend?' has become her new catchphrase.

  It's rather disappointing to think he would choose to lose himself to the blessed nullness that only spirits could offer rather than dance it all out like I know he'd have loved to. And thanks to the side still attached to him (just about my entire existence), it disappoints me that he couldn't think of coming to me, like he always does.

   Would I have let him?

   First things first: chucking a flower vase at his head would've been in order. At the look of fear, possibly shame, and the single thread of blood leaking out from his temple (that's for my gain), I would listen to him. However it's safe to believe that the only thing cumbersome at this point in time for Park Seonghwa is his cheating ass and how to make it up to me.

   Well, because I freaking deserve it: the bended knees, the tearful gaze, the surrender.

   Too bad I'm still the one who suffers through it all because I'm nearly, almost fully convinced that what we had could've been one-sided, or at some point in the relationship, Seonghwa fell out of love, moved on to the next thing in a skirt, and never looked back.

   Probably a certain redhead from work. I never liked that woman.

   And I don't want to talk about it.

   Uncomfortably, I shift in my seat, enough to have my body facing away from him. The array of alcoholic brands arranged on an elongated shelf behind Gikwang becomes the height of my attention. But not for long.

   Pushing off the stool, I murmur a silent excuse to Bae that I hope she doesn't hear and head for the door. My heart doesn't relax from its jumpy state until a minute passes of wind birching my blotchy face. I know Bae won't come for me.

   It's quiet. Bass resonates and booms faintly off the wall I'm leaning against. The sound doesn't irritate my eardrums and is quite pleasant, eases off a bit of the anxiety gnawing at the walls of my stomach.

   I think of him: walking out that door, coming for me. For just a split second, I resolve not to care for an explanation, just to have him hold me, to kiss me Because I missed him. I miss him.

   Eyes closed, head resting, body relaxed. My ears are the only organs at work when they pick up the brisk sound of loud music. It gets muted out as fast as it comes: someone just stepped out, perhaps in dire need of air like I am. Footsteps can be heard before they falter, then there's quiet. There's the sound of hitched breath, before a hoarse one. At that, I just have to look.

   The single wall light reflecting on the sign above the door lets me have a better look. To see what's been concealed in the shadows earlier. In his frazzled state, disheveled and unkempt, Seonghwa is still a sight for sore eyes.

   He looks apologetic ... desperate. He still wants me—I can see it, I want to see it. There in his eyes: begging or stalling for time enough to reel me in until I surrender. Because he knows my weakness. It's him. Dry, cracking lips part for a moment or two then he makes an attempt to speak. Weak and painful is what it is. I hear a croak first—the aftermath of dousing his throat with one strong liquid after the other.

   'H-Hey...' He wants to say more than that—I know that much—but he doesn't.

  'Hey,' I try my best to sound unaffected. As a woman who wasn't ditched at the altar just this morning by the man stood before her. It's only as easy as it can get and that is saying something. My voice only passes the wavering bar by a dab.

   Seonghwa's lips quirk up slightly at one corner. He's smiling. The bastard has actually got the freaking audacity to smile in spite of the situation; in spite of how much hot water he's thrown himself into? Anger builds from the depths of my stomach at that, it stirs up an urge to punch him ... and cry.

   Yes, the dams have still got life in them.

  'I tried calling...' He begins, trailing off yet again, moving my body to inch closer to his, increasing the rage within me. With my reduced proximity, I get a whiff of the poignant stench of him. "... I'm s-sor—"

  'Don't. You. Dare.' I grit out, halting when I feel the distance is just about enough, stare him down. He might be taller by a couple feet but the steeliness of my gaze still gives me a vantage. 'Don't you even dare.'

   Seonghwa looks like a kicked puppy—cute and pathetic and sad. I don't even feel bad and I'm thankful for the anger because, to be honest, I've hated how much my heart still yearns for him after everything that has happened. It still does—I sense it—however, I refuse to acknowledge it.

   'Please, Sonny, can we talk?'

   'There's nothing to talk about, you...' I ponder until it hits me, 'You ... asshole!'

   Then I watch his head whip to the side abruptly and stays there. The clap of my palm to his cheek still echoes in the cold silence. My hand throbs with unimaginable pain.

   I slapped him.