"you say it's because of my age, girl, but age ain't nothing but a number"
*
a story of which a mother of two finds herself entangled with her son's best friend, jungkook.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I often found comfort in the lively atmosphere of a full house, despite my occasional yearning for some alone time.
There was something reassuring about returning home to the presence of my two children, whom I loved dearly.
But for the first time in years, a rare sense of peace washed over me as I wandered through the empty house.
No Trey complaining about how to fry an egg. No Destiny yelling for some help with the her homework— just complete and utter emptiness.
The strains of music floated up from the stereo downstairs, mingling with the soft creaks of the floorboards beneath my bare feet. Draped in a black silk robe that was tied and hid underneath a very sheer gown, that was fitted and very short, barely making it past my ass, leaving no room for imagination.
Though I adored it, I never got the chance to wear this piece of lingerie. I bought it when Robert and I were still married and wanted to impress him. But he claimed I looked like a slut when I wore lingerie. He hated it. So I never wore it again.
Until now.
Now I didn't give a fuck about what he liked or didn't like.
With a cigarette between my fingers of my left hand and a glass of red wine in my right hand, I savored the solitude, a stark difference from the usual chaos of family life. It was a moment of unexpected calm, allowing me to breathe deeply and unwind after a tumultuous day.
With the beats of Beyoncé's Don't Hurt Yourself reverberating through the house, I sauntered into my bedroom, taking a last sip from my wine. Setting the wine glass down on the coffee table by my bed, I surveyed the room with a determined air.
My gaze landed on Robert's clothes hanging neatly in the closet, a stark reminder of the man who had once filled this space with laughter and warmth. With a sense of purpose, I began to pluck each garment from its hanger, feeling the weight of memories with every fabric I touched.
As the pile of clothes grew in my arms, I made my way to the landing, the music pulsating in the background. With a flick of my wrist, I began to toss the clothes over the balcony, watching them flutter down to the living room below like fallen leaves.
Each garment carried its own story, a testament to the life we had built together and the pain that now lingered in its absence. But with each toss, I felt a sense of release, a cathartic purge of the past that left me feeling lighter, freer.
With a mixture of frustration and determination, I continued to empty Robert's belongings from my closet.
Once the space was solely mine, filled with only my clothes, I moved on to his other possessions, tossing them over the balcony one by one – his shoes, his bags, his laptop– anything that was associated with him.
I needed my bedroom to feel like mine again, without any trace of him lingering behind.
It wasn't just about reclaiming my space; it was about freeing myself from the memories that threatened to consume me.
