I ran the tip of my thumb slowly over his tongue, a soft drag, like testing silk against skin. The caress wasn't rushed. It was reverent. Drawn out. Almost... tender. Charged not with lust, but longing. Deep, quiet longing. My thumb pressed down lig...
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J U N G K O O K
The vast, wide line between my ideals and Mom's expectations had always left a hollowness in my chest.
And this feeling of exhaustion—more than just emptiness—had been growing ever since I could remember.
Sometimes I thought this exact thing, this growing void in my chest, would eventually swallow my entire being.
And I would be left alone in the darkest corners of my mind.
I didn't want to go there.
Not again.
"Finish your food, Kook. You're almost twenty-seven. Don't be unkind." Mom took a womanly bite from some expensive Italian dish I couldn'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—was what she meant.
I picked up the fork, having lost my appetite even though I'd skipped breakfast, and absentmindedly fiddled with the barely touched Atavi on my plate, the slight accidental clink earning a disapproving glance from her.
The kind that told me, once again, all I'd ever given her was disappointment.
I wanted to throw up.
This day of the week—what people called the weekend,a time to relax—was the day I dreaded the most, felt extreme repugnance on.
I'd rather have worked nine to five in my office and stank of sweat.
Saturdays—Sunnunótt, how she called it—were the days of our family gatherings, supposedly about catching up, which were really just opportunities for my parents to tell me about how displeased they were with me.
How she was displeased with me, considering the way Dad couldn't make it most of the time.
Today, it was a last-minute business meeting.
It's a very important work—he had said.
I never wondered why Mom—who hated her husband with all she owned—and Dad—who loathed his wife more with every passing day—were still together.
Because of reputation and what Dad's business partners would say, of course.
Sometimes, the mention of my father stung.
He was like an absent figure in my life.
Absent, not someone who didn't exist.
A part of me always wondered if things would've turned out differently had he understood; had he tried.
