the soul in the past | bada lee

005 | it was always october / stuck in my throat

As you retreated to the solitude of your bedroom, a shroud of disbelief enveloped you. The intensity of the encounter with Bada felt overwhelming, even bordering on the edge of humiliation- you could not help but replay the events in your mind.

You thought of a million scenarios, each presenting a hypothetical path where you could have responded more appropriately, and more confidently. The aftermath of everything left you wondering if the choices you made were the correct ones, with the hindsight of potential alternative actions gnawing at you.

Eventually, you reached for your phone, your hand slightly trembling as you unlocked it. The notifications were full of text messages from your concerned friends, all asking where you are and why you left the club. You contemplated your response carefully, typing a quick text to let them know you were feeling unwell and had to leave, but that now you were in your apartment. It was a half-truth, a convenient excuse to avoid any further inquiries.

You were thankful that they did not see Bada basically dragging you out of the club, as deep down, you knew that if your friends discovered you had left with her, they would misinterpret the entire situation. The mere thought of having to explain the complexity of the events that had transpired, felt exhausting, so you chose to keep the details to yourself.

After some hesitation, your thumb hovered over the app icons before selecting the notes app. You wanted to write about how you felt, even if you did not send it to her. It was a pivotal moment, one that held the potential to help or further complicate the situation between you and Bada.

"I feel like we should talk about this in person, but at a time where I feel more-"

You were dissatisfied as you scrutinized the words you had just typed. Something about them did not sit well, so you decided to backtrack- you erased the entire text. Why was writing a simple text so difficult?

You contemplated leaving your phone on the nightstand, a silent pledge to deal with everything in the morning. As your hand hovered over the piece of furniture, you remember you needed to check your alarms- otherwise, you would probably oversleep. Almost as if she had anticipated your hesitance, your phone suddenly chimed with a notification. It was a direct message on Instagram from Bada.

"I cannot leave everything like this. Can we talk about this, Y/N?"

"I can pick you up and take you anywhere, if you do not want to let me in your apartment."

"Just tell me the time. I'll be there."

"This might be hypocritical but do not ignore me."

An undeniable desire for retribution surged within you, fueled by a blend of anger, hurt, and a stubborn determination not to yield too easily into her charm. The temptation to make her wait, to make her wonder about your thoughts and intentions, was overpowering- so, you only typed a short but telling text.

"I said goodnight, Bada:)"

The words were laced with an unspoken edge, it was a calculated move, a deliberate effort to maintain a sense of control in a situation that had so rapidly spiraled out of your grasp.

"Fuck..."

"You are giving me a taste of my own medicine, well played."