The Marriage Assignment [4]

Chapter 11, You'll Never Be My Wife.

[ YOONGI'S P.O.V. ]

There is a troubling feeling at my gut. I've felt this feeling before. I've felt it around the first years of debut, the times where I felt like I didn't make it – that the work I paid for was work watered down; my gut used to scream and clench when Bangtan almost disbanded.

But now, walking out of the same doors I had patiently walked into earlier, I'm back in the hallway I was seated at for waits. I'm waddling, dragging my feet, my head ducked. I can't believe what has happened. I can't believe what I've done. What I used to feel at my gut is 100x worse than what I remembered.

My eyes are stinging, and my heart is numbly sat in my chest cavity. Yet, my face shows no emotion. I don't cry. I understand others would in my shoes, but for reason I can't comprehend yet, I can't cry. I wonder if my tears soak up because you, beside me, you're crying hard for the both of us combined.

Expecting that, expecting your cheeks damp with tears, I glance over and spot nothing. You've run dry. Your head ducked similar mine, feet dragging zombie-like similar to mine, heart probably dead similar to mine, and gut twisted similar to mine. Similar to me.

It's this moment where I see my reflection. I see a little of me in you for the first time, and I almost cry in shakes in reflection of you – returning the same revelation back. But you don't look at me, you don't stare at me the way I do to you, so I stop myself from connecting, understanding. I look back to the ground.

Our parents are thrilled. They don't see the defeat, they don't see our sadness. We smile painfully, lips quivering in attempts to play on a show that shouldn't be. They hug us, we barely hug back. They pat our backs as we walk out, we run from their touches as we get to the stairs. Farther from them, farther from the reality we've made for ourselves now. We didn't say no, we didn't fight hard enough – now we're here: walking towards the cars that wait for our newly-wed-selves.

I'm cold. I'm cold outside without my jacket, but the hoodie I wear gives me warmth. I would want my jacket back, but I see the way you're swallowed in it, so I don't nudge it off your shoulders. I let you have it. I look away a second time, noting how long you've had your head ducked for.

"This is great," your mom says, hugging you to the bottoms of the stoned-stairs, "I can't believe my little girl is married." Your mother cries happy tears.

I blankly look to your father that smiles at me. I see he expects something from me. He expects me to keep your stable, keep you safe and keep you happy. Happy. Happy, I know to let him down in. His expecting eyes I look away from fast, looking towards my father that holds proud eyes. He's proud of me, I can see it. I only see these expressions from my father once or twice in my life. Not knowing whether I'll see it again, I cherish the look he gives; the look that comes from listening to him.

Finally, I look to my mother who cups my cheek. I almost jump, alarmed from the sudden touching. I wonder if she can see how warmly I look at her through my sunglasses I wear.

"I'm proud of you," she says out loud. Unlike my father, she says it out loud and I can see she means it from the way her eyes frame in frowns. She's smiling wildly, heart on the line as she holds back tears. "I'm so proud." She pats my cheek, moving up and kissing my cheekbone.

I close my eyes. My breath hitches when the mask I wear shifts awkward at my chin.

"It wasn't the ceremony we'd all wish for, but if it's settled in the eyes of the law, I approve of this." I can't tell if that's my father or yours. The more they're around each other, the more I hear the same person.