bleed me | jin ✔

T E N

My love,

Today I picked up a gun for the first time. It was heavier than I thought it would be. It wasn't like in the movies, where they grab it so easily and fire away. 

But then again, nothing is like the movies, right? In the movies, people get to choose their own destinies. In the movies, they always find what they didn't know they needed. In the movies, there's an happy ever after. 

But my life isn't a movie. It's not a preview. It isn't even a script. It's just an idea written on a piece of paper. 

And I don't know who will write the script, but deep down I know it won't be me.

J.

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It took a total of 26 minutes of polite and emotionless conversation before things shifted. 26 minutes before they could talk about what really mattered. 26 minutes of both of them ignoring the sword hanging over their heads.

And finally, June couldn't hold it anymore.

She needed to hear about it. It, the thing that broke them.

"Jin... How was it, there?" She asked softly, her fear of the answer barely hidden.

He met her eyes, and he didn't need to ask how was it where. Because he could see it in her eyes, what she was refering to. 

It was the same thing he saw in them when he got that letter, the same thing he saw when he cut his hair, the same thing he saw when he turned his back on her.

He shifted in his seat.

"It was... I don't know. It doesn't matter, doesn't it? That part of my life is over now." He said, almost in a whisper, but sounding somehow like a broken record.

In a way, he was like a broken record. To everyone that asked, and there were lots of people, he said the exact same thing: It doesn't matter.

Because it didn't. It was over, now. 

It mattered, for a while, but now it didn't, and that's all that mattered. What mattered is the fact that it didn't matter. 

"Jin... You were in the army for two years. We aren't together today because of that. I need to know how it was." She pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. 

All he could do was look down as he avoided her eyes. He didn't want to see what was in them, he didn't want to admit what he already knew: that him enrolling in the army broke her like it broke him.

Because it wasn't like it was his choice. 

It wasn't like he chose to go in the army. He had to do his mandatory enlistment at some point, and after college was perhaps the best time.

It wasn't like he chose to enroll. It wasn't like he chose to turn his back on her. He had to. He had to, because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving her alone for two years, alone with empty promises he might not be able to keep. 

He had to turn his back. Turn his back on her. 

Turn his back, not to look forward, but to look down until it was over.

He had to release her, release her so she could live normally for two years, so she wouldn't be bound to a guy who might die fighting for something he didn't believe in. So she wouldn't be the girl whose boyfriend only calls once a week, the girl whose boyfriend is halfway across the country and barely gets a free weekend every three months, the girl who's in a relationship but all alone.

He couldn't be with her, for her own good. She could have a life, he could not. So he left her.

He thought he could somehow forget her for two years, and find her again when his enlistment was done. He thought she would be happier if she wasn't tied to him while he was away. He thought that since they couldn't be side by side, it would be better if they were apart. 

But he hadn't thought about how it would split them in a way that perhaps couldn't be repaired. 

"It doesn't matter." He repeated, this time louder. 

It didn't matter. 

It was over.

The army. 

Them. 

It was all over.