✓ UNLIKELY MATCH | HEESEUNG

55 - Unlikely Match

SENA'S POV

"Inmate 3679."

The words pierce through the fog in my mind as if they were a call to arms. Mother is brought by two officers, her hands shackled in front of her, her face a mask of despair. I recognize her immediately—her striking features, now marred by a blend of anger and sorrow, unmistakable even under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights.

My heart races as she is escorted into the room, her eyes darting around until they land on me. For a moment, there's a flicker of recognition and something else—perhaps a hint of regret or fear. I can't quite tell. Her presence here feels like a final twist in a story that's spiraled out of control, a cruel punctuation mark in an already chaotic series of events.

The officers leave the room, closing the door behind them with a resounding thud that echoes through the silence. We are left alone, the oppressive weight of the room hanging heavy between us. 

"How are you?" The words sound hollow even to me, but what am I supposed to tell her? What am I supposed to ask? The question seems inadequate given the gravity of the situation, like trying to put a bandage on a gaping wound. She looks at me with eyes that have seen too much, her face a canvas of lines and shadows that speak of regret and hardship I can only imagine. Her gaze shifts to the floor, and for a long moment, neither of us speaks.

"I'm surviving," She finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. It's a response so guarded, so practiced, that it feels like a shield against the vulnerability she must be feeling. "I'm here because I need to make things right, at least in whatever way I can." And I just stare at her, her usual beautiful dresses replaced by a drab, ill-fitting jumpsuit that speaks volumes about her current state. 

Her trial had been a media circus, a public spectacle that drew attention for all the wrong reasons. She didn't request any lawyer and she simply accepted the lifetime sentence for the murder she committed. For the murder I would have committed if she hadn't intervened. The thought is a bitter pill to swallow. "I see," is all I manage to choke out. But I don't truly see. Not really. I don't see how accepting a lifetime in prison could ever begin to balance the scales for everything that's happened.

"I despised your father," She starts after what feels like an eternity of silence. Her voice trembles slightly, and her eyes, still lowered, seem to be searching for the right words. "He was cruel, manipulative, and relentless in his pursuit of power. He made me feel powerless and insignificant, and I let that hatred fester until it consumed me. He left with another woman and came back with a child I forced myself to despise too."

My heart clenches at her words, the raw emotion in her voice cutting through me like a blade. It's no grand revelation, but it still cuts deep. Hearing her admit it so plainly, the venom she had toward my father spilling over onto me, is a wound that reopens every time I think about it. 

"I was a child." For the first time in my life, I allow myself to voice the thought that has haunted me for as long as I can remember. "I didn't ask to be born into this mess. I didn't choose to be the reminder of everything he did to you." It's not my fault. I know it and this time there's no room for grief, only clarity. My voice is steady, even as my hands tremble. The truth, so long buried under layers of guilt and self-blame, is finally out in the open. And it feels like the first real breath I've taken in years.

"You were a child," She looks up at me, her eyes red and swollen from crying, and for the first time, I see something I've never seen in her before—acknowledgment. "I was too blinded by my own pain to see that. I blamed you for his sins because it was easier than facing the truth. It was easier than admitting that I had let him destroy me, that I had let him turn me into someone I didn't recognize. But now he's gone because I killed him with my own hands and he won't haunt us anymore." Her voice is steady, yet it trembles at the edges as if she's trying to convince herself as much as me.