Traces and Storms

i

Your hair's so long.

Snip.

It's beautiful.

Snip.

Don't ever cut it, okay?

Snip.

Promise me.

Snip.

Then, freedom.

My head felt lighter, but my heart became heavier.

I stared, long and hard, at my reflection. A pair of swollen, brown eyes looked back at me. Empty. Tired. Begging for sleep. My chapped lips were trembling. A lump began to form in my throat—a stinging sensation. My vision became blurry, so I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And tasted something salty.

I was free, but at the same time, beginning to sink. The courage I had earlier was quickly consumed by regret.

I shouldn't have, I shouldn't have, was all I chanted in my head, but the chunk of hair on the tiled floor told me it was too late.

That I had to wait for my hair to grow back.

For my wounds to heal.

For my scars to show.

-::-

It was already two in the morning, but I decided to walk around our district, only to stay in the park, where the rusty swings were. Vehicles zoomed by from the distance, engines running smooth and sharp. A quick zip! and they were gone. The roars echoed, lingering for a few more seconds, only to be swallowed by the late evening's silence, filled with dullness and distant voices.

I heaved a sigh, dug my white Chucks into the fine sand, and stayed still. I was staring at the ground, but my eyes were out of focus. The irritating, prickly feeling in my chest numbed my senses. All I wanted, at that time, was to shut down. To forget everything. I wished for the sky to fall. Or for something to hit me—a plane, a piano, whatever—it felt like going in an instant was the best way to escape from the emptiness.

"Look at what the cat dragged in."

Startled by the voice, I jumped up at the slightest. I was ready to run away when the person stepped out of the shadows. He was wearing a black hoodie and a pair of gray jogging pants, matched with white Jordans. A bottle of Evian in one hand, a phone in the other. He tugged his earphones out, rolled them in a tangled mess before stuffing it in his pocket, and finally, he pulled his hood off. His face glistened beneath the pale glow of the lamppost overhead.

"Myungsoo," I said, as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Suji," he echoed, flashing me that boy-next-door grin of his. The polite kind. The one I detested, because it showed he had already built high walls around him before we could even start out a conversation, and people would never be able to get through that façade of his—they would never be able to scratch what's beneath his mask. They wouldn't be able to, because they're far too captivated by that handsome smile he displayed with nonchalance. It frustrated me because others would fall for it in a snap. It frustrated me because I was the same way, too.

"What are you doing here?"

Myungsoo raised his bottle and phone by a few inches. "Running. And you?"

A pause. I looked around, and shrugged. "Swinging."

"Life away?" he suggested.

I scoffed at his remark. "Maybe."