Night is gone
"I don't know."
He gapes in disbelief, clear drool forming at the corner of his lips. I'm guessing to hear his laughter or perhaps a shrewd remark. Just something. I clear my throat, nervously, and wait for him to react properly with words.
And here goes nothing.
He simply remains stagnant and indecipherable. I find it hard to disentangle the strings of emotions he doesn't want to show. He has triumphed over the art of nonchalance with flair. He is thoughtful enough not to interrogate me any further. Or perhaps, is quite stunned by my reply.
"It's alright, don't worry, I'll recover soon, I hope," I say with a forced smile on my face, fiddling my fingers on the rim of the bowl, "I'm really doing fine. "
It takes a couple of seconds for him to filter out his thoughts.
"You don't have to pretend it's okay," he responses, in a light but considerate tone. True. Who am I trying to fool? He has obviously caught the uncertainty in my voice. "It's okay not to be fine. It's the way things are."
"Thank you," I mouth, scratching the back of my neck.
"Ah, no, I didn't say anything––"
"Not about what you said. It is for everything. Food, shelter for tonight, and for taking care of a sick forgetful stranger," I say, oozing out the emotions I kept at the back of my heart, "the dinner was delicious."
He just nods faintly, unable to give any descent reply and I try to stay strong. His phone rings, interrupting our brief conversation. A temporary wave of relief washes me as he beelines for the couch where he kept his phone. After reaching there, he picks up the call.
His back faces me, and soft whispers of him talking on the phone fills the silence.
I get time to rethink about myself. The oblivion is terrible. I virtually burst out at the thought of my plaintive condition, and earlier, the mention of it was enough to break me down.
Watching him hang up the call, I quickly stand up and take the empty bowl and plates with me, to the sink.
Even though, I am running away from everyone and everything, I don't want to escape. My chest burns and there is a rush inside which is eating me in and out. I want someone to remind me who I am.
Someone who would redefine my name.
The gentle reverberations of his footsteps come across the kitchen, which stops right behind my back. He is here. I quickly wipe up the little tears drizzling down the corner of my eyes. But the presence of him behind me do not bother my tears as they still bulge out and cascade down my cheeks uncontrollably. Stop crying.
I'm so stupid.
My nose is turning a faint red, and I feel ashamed to face him. He has endured enough of my drama already. Firstly, I lied to him; secondly, I've fainted over him; thirdly, I've made him cook dinner for me, and now these persistent absurd tears of mine. Why am I so weak?
I scrunch my nose noisily. His quiet presence isn't bothersome, but indeed warm. I sense his impulsive breaths, next to me.
Rise. Fall.
I repeat, with my breaths.
I dimly flinch when he places his chin over my head. Taken aback, I go blank for the moment. Then his hands wrap around my collar from behind, gently.
"It's okay, everything will be alright," he says with a pacific intensity, that reassures my heart. But a very uncanny feeling generates within this very heart, which causes it to beat vigorously against my rib cage. Somehow, the tranquillity of his voice sinks the fear that should have rose within me. The relaxed ambience he creates is magical, indeed.
My bones are melting, which were keeping me robotic and inflexible. It is awkward but it isn't. It is quite paradoxical to boil down the feelings in words.
"I guess you love backhugs."
His cheesy tone makes me surrender his embrace quickly.
"I'll wash 'em," I say, putting the things over the sink, hiding my flustered face under the strands of my hair falling over the side.
"No, don't. Ajumma would do that in the morning. She's the cleaning lady and I pay her monthly for cleaning the house once in a week, and washing up utensils and sometimes cooking."
"Oh, but I insist." I've been a cause of inconvenience so I want to partake in little chores to lessen the load from off my shoulders, a little.
"Get off your hands off my sink,"he demands in an animated deep voice, with some authority to it. I softly chuckle."Trust me, I'll fire the cleaning lady if you choose to do it for me and you'll get stuck here forever," he jokes, making me turn my face in his direction.
He flashes his bunny teeth at me, and asks, "shall we go upstairs then? I'll show you your new room."
We both head upstairs after making sure that the dining table is cleaned. He leads me to the last teak door at the end, passing through two doors. Opening it halfway, he points his gaze in." You can sleep in here."
"Thanks again."
I enter the room, and give a look around. The room is slightly smaller than his room but big enough for me. It is cool, and instead of not being in regular use, it seems dust free. He knows how to maintain his house.
"If you need anything else, you can call me up. And if you're bored and unable to sleep then, well, there's a study room downstairs –– beneath the stairway if you've noticed,"he chants, and when I give an interested look, he continues,"you'll find a tonne of English novels that my father left and almost no one reads them. You can haunt my whole house, I don't mind at all."
