ᴀᴅᴅɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ

【29】

mingi gets home late. again.

his body aches, his feet hurt, and there's a dull throbbing in his head from staring at a register screen for hours. the scent of gas and oil still clings to his clothes from his shift at the mechanic shop, mixing with the stale coffee smell from the convenience store he works at in the mornings.

two jobs. barely any sleep. but somehow, his dad still thinks he's not doing enough.

he steps inside quietly, toeing off his shoes, hoping—praying—his dad is passed out already. but as soon as he enters, he hears it.

the clinking of ice in a glass.

his stomach twists.

"you're late," his dad mutters from the couch.

mingi exhales through his nose, setting his bag down by the door. "i was working."

his dad scoffs, swirling the glass in his hand. whiskey. again. "yeah? and what's that getting you? still living here, still wasting time."

mingi clenches his jaw. he doesn't need this right now. not after a ten-hour shift on his feet, not when all he wants to do is collapse in bed for a few hours before doing it all over again.

"i'm saving," he says, keeping his voice even. "so i can leave."

his dad laughs, but it's sharp, humorless. "right. and then what? you think you're gonna make it on your own? you're not as smart as you think you are, mingi. the world doesn't give a shit about you."

mingi's grip tightens on the strap of his bag. "i know". he's known that since he was a kid.

"but at least i'm trying," he mutters.

his dad slams his glass down on the table. "trying? trying to do what? run away? you think you're better than me just because you're working some shitty jobs?"

mingi finally looks at him—red-rimmed eyes, slouched posture, the same bitterness in his expression as always.

"no," mingi says, voice flat. "i just don't want to be you."

his dad's face twists in anger. "you ungrateful little—"

mingi doesn't stay to hear the rest. he turns on his heel and walks straight to his room, slamming the door behind him.

his hands are shaking. his head is pounding.

he drops his bag, pulls off his jacket, and rummages under his desk until he finds the small metal box.

his dad wants to act like he's the failure? fine. might as well live up to it.

he flicks the lighter, inhaling deeply as the joint burns.

the smoke fills his lungs, numbing the edges of everything—his dad's voice, the weight in his chest, the exhaustion pressing down on him.

he exhales slowly, watching the haze swirl in the dim light of his room.

outside, his dad is still muttering angrily to himself, the ice in his glass clinking again.