Time Difference

36. Wishful Thinking

Time passes. Things change - like a bruise fades. Memories. But not a tattoo. To anyone who saw me I looked like any other normal high school girl of below average looks and above average intelligence. But I was walking around marked in secret, tattooed in invisible ink, because no one else could see the stamp covering every inch of my being that had been left on me. No one could hear the tune my blood sang as it pulsed through my veins calling out for him. My rotten heart was still beating for him, vilely betraying me, twisted vengeance for me ever having given it away to him. He was there, stalking me every waking moment, and haunting me in the deepest recess of my nightmares with a pallid purple glow. Jungkook.                                                               

Some days I would contemplate my future in despair, wondering if I would ever rid myself of this desperate need for someone who could never care about me even slightly. And other days, even darker ones, I'd barely be able to hold myself together with the fearful realization that some day I would move on and get over him, that I'd look back at this time with dulled senses and laugh at how trivial my feelings were. I didn't want to remember but I never wanted to forget. If I could carve him into me, pierce myself through even with just his name, then I could never doubt myself, even decades from now, when my memory of the present was just as faulty as my memory of the past, could I?

My grades had transferred for the first semester. I got a letter from the school in Seoul with my transcript. They were all A's, even precalculus. Failing that one test had not been a dream, but it was possible the teacher hadn't bothered to keep the grade since everyone had failed.

A few weeks after Christmas my mom called to tell me she was back in town and wanted to see me. A voice that came out of my mouth from someone else suggested that we meet for dinner at her favorite restaurant and she readily agreed. The voice knew that I could not have her here, pretending to be her host at our old house, the house I was staying in owned by Jungkook. I couldn't even find a pan to put water in to make ramen for us like I had done for my father the past few months. Maybe I should buy a pan, I thought, for later. It wasn't until the day of our plans as I was getting ready that I realized I had no way to get there. A car was no longer sitting in an apartment building parking lot outside waiting for me, or just a phone call away with a professional driver. I'd really gotten spoiled quickly. When I stepped out of the shower I wiped the condensation from the mirror so I could comb my hair. I missed the rain in Seoul. It'd be snowing in January, that would have been so much fun to see. Would I ever be able to visit my dad in the future without things being weird? In a few years, after graduation, everyone I had met would have already scattered around the city or beyond. It wouldn't be that big a deal to visit my dad some day. He'd probably like that. I ran the comb through my hair at the top and drew the part right down the center to pull the tangles from each side. It would be cold when I got home, so I wore my old sweatshirt. The jacket was going to get donated the first chance I had to drop it somewhere. For the whole cab ride I was practically sweating because I was afraid my mom would ask me a question and I wouldn't have the energy to lie so I'd be honest. Like when someone asks, "How are you?" on a bad day, and you don't have the fortitude to say, "I'm fine, how are you?" When the overwhelming feelings and raging tears come tumbling out and you end up revealing how desperately hopeless and isolated you feel, and they say something like, "You don't sound okay, I'm scared for you," or, "That's crazy, how can you say that?"