The Neighbor's Desire (21+) • VK

THREE

The vast, wide line between my ideals and mom's expectations has always left a hollowness in my chest.

And this feeling of exhaustion—more than just emptiness—has been growing ever since I can remember.

Sometimes I think this exact thing, this growing void in my chest, will eventually swallow my entire being.

And I would be left alone in the darkest corners of my mind.

I don't want to go there.

Not again.

"Finish your food, Kook. You're almost twenty-seven. Don't be unkind," mom takes a womanly bite from some expensive Italian dish I can't name, careful not to smudge her signature red lips.

You're trying to get on my nerves after the fuss you've caused? You're twenty-seven; be a little responsible! Show some respect! Don't be unkind to me after everything I've done, after all the money I wasted on you—is what she means.

I pick up the fork, having lost my appetite even though I skipped breakfast, and absentmindedly fiddle with the barely touched Atavi on my plate, the slight accidental clink earning a disapproving glance from mom.

The kind that tells me, once again, all I've ever given her is disappointment.

I want to throw up.

This day of the week—what people call the weekend, a time to relax—is the day I dread the most, feel extreme repugnance on.

I'd rather work nine to five in my office and stink of sweat.

Saturdays—Sunnunótt, how mom calls it—are the days of our family gatherings, which are supposed to be about catching up and are really just opportunities for my parents to tell me about how displeased they're with me.

How she is displeased with me, considering the way dad couldn't make it most of the time.

Today, it's the last-minute business trip to Germany.

It's a very important work—he had said.

I never wonder why mom—who hates her husband with all she owns—and dad—who loathes his wife more with every passing day—are still together.

Because of reputation and what dad's business partners would say, of course.

Sometimes, the mention of my father stings.

He's like an absent figure in my life.

Absent, not someone who doesn't exist.

A part of me always wonders if things would've turned out differently had he understood; had he tried.

But that's an empty fantasy, one I've stopped entertaining long ago.

"You're sitting like that again?" Mom says, folding her napkin with military precision, her manicured fingers expert in whatever she does, "Be firm in your movements, for once. You always let the world walk over you."

Can you be more feminine?

She doesn't say it, but I'm too familiar with the words, the tone of that voice.

Then again, why would she? It's a public place.

Feminine, I don't ever understand what she means by that.

Is it the way I hold my fork so daintily, like it's a fine piece of lace? Or the way I don't speak enough?

Don't dominate the conversations? Too shy? Always looking down? Biting my ladylike lips? Blushing too much for a man? Breathing?