I Think I Love You •Chaennie•

Chapter 25

Jennie's POV

I spend half of Wednesday morning in bed. Not out of laziness (well, partially) but because I can't stand the thought of facing my parents. I stay wrapped in my duvet, bundled against the frosty AC unit blasting from my window.

I don't even know what's bugging me so much. They didn't throw me out of the house. They didn't spit homophobic arguments at my face.

It was like they didn't care at all.

I spent so long working myself up to that moment. Months mulling over what I'd say. Countless hours panicking about how they'd react. And, granted, I went in totally blind, blurting out whatever incoherent half sentences I could muster through my own anxious numbness.

They acted like all that was nothing.

In a foolish moment, I wish for Rosé. She'd understand. But it's not like I can ever face her again. Instead I curl up under my duvet, pulling it most of the way over my head, and watch Kuma romp around the mess of dirty laundry on my floor. It's hard to breathe through the thick duvet cover, but at least I'm hidden away.

Even though I'm kind of hoping my parents will try to come find me.

"Jennie! You want me to make you breakfast before I go?" Mom yells from the kitchen.

I don't respond, instead listening to their scuffling as they bustle around the house, getting ready to go. Mom yells for me another time, and Dad tries after her.

I breathe against the mattress, not responding. Kuma bounds onto the bed to poke at my feet, and I wiggle my toes for her. She pounces on them, and I bite back my giggle.

"She must be still asleep," Mom says to Dad at last.

Footsteps pound down the hall, and my door creaks open. I squeeze my eyes shut and slow my breathing. After a moment, the door closes again.

"Let her rest," Dad says. "She seems stressed, and I think..."

I don't get to hear what he thinks, because they continue their conversation on their way to work, the front door slamming behind them. Silence descends over the house.

I unfurl in the bed, a sudden urge to move pumping through my veins. I stretch my legs against the mattress.

Kicking the blankets off, I jump out of bed and dress, throwing clothes on at random. I glance in the mirror on my way out of the room, cringing at the deep imprints my pillow has left in my cheeks, but there's no time to fix it now.

I slip on my shoes and cross the hall to knock on Jisoo's door. Aunt Natalie opens it. She's holding a spatula dripping in waffle mix, which makes my stomach rumble. It's not like me to turn down an offer for breakfast.

"Is Jisoo up yet?" I ask.

"You can check her room," Aunt Ji-yoo says, gesturing with the spatula.

I hustle down the hall, my stomach twisting. We've never had to make up after a fight before, because we've never fought. I have no idea what to say.

I burst into the bedroom, ready to apologize, but when I see her, I stop short. I was expecting her to still be a mess. But she's sitting cross-legged on her neatly made bed, her hair twisted into a loose braid that tumbles past her shoulder, light makeup dabbed across her face. More confusing yet, her bedspread is covered in piles of books. My books.

I blink, taking in the scene. Jisoo has never been into Shakespeare. She likes YA romances and old rom-coms.

"You okay?" I ask. How can I focus on making up when Jisoo is clearly in the middle of some kind of nervous breakdown?