FAUX REAL

32

I was hyper as a child, always running around. High energy, my nanny would say, but my parents didn't see it that way. To them, I was problematic. A destroyer of fine art and crystal knick-knacks. It was never my fault, not really. Once, when I was five, I shattered an antique vase into hundreds of pieces. Mum nearly had an aneurysm and spent a whole night trying to glue it back together. It worked. Sort of. Some pieces were missing and you could see the cracks but the structure held. The foundation was there. It wasn't completely broken.

That's what I'm holding onto now. That me and her not completely broken. That we're merely cracked.

There are artifacts in museums around the world that passed through many hands, that have been dropped, battered, scuffed. But they're still standing today. We still awe in their presence. That's because these priceless artifacts are quality-made. The finest material. Often gold. Gold doesn't lose its value. Even with scratches, its price doesn't change. When it's roughed up, you can melt it and morph it into something else. Sometimes, into something better. Something more beautiful. Something priceless. Something to cherish.

We were gold. She was gold. And I was a bloody idiot for treating her like fucking aluminum.

My foot bounces restlessly against the floor as I stare blankly at my computer screen, my thoughts held hostage by the gut-wrecking idea that I might not be capable of mending what I've broken. But I can't let those thoughts win. Not a chance. My parents have deemed me many things over the years; problematic, a mess, a nuisance, and a trait that hopefully be highly beneficial right now- stubborn.

I will fix this. I need to fix this.

My gaze darts to the trash can. Fuck sakes. I really need a smoke. I close my eyes, turning away. No. No. How will that help? It's not like a hit of nicotine is going to magically alter the circumstances. It's not going to make anything better. Only I can fix this. Me. Alone. Not any substance. Not any distraction. Just me. I hope I'm enough.

"Hello?" The door to the dorm opens a crack, Rosé's head poking through. "Jisoo? You here?"

"She's at work," I say, rotating my computer chair. "Just missed her."

"Oh," she nods, slowly waltzing into my room. "Dang it. What are the odds?"

"Was there something else you needed?" I cross my arms, studying her scheming face as she sits on Jisoo's bed. " Rosé?"

"Not really," she says with a shrug, avoiding eye contact. "Just wanted to see how you're doing, you know, how you're feeling about...everything."

"Like shit," I state honestly. "Like utter shit."

She sighs, clicking her tongue. "Just give it time."

"You've been saying that for weeks now," I note, a ball of nerves in my throat. "Nothing's changed. She fucking hates me. She won't even look at me. It's like she's deleted me from her surroundings."

"She doesn't hate you," she says, tilting her head. "She's just...hurt and embarrassed.'"

"Embarrassed?" I ask, frowning. "Why would she be embarrassed? She didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one that fucked up, not her."

She blinks. "Welcome to drama in high school, especially Hilton."

"What?"

She clicks her tongue, clearly annoyed with me as she leans forward. "You... Her... two women. One...cheat. The other one...the problem."