snippets of VCY

what if, you and i were meant to part ways

She wakes up suddenly, the sunlight piercing her eyes, and she groans as she feels her arm scream at her.

She's sleeping in the most ordinary way–yet extraordinary to many.

She wakes up and her arms have the imprints of the crumpled thin blanket she had clutched on them.

Sitting upright is a Herculean challenge.

Why, you ask? Because her head is protesting like a madwoman.

And then her muscles are also very tired because she's treated them like shit sleeping in the most painful way— on a leather sofa of all the places which doesn't help the case.

She tries to stretch and then lets out a little scream when she falls on the floor because the sofa refuses to carry her weight anymore.

Thankfully, the fall isn't that bad, but that doesn't make anything better as her head collides with the table, shaking it and all the numerous empty makgeolli bottles fall on her face, head, body—you name it.

She closes her eyes and scrunches her nose in annoyance and once the raining of bottles is over, she gets up and sits upright on the floor.

Moral of the story; never get yourself too drunk and sleep without taking care of the clutter.

But that's not in her hands, you see.

If there's anyone who is held accountable for Hong Cha Young's desire to get drunk and wasted in his apartment where she can smell and savor his presence is him.

The asshole of a cornsalad.

The billionaire Mafia Capo who owns a goddamn island, lives on it and only sends her cheap- ass postcards monthly.

The thought itself makes her utter curses the first thing in the morning.

But her heart and mind aren't in sync, as the beating organ in the left side of her chest, aches for the umpteenth time that she wonders whether it ever gets tired of just aching and aching.

She sighs, an attempt that is always successful to keep the singing tears at bay.

She eyes her phone and takes it in her hands.

The screen lights up and a wave of pain hits her heart again.

As she once again drifts back to the time his text notifications would be the first thing on her lock screen.

Which is now empty.

His morning texts would usually be very formal and brief yet she could sense the affection in them.

There always used to be a good morning text accompanied by a new cafe location.

The reviews claimed they had the best cheesecakes, we should try out.

And a text like the one above.

She doesn't sigh this time and lets the tears cascade her cheeks and then huffs and closes her eyes, throwing her head on the sofa.

This is yearning.

As if yesterday night didn't suffice when she did the same thing while drinking makgeolli.

And then when a few bottles had finished, she'd start talking to him— if not the empty room and then stopped once she felt her cheeks wet.

To let herself be vulnerable and cry her heart out.

Once she's finally regained her composure and energy to start the day back, she tells her brain to shut up as she always does—everyday before starting her day and tries to breathe in and out to lighten her heavy heart.