In the debate world, there are five unspoken rules. The first four are trivial; simple social laws that every sane person would understand.
But the last one. Now that's something.
Rule Number Five: Never, ever, under any circumstances, date your d...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
today's theme: eruption
The sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the second floor of the Lee residence.
Felix looked at his mom with wide eyes. "You don't think that's the window..."
Another crash. Mrs. Lee sighed, shaking her head. Any parent would've flared up at the sight of broken possessions, but today, she didn't have the energy nor the heart to stop it.
"Mom. You're really letting him screw up his stuff like that?"
She didn't make a move as the commotion continued upstairs. Instead, she curled up against the corner of the couch, squeezing a throw pillow in her arms weakly. "Just give it some time."
"Mom! He's going to regret it later, and then wh—"
"Felix." Her voice came out barely a little sharper. "Let him be."
"He'll be okay." Mr. Lee came into the room just as another clatter of sounds filled the air, throwing his phone onto the shelf and falling onto the armchair next to the two.
"Don't worry about it, we can clean it up." His words were reassuring, but the look on his face was strained. "He'll be okay. It'll be okay. Florence...will be okay."
Mrs. Lee's head popped up at the mention of her name, her eyes creasing with worry. "Is she..?" She mouthed subtly.
Mr. Lee was silent. He waited until Felix became distracted, turning away and reading through something on his phone.
Casting his eyes downward, his father shook his head.
The air in the living room had gone tense, a breakable, palpable, yet dangerous affair to sit in. It had begun yesterday, and the physical remnants of the rest of the house proved that—the suitcases strewn open where no one had bothered to clean them out, dishes that were half done, and crumpled tissues filling every corner.
There was no direction as of their return. No honest idea of what they could have done, could do right now, and all that could be allowed to happen was them sitting in miserable silence.
Still, they were only the on the sideline. Spectators, bystanders at best. Nothing they had been experiencing could have compared to everything that was happening just a few rooms away.
And while ice froze over in the living room, the storm had reached its full peak elsewhere.
Minho gripped the trophy in his hand.
His hand was shaking. Slipping. The trophy was slipping right through, unstable as the outcome of its existence.
Still, he didn't put it down.
Glass lay in pieces around his room. Scattered around his now-empty bookshelves, tossed underneath the table. What hadn't been shattered...was piled up in the corner. Dented, bruised. Broken in a different way.
