Traces and Storms

vi

   "I don't know how to respond," I confessed, breaking the silence which shrouded us.

"You don't have to. I just wanted to tell you."

"Why?"

Myungsoo leaned back, that mysterious smile playing on his lips. "Because I thought maybe if I told you this, then I could tell you more things."

"And would you want that?" I asked with much caution, because it felt like what he told me was something fragile. And maybe it was.

"I find myself not minding it."

I scoffed. "There's a huge difference between not minding and wanting."

"So you don't want me to tell you more things?" he asked.

"I do," I said. "But it would be better if you actually want to. I don't know how to explain it clearly, but if you do it because you don't mind it, then I'd feel as if you took my time listening to you for granted."

Myungsoo then giggled, and I asked him what was wrong.

"Nothing," he said. "I just find it cute."

I licked my lips, took my glass and downed the remaining water before looking at him in the eye. "And did you succeed, resurrecting some of your memories?"

"I did," he answered. "That's why I'm in pain right now."

And he must have noticed the shift in my expression, because he added, "I was hoping to feel this way, because I wanted to make sure. I wanted to know if I still love her."

"And?"

"I still do."

-::-

What Myungsoo said stayed in my mind. I expected for things to be clearer, because he opened up. Instead, everything became more complicated. I couldn't wrap my mind around the matter; Myungsoo spoke in riddles and he was one who refused to give out hints. I began to wonder if he still did love her, or if he was keeping the affections he carried with him out of sheer convenience.

It had been five days, and Myungsoo and I somehow did our own thing. I got too caught up cleaning the house and taking photographs to even drop by at Echo. Myungsoo was nowhere to be found, and at that time, I couldn't find the confidence to face him. I felt embarrassed, in a sense, because he told me something I never thought I'd know. Those were mere words, but it nevertheless carried a part of him, and things were laid bare in front of me, thoroughly exposed and vulnerable.

On the fifth night of not hearing anything from each other, my phone started vibrating. I was half-asleep, and perhaps what they said was right: people become honest whenever they're sleepy, because I whispered, "Jongin?"

There was nothing but the phone's droning static, and it was interrupted by a familiar voice: "Sorry to disappoint."

I sat up straight, then, sobering up without delay. "M-Myungsoo. I'm sorry. I thought—anyway, how'd you get my number?"

"I've always had it," he said. "Since high school. We used to be in the same group for a project, remember? I can't believe you never switched, though."

"There's no reason for me to switch."

"You called me Jongin earlier."

I stopped short. My legs caved in to my weight. My shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

"You keep on saying sorry. Do you know that?"

"I've nothing else to say."

"You can keep quiet. You don't have to apologize all the time."