occasional stalker // jjk

the one with the notes and youth

You lied to your mom that you attended the practice two days ago, and your clothes managed to became so wet while you were going from the bus stop. 

"Y/N! Come downstairs. Now!" your mom shouted from the kitchen. With a heavy sigh, you took off your reading glasses and closed your history notebook.

"What for?" you shouted leaning backward on your chair, but mom didn't answer. "Agh, as always!"

Your parents occupied the dining table, dad was sitting with his hands intertwined together and placed on the table surface, mom pressed her little fist against her lips and nervously looked at the oven, where something evidently was. You stopped at the doorway when you saw the serious face of your father, mom nodded at the chair across the table and you cautiously sat down. 

"That doesn't look good," you commented through your teeth. 

"We just wanted to talk," mom assured you with uneasiness in her gaze. "Honey, don't be pushy," she turned to your dad who nodded slightly and cleared his throat before speaking. 

"Your trainer called us," your dad made a pause and your heart skipped a beat. "He told us that you have the tennis tournament."

You trembled inside hoping trainer didn't tell your parents about your absence on the last practice. Your mom broke the silence shifting heavily on her chair to stood up. 

"He wants you to practice 5 times per week instead of 3, what do you think?" 

Relieved sigh broke out of your lungs and you sat comfortably on your chair. 

"I think it's great," you smiled. Mom was back with the hot pie breathing with steam in her hands.

"But what about your studies? You're already the second, you can't get lower!" dad raised his voice, but he didn't yell. 

"Honey! I told you!" your mom interrupted. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with two fingers. 

"Dad, listen, this tournament will open so many doors for me, I won't even use my school rating in college, you know!" you tried to reassure him looking diagonally at the pie your mom was slicing. Dad seemed bulletproof like a rock, he still couldn't believe his daughter wasn't the first. 

"To be honest," you lowered your voice, looking down at the wooden surface. "You are exaggerating with this rating. I don't wanna live with that label "top student" forever."

The silence established in the kitchen and only sonant sound of the metallic knife falling on the table cut it. Dad accusingly glared at you trying to become invisible. 

"That's all for your future, how you don't understand? Tennis is not serious, unless you want to live miserably," he soundly exhaled.

"The only thing you can do for my future is supporting me, you've never came to my games while other parents always cheer up their children, and I'm like a black sheep!" you suddenly exploded. Your words, like a blade, cut your own little heart and tears covered your cheeks. Realizing what you just said, you buried your face into your palms and added short "I'm sorry" swollen into sobs, rushing to your room.

This fight had opened your childish memories and brought them back to your mind spotlighting all the bad moments, like an exhibition of your mental pain. No one never understood how you could be sad if you'd got all the attention, you were perfect. You had to be. Listening to your parents scolding you because of the one mark lower, than 95%, and trying the best you could just to make things right. Some days you were just alone in your room, pretending to do homework, but crying upon your notebooks, tears blurring ink over pages and paper getting wavy. Some days you were just smiling, because you were so exhausted, you just couldn't cry anymore. But those days were long gone, high school started and you parents promised to never forbid you attending tennis, even if it would reflect on your grades. They promised to give you some freedom.