"You trust me enough, already?" I ask. I don't trust myself either.
"I don't. But let's say, you cannot cause any harm to me, and if you do try then I'll make you pay back extra," he sounds sarcastic, but he's serious about this.
♪★♪♪
Dark blueness surrounds me. It submerges me into its odourless and magnificent black where light seem to disintegrate into discrete untouchable particles. I thump my limbs and struggle to come out of it. The fluidity disperses my hair in its nothingness and it is choking me slowly, bringing an end to my breaths.
I try to breathe but only bubbles of air escape my nostrils. The more I motion my muscles to go up and float on the surface, the more I get pulled down by gravity as if all the mass on earth has gravitated over me. I'm being pulled down as though in morass. My head stings, and water is streaming inside my throat, making everything sore down to my lungs. I yelp out for help which dilutes into the surroundings like no words left my mouth. My defeating self urges to sleep, to sink. I cannot breathe.
I gasp for air.
"Help!" I immediately slide open my eyes. My heartbeats are raged and I'm panting heavily. It was just a nightmare.
Shimmering sun-rays penetrate through the glass pane of the wide window, paving its way through the netted white curtails. It is morning.
The door in front swings and he cock his head inside, inspecting me with a worried face." You okay? "
I sit up on the bed, curling my legs to my chest. I slightly comb my disheveled hair with my fingers."Yes, was a nightmare."
"Freshen up, breakfast is ready. And please come downstairs before I leave."
I nod.
He closes the door and leaves. I quickly launch myself out of the bed and freshen up in the bathroom. After washing my face and gargling my mouth, I quickly get into my old clothes; totally prepared to leave. Thankfully, my hair isn't that trash-looking even after all the things it faced.
Last night, I couldn't fall asleep early even though my eyes were desperate to. My debilitated bones and cramped limb muscles wanted to relax, while my cranial nerves throbbed against my skull the whole night, fighting with my physical condition and stressing over to plan about my future. Just for the serenity of mind, I went downstairs and flipped through pages of numerous books of the mini-library. Later, I ended up doodling in a bunch of white papers which were kept at the study desk. I crumpled up many, and created some remarkable mess, but decided to clean it the next morning, that is, today.
I was very weary that I landed into deep slumber as soon as I plopped over the fluffy bed.
There's no way out. I could already vividly imagine myself sleeping in footpaths and later becoming the victim of starvation, coldness, or perhaps thugs and bastards. The probability of being forced to either choose prostitution or get raped would be high. Or worst, becoming the victim of human trafficking. My organs would be sold at high price. I could see that coming.
It is how raspy and grinding life is, and it is what caused a mild headache, too.
"Hey," he greets me, seeing me trot down the stairs.
I stay the timid introverted human with my head hanging down, but I manage to mouth an inaudible 'hi' to him.
His hair looks a little more fluffy today. And he already seems prepared to leave for his work. He's quite young-looking for an office worker but his clothing says otherwise. He is wearing a sky blue shirt and a navy blue blazer over it, paired with a matching trouser.
"Why are you dressed up into the blood stained tee, again? Planning to leave already?" he asks, running his fingers through his naturally unkempt smooth hair.
"Yeah, I'll soon leave."
"I could only make sandwiches as I'm in hurry," he says picking up another topic, and I glance at the wall clock, six forty five. "I have had my breakfast already, you can have yours too, but before that, we need to talk and it's important."
"O-okay."
"Last night, I couldn't fall asleep thinking of it," he says, rolling his tongue against his cheeks. He glances in my direction, and I swear, a bolt of lightning strikes against me. "Can we sit and talk?"
"Yes, sure." My heartbeats have picked up a pace which is higher than earlier when I woke up. His serious expressions are making me gulp my own saliva. We sit by the dining table, adjacent to each other. He then passes the coffee cup towards me. It's for me.
"You ran away from hospital yesterday, didn't you?" he asks, thoroughly analysing my expressions. Nervousness is dancing all over my face now, and displaying just how easy-to-read I am. He taps the edge of the table gently with his fingers, seemingly a bit impatient, while me, I'm curling up my fingers around the handle of the cup, partly shivering.
"Y-yes, I'm sorry, I lied."
"I knew that," he admits, which makes me a tiny bit bewildered. And my finger-tips, unknowingly, touch the sides of the hot cup. It reflexes. Shit. "Be careful, you alright?" he asks, almost instantly. I shake my head, and start blowing at my fingers. The tipsy me.
He vigilantly watches me and after a silence of a minute or so, he puts his explanation forward," I knew that you were running away from hospital the moment I saw the hospital sandals on your feet."
Yes, I remember, the time he saved me from getting beneath the tyres of the ambulance, he noticed the pathetic hospital sandals, of course.
"Then why did you help me?" Curiousity gets the best of me.
"I don't know,"he shrugs, and his Adam's apple swivel up and down with vague shades of nervousness and confusion erupting together. "I was just trying to figure out you––I mean, why would you follow me? I never second guessed you would be behind me until I saw you in the bus."
My cheeks flush red, and I start twisting my fingers on my lap. "Listen, I wasn't following you. It was just the rush hour and the flow pushed me in."
"Whatever, but one thing is sure, you couldn't resist my handsome face," he sarcastically remarks with a grin. It's adorable.
"So it's the important talk?" I take the chance and rather mock him, coming out of my shy zone.
"Jokes apart, I wanted to tell you that you can't leave until I return. Don't take it in a wrong way, it's just a request or take it as my will," he demands, framing words in an intricate manner, or is it my head not interpreting things accurately?
"Why? I mean, what does that mean?"
"I don't want you to leave. Simple as that. And I bet, you can't survive a single day outside without knowing a single word of Korean, let alone matters of money."
He continues. His dominating self scares me sparingly.
"And before you start getting any wrong ideas, I wanted to inform you beforehand that I have no bad intention and I'm not going to inform Seoul Care Hospital about you, well, not until you desire to go back yourself. But ... I personally feel, you need to consult a neurologist for your amnesia. What do you say? " his voice softens, and it starts to get funny at how easy it is to just listen and how interesting for a comedy my life has become. Here, I'm worried about tomorrow's bread and living life with the minimum, and he's talking about consulting a neurologist. The cost, I can't even imagine.
"No, I've already taken a lot of favours from you. I'm not going to rely on you over more matters. Neurologist doesn't come for free. "
"Who said I'm providing you things for free?" He practically retorts. "You'll have to pay for em through ... you know, work."
He partly reflects on his mind on his expressions. He has speculated a lot before coming up with all these, huh. But work?
"You want me as your maid?"
"No dumbo, your hands got some splendid talent and I want to exploit that a little."
"What do you mean? I am not the type of girl you're thinking ..." I defend myself, and it earns his surprised chuckle and a very unflattering expression. I shouldn't have spoke that out loud.
"So that's what you think about me?" he questions with an amusing smile making through his thin lips.
"No, sorry. Just in case . . ." I timidly say, voice fading along the end.
"I don't talk to that kind of girls this way."
"Huh?"
"Art," he spells, "I mean, you may not know it but you're good at sketching. Well sorry, I swear I didn't stalk you, but whatever, it came into handy. I came across the doodles you made last night. Let's say––I-I'm pretty impressed."
"You want me to draw before I leave?" Sounds so unrealistic. He first chuckles, wavering his hands in air. Composing himself, he ruffles his hair. Can he just stop doing that? A strong urge settles inside ––to run my fingers through the patch of his sleek hair.
"No, well, yeah. But you're not leaving any sooner. I want you to work as my assistant. I'm a manga artist, and I need someone to help me with my hectic work, and if you stay by my side, it gets easier," he pauses for me to take in the things. Manga artist? Wow.
"I'm being assigned to create a romantic manga, and I kind of suck in creating anything related to romance. I do boyish, mystery-thriller, or action stuff, clichés are totally not my thing. You're a girl so you can come up with ideas and can draw them too. Don't worry, I'll guide you about the stuff, you just need to say 'yes'."
"I need time to think about it," I say, even though it's not like I have any choice.
"Sure, you have the whole day. And don't forget to add in the perks list that I'll even pay you, enough that you can save up for your future or your treatment. It's totally even."
"Are you sure this assistant job isn't a favour disguised in opportunity?"
He breaths out exasperatedly, not annoyed but pretty much bored by my counter questions. "Why would I help a stranger just because I'm generous or nice enough? Think wisely with a broad mind." He says, standing up on his feet.
"It's even, you sure?"
He reaches for the black shoulder bag placed on the chair next to him.
"See you later then, drink it before it gets cold," he points at the coffee cup and heads toward the door-way. So he's not planning to say anything anymore?
He crouches down, and start tying up his shoe laces near the shoe rack. I watch his back, contemplating. Did he really like my doodles? I doubt it.
Soon, the slam of the door reports his departure. I stay in trance, over the wooden chair, with my thoughts running in all directions.
Is he really doing it because of my talent, or is it just an excuse to help a vulnerable?
_____________
A/N : this chap is the longest till now. Idk but I feel like my book is boring af lol.
And whoever's here, thank you so much! Means so much to me!! ❣️