You Infire Me

Chapter Seventeen: Happy New Year

"The splendid thing about falling apart silently . . . is that you can start over as many times as you like."
— Sanober Khan, A Thousand Flamingos

The blizzard ends, and you and Yoongi make it back to Hunsaker in one piece. (Or, two pieces, rather. Two very distinct, separate pieces, tragically.) You miss Christmas with your family. You try to tell your parents that you didn't spend the holiday alone, but the phone conversation ends up being quite the challenge—a challenge to avoid relating too much information. You can't exactly tell your family that you spent Christmas Eve sharing a bed with a former K-pop superstar.

You manage to make it home for New Year's. A regrettable action, really. Your extended family gathers for a New Year's Eve party, and for the entire evening it's nothing but "How is your senior year going, Y/N?" "Do you have a job lined up for after graduation?" "Well, have you had any interviews?" "Well, I guess that's what happens when you major in English, haha." Haha indeed, ancient great aunt who I've only ever seen twice in my life. Please, tell me more about how you know everything.

Part of you is quite good at catching all their snide remarks and throwing them aside. (Your method of combat? Snide marks of your own, enjoyed silently within the confines of your mind.) But another part of you—the part riddled with anxiety—harbors your family's criticisms inside, allowing them to settle like burning coals inside your chest. They burn and they scorch and they fester, until they explode. Fidgeting and taking quick sips of iced water from a red solo cup doesn't work anymore. You need to cry; you can't make it until after midnight. By 11:35, you shut yourself up in your room and promptly bawl your eyes out.

From the spot you've chosen on the floor, you hold your knees to your chest and let your brain begin its tirade of negative thoughts—this time in the form of a riddle.

What's worse than a room full of repulsive, humid breath-emitting bodies?

You respond: I don't know, mind. What is worse than a room full of repulsive, humid breath-emitting bodies?

It answers: A room full of repulsive, humid breath-emitting judgmental family members just waiting to watch you fail.

They'll watch your failure like a PG-rated movie musical. Popcorn in hand. Applause at the end.

At 11:45, you force yourself off the floor and wobble over to look at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is wet and irritated, the spaces around your eyes smudged haphazardly with eye makeup. You bring a hand to touch your lips: they're swollen and trembling. Your hair is unkempt from where you've pulled at it. Were someone to search up the word mess in a dictionary, your picture would appear. You tell yourself so, and the other ensuing thoughts that pass through your brain like cars on a highway only worsen your current state. They twist your face into expressions of pain. Anguish. Despair. Destruction, with no chance of reassembly.

What's the point of all this, anyway?

I have no future.

I'm completely useless.

My roommates see me as a burden, really.

And I haven't heard from Yoongi in days.

All those people laughing and having fun down the hall . . . they won't need to wait to watch me crash and burn.

I already have.

Time won't stop to indulge you in this thought warfare. The clock ticks on. It's 11:50.

Ten more minutes until the new year.