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The morning of the coming weekend, Taehyung plummets.
"It's not about the boy."
His grip on the phone is clammy. His fingers tremble. Sitting in the silence of his apartment, he listens to the slow tick of the clock, the seconds that feel like more than just seconds, the crackle of the line as his mother breathes, the clotted guilt and forced optimism.
"Mom, there is no boy," he says—technically not a lie.
"That's not the problem."
"Then—"
"We all need to grow a little. It would just be better—for all of us!—if you weren't there."
Taehyung says nothing. Weight on his chest. Weight in his lungs. In his heart.
"He just—your father just wants you to grow."
He laughs incredulously. It's dry and disbelieving. "But I—" I have grown. I've done everything—everything I could.
The strangest part is his world doesn't crumble. It probably would have, had this happened ten, five, even three years ago, but now he is...not numb, but learned. Experienced. He's had worse. He always has.
"Maybe next year. Next birthday—sixty-sixth! Maybe when you grow up a little more, Taehyung." Then a feminine, tremulous sigh. So weary and old, as if the pain is all bore by her. "Oh, Eunji was so good for you. I don't know why you let her get away, such a good girl like that. A sweet girl."
Taehyung bites back everything he wants to say, how his parents only liked Eunji because she was a girl and how the real reason for disinviting him is because they're embarrassed of him, and how his mother is a grovelling, filthy coward for not admitting it.
His fingers no longer shake and he feels the familiar ache of hatred in his throat, the tingle on his lips as he smiles.
"I love you," he says.
"I'm sorry, Taehyung."
"Yeah. I love you."
The exchange buzzes around in his head for the rest of the day. He feels the words like ghosts on his lips, cold contours of words as he repeats them. Repeats them. Repeats them.
When he's walking past the kitchen he sees the post-it notes, thin and old on the fridge, the edges of the paper curling, "call mom" scribbled out in his sharp handwriting. He had always felt worn out by the reminder, the mere thought of having to hear her voice on the phone, the unspoken disappointment and the lies she told about how his father was too busy to talk—but maybe next time. Next time, when Taehyung called again.
She always told him to call. He now thinks it might have been for an easier hold on the gun to his head, guilting and questions and inevitable disillusionment.
That morning, he stares at the post-it notes for a few seconds before walking over and peeling them off the fridge. He is careful, so they don't tear. He folds them up. Then his phone buzzes. A text from Jeongguk—come see me dance tonight?—and he immediately knows what to reply with.
