Chapter Text
Wonwoo's looking at each edge of their apartment looking for an outline, when the screen of his phone lights up. An indication that the call has ended with the same repeated automated voice prompt for the twelfth time.
Twelve calls. Isa pa. Baka hindi niya lang masagot agad. Baka malapit na 'yon. Baka nasa byahe. Baka sasagutin niya na kapag isang tawag pa. Isa na lang. Isa pa.
He grips his phone and battles to himself before he clicks the call again for one last time. He looks dumb and desperate, and if you'd ask him, yes. He's fucking praying to every God as if it's the lyrics to the ringback tone playing on a turntable, it almost feels sacred for how many times he pleads. And pleads. And pleads.
He just needs one answered phone call. Just one.
Pero habang mas lumalakas ang ulan ay mas lalong bumibilis ang pagpatak ng orasan sa alas-diyes. Mas nanghihina siya. Mas nagiging malinaw na sa kaniya ang lahat.
He's never going to have that marriage. They are never going to celebrate their anniversary. Hell, even saying their greetings to each other at the very least. By the time he pleads to himself or to anyone else to not let it happen, the call disconnected.
Four beeps, four beats of the heart — and on the fifth, the call stops, and so does his heart.
Thirteen missed calls. Labing tatlo. Huminga siya nang malalim at hinayaang mamatay ang screen ng phone niya. It took Wonwoo thirteen missed calls to realize thirteen years is already enough. He had done more than just thirteen calls. He had done more than just buying tickets. He gave Mingyu his whole life. For thirteen years. Masiyado nang matagal 'yon, masiyado nang nakakapagod. Eto na siguro 'yon. Ayaw niya na talaga.
He sits on their salas, his two limbs are too frail to hold a storm growing on his heart. He looks at their framed pictures — he sees their graduation photo together, a photo at their first apartment, when they first brought Seol home, and the photo of Mingyu alone, the one that he took. He looks around, quietly certain there must be a photograph of himself tucked away somewhere — a fading print, a forgotten frame, something to prove he was once there. But as he searches, the realization dawns: there isn’t a single one to be found. Wonwoo lets out