the heart kills.
She sat in the dark. They sat in the dark. Part of her wanted to say something, relieve the irritation at the back of her throat. It was spreading everywhere; her tongue itched, her mouth was dry, her stomach refused to be nice, her head swam (in what, she didn’t know. By the dizziness, it wasn’t anything good). The words, the something, wanted to come out. But because she shut closed and clammed up, the trapped words went elsewhere.
“You didn’t tell me.”
She said nothing.
You didn’t tell me, either.
But she figured she knew. She figured she could read her mind. She figured that her body language was enough— she felt put off, offended—wouldn’t she be able to read that? Shouldn’t she be able to read that?
Of course she would. She always did. It didn’t matter if she was covered up to her chin in bed, lounging over the couch and not giving anyone a second glance, or sitting across from her at the table in the morning, watching her and only her as she ate. She would read her, through and through.
Their eyes met—almost met. She would look just a scant to the left, and she knew that she would look just a scant to the left. And they said nothing.
“You want to fight about it?”
She did. But she didn’t. But she kind of did. But the question, just barely a whisper, had her pause. The yes was stuck there, at the tip of her tongue where it didn’t itch. She swallowed it as quickly as she could, where it would join the other words and become just another word in the bundle of something that would remain unsaid.
“Fist-to-fist?” was all she could eke out.
“Pull each other’s hair out?”
“Hug it out?”
“Walk to the park?”
“Go to the movies?”
“No way. You’ve watched that movie too many times now.”
“Not that one, either. How many minions do you have, four? Five?”
“No. Don’t even get me started.”
She conceded, blowing air upwards and chewing her bottom lip. An amused laugh, and then a light slap on her arm—something she expected, and she smiled (but still, she was upset she lost that easily, and chewed her lip in disappointment).
“Do you want to go buy her another present then? Together?”
Her eyes held that minor disappointment she was used to seeing, the kind that was accompanied by a small pout, hunched shoulders, and downcast eyes. The kind where when she ran her hand over her hair was gone in an instant.
“Yours is better, though.”
“It’s not. You know what’s best for her.”
She said nothing, now. She could hear it, her mind starting up and slowly picking up speed. The words went in, the words were processed, the words were saved. She asked again.
And after a long while, their eyes met.
They went together.
and also to you jokers who, secretly or not, ship taengsic so hard that you’re pained to the point of making bad and uncalled-for jokes. just a little hint: if you really meant it, stop aiming for the brain. you guys are quick-witted, so i trust y’all catch my meaning.