Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
6. SACRED PRAYER
It was strange—rain on a summer night, and here he was, wide awake, losing sleep over someone.
That feeling, the one that twists your stomach and makes your heart ache, was overwhelming him. He hadn't heard from Haerin in days. Their arguments had driven a wedge between them, and now they were no longer speaking.
Of course, she always had the nerve to bring up his brother.
"Maybe if you weren't so naive and used your fucking brain, you'd know he's an asshole. He doesn't really care about your dreams, Rin. No one does."
Those words replayed in his mind over and over again, and it hurt—a lot.
Haerin had always been known for her impulsive behavior, so why was he surprised? The last thing he wanted was to hear such things from her. He didn't even know why—he didn't love her that way, did he? And she couldn't possibly love him. If she did, she wouldn't say such things.
Haerin wasn't a stranger to people's feelings—she cared. But of course, it was the alcohol talking. She had been drinking excessively lately, picking fights and apologizing afterwards, but it never fixed the damage.
Rin had often confided in Sawako about his concerns. Haerin was abusing herself with smoking and drinking at such a young age, and Sawako didn't know how to explain it. She had grown up surrounded by bottles, and even Haerin's mother's forgotten perfume couldn't mask the scent of alcohol.
There seemed to be no escape.
The rain poured relentlessly, and with the windows open, he could hear someone's footsteps. Deep down, he prayed it would be her.
He swore he didn't want to talk to her. Every time he saw her, it felt like being trapped in a burning house with locked doors. She watched him burn, and it was unclear who started the fire.
The doorbell rang. His heart pounded, threatening to rip from his chest. He could have ignored it, but when it came to her, he couldn't keep his sanity.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by her. Maybe his prayers had been answered, but it felt like the worst thing he could have asked for.
He rubbed his eyes. "What do you want?"
"Hi," she said with a forced smile.
He could smell the alcohol from a distance—she had been drinking again.
He sighed. "Leave." As he tried to close the door, he looked at her again.
He opened the door wider. Her lips were bruised, her mascara smeared, and she was clutching a bottle.
"Can I stay here, please? I can't go back home." Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face, but she still smiled.
This was the first time he had seen her cry.
God, how much he wanted to get rid of her right now—not because he hated her, but because he had discovered she was one of his weaknesses, maybe even his greatest.
He stepped closer and gently cupped her chin. "How did this happen?"
He was angry, but his eyes were soft, revealing a deep concern. They always had that look whenever she was hurt.
A thunderstorm raged outside, making her flinch slightly. She moved closer to him.
"I hate you," she said.
"No, you don't."
She seemed to sober up quickly, though she was never a lightweight. She fell into his arms and buried her face in his chest. The rain gradually stopped, and silence returned.
She looked up at him, gently holding his face. "Your eyes are so pretty. Your lashes—I still want to cut them off and put them on mine. And your lips..."
She laughed loudly until he covered her mouth. "Be quiet, idiot. My parents are at home."
Tears welled up in her eyes again.
She stood on her tiptoes, leaning in for a kiss. She was drunk, but she could have sworn she saw a teardrop fall from his eye just as their lips nearly met.
He gently pushed her away. "You should really... go."
He gave her his oversized jacket, which still kept her warm. He watched her walk away, slowly fading from view. Just moments ago, she had been in his arms. Now, he was left wondering why things had to be this way.
He couldn't let her in. He didn't let his emotions win that night.
Or so he thought until he couldn't close his eyes, regret keeping him awake, and he found himself back in that burning house.
Three years later
A girl hides in a cold, colorless room with a box full of Polaroids. They were collected memories—pictures of her and her friends with little notes on them.
In the midst of the quiet, she retreats into her bright memories, finding a sense of home.
Her blood-red wristband lies on the floor, and a nurse is calling her name.
