moving day | Heeseung x Jay

twenty-five

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Jay should call his mother. It's been ages since he's done so, caught up in the whole being-an-adult thing, but Heeseung is gone at his Friendsgiving, and the Friendsgiving Kei invited Jay to isn't for another few hours.

Jay throws on a flannel-sweatshirt combo and a nice pair of jeans that he doesn't wear too often because of coaching. There's snow on the apartment's balcony, and any of Heeseung's plants that had been outside have been relocated to crowd the space between the kitchen and the living room. Jay paces back and forth between that space and the foyer as he dials the number for home on his phone.

"Hello? Mum?" The line crackles before clearing. "Can you hear me?"

"Son? Ah, now I can." Jay hears the telltale sound of a screen door opening and knows that his mother is on their porch, most likely sitting on the swinging bench he loved as a kid. "How are you, my boy?"

"I'm good, I'm-" Jay stops, tries to start again. Something about hearing his mom's voice after so long, especially following the conversation he had with Heeseung's brother at the airport, makes him feel vulnerable. "I'm actually-..."

"Son?" The concern in her voice is evident, and Jay hates how he's making her worry.

"I'm not good. I lied, and... I'm lost. A lot, right now. Uh..."

He's choking up, and it's humiliating because he hasn't cried in front of his mother since he got his wisdom teeth taken out the summer before university, the pain in his mouth overpowering his usual composure, but she's his mother: She feels his pain like it's her own, knows his idiosyncrasies like the back of her hand, and loves him more than anything, so she gives it time, for she is the person that taught him that good things come to those who wait.

"I'm in love with someone I'm afraid of being in love with."

"Okay." His mother exhales, long and slow on the other end, clearly relieved that there isn't some sort of "actual" emergency. "Why are you afraid?"

"Because I care. Maybe too much."

"Ah." Jay can practically see his mother leaning back against the bench's cushions, a soft look on her face. "The age-old struggle; young love is tough."

"It's just that... it's been so long, and I don't know what to do with myself anymore. Part of me wants to blurt it out for the world to hear and just feel that release, but the other part of me that's scared of what would come after the confession cowers in a corner and makes sure I keep my mouth shut."

Jay's mother is silent for a few stifling minutes. Then, in the quietest but most encouraging voice that Jay recalls her ever using: "Do I know this person?"

Sometimes, Jay thinks, silence is enough.

—Because it is. It's better than words sometimes, and Jay's mother accepts his answer—or lack thereof—with a simple understanding hum. When she speaks, it's like a lullaby: calming; unwavering; doting.

"When you were younger, and we still lived in Seattle," she begins. "You loved the beach. You wanted to go all the time since we'd gone once when your father had a business trip and could stay an additional day after his conference was finished. We drove over in a rental car, and you adored the shovel and bucket we'd bought you to make sandcastles."

Jay doesn't remember, but this was before he was five. It was too early, a portion of his life that he lived but only remembers thanks to his parents' hearty supply of stories.

"When we moved to Hawaii, you were ecstatic. The whole drive from the airport was spent with you yelling, "beach!" repeatedly while pointing out the window. Your excitement was palpable, and I'd known instantly that you'd love it there. It was even better when we befriended Heeseung's family because Heeseung loved the beach too, and we became fast friends who were happy that we didn't have to struggle and figure out what our kids liked to do on the weekends."