Bend & Break | Wooyoung [Ongoing]

10 | she goes nocturnal shopping

Her.

Muye: You're holding out on me, I feel.

NEED TO BREAK THE ICE? Sometimes, nothing else drove home like honesty—just come right out and say it. Who knows, might get them rethinking their motives. It was killing with kindness ... almost in a conjectural sense.

In a way.

My hand returned to the confines of a pocket, phone in clutch, head trying to condition to the fact I'd just offered myself up to desperation and there was no rewind button.

He doesn't know you, a subdued voice was saying in my head. Whatever happens, Muye, it changes nothing. You're larger than life still. It's going to take more than a momentary act of vulnerability to make mincemeat of your dignity. The strong don't survive, they fricking rule. Not over until you say it's over.

With that much mental peptalk laid out, I felt shameless upon growing anxious waiting for his reply. For now, it was expedient to point something out.

I had a secret. Not secrets—secret.

Just one.

A singular thing I get to channel all my thinking towards.

Not the gnawing disappointment that shows face only when it's peanuts on hand to chew on. Not what I'm getting at and it's neither about Jung Youngwoo, who I was starting to believe qualifies more for a fraud than an honest-to-goodness moneybag with a penchant for flaunting his estate online, but hey, I won't be putting all my eggs in one basket.

I enjoyed late night walks—no secret either. It's out there but it did not rime with the aspect of human nature that favoured supposing the same spoilt brat they knew could get off her throne long enough to do something, as mundane as a leisurely stroll. Except, of course, it were possible to have the job done for her. But I did. Enjoy the night walks, that is, just as much as the next spoilt brat, second to having people get their hands dirty for me. The stars, the wreathing buzz of nightlife, the resplendence of your favourite brand stores once the sun gave out—none of that horseshit. Save for the last (I loved the swipe of a credit card after a purchase; the squinch of the store attendants' faces, matching the fakeness in their sugary tone as they implore me to 'please, come again'). And it was not about having all the time I didn't have in the day to ponder the progressive fall of my amazing self: Three years, you're not dead yet. Why that says something, Muye. That sure is saying something. I did enough of that without even trying as it were. I heard walking was healthy. Taking walks. The wind in my hair, mooning under the moon, no one to talk to—these were the plus. It was what our family doctor had told me and I had listened, which was saying much because I always considered anything that could come out of Dr. Yoon's mouth crap. To be fair, anyone's mouth.

Most people.

Park Seonghwa of MaHwa Dine—a reckoning force in fine dining of the twenty-first century—scratching a request on paper asking me out to dinner, with his number at the bottom, almost like the fine print on a contract was no secret either. The day is yet to come when I try to keep it on the dee-el the fact that a young, rich, handsome man was interested in me and wished to show how generous he could be over chow. It wouldn't have been modest, it would be flat-out stupid.

Although Lia could do that, but my friend wasn't stupid. I fear calling her so would blow over the verity that she was the last sensible person on this planet, and I needed her for sustainability.

"Good evening, miss." A man was holding the door open for me. I couldn't remember this place having a doorman, how could they when a functioning elevator was already above budget. Out of bounds since forever. I inclined my head in regard, the polite thing to do, mostly mouthing a thank you than uttering it to his hearing before proceeding towards the stairs. It wasn't a big lobby—with a carpet on its way to vintage, if only to cast away from the fact it would never be replaced. There was some sort of receptionist station adjacent to the stairway where the custodian—a man nearly in touch with fifty—of the building lazied through the day until he was beckoned. Then the stack of mailboxes on an entire wall, each one catering to a residence. And that was it. I paid no mind to the rest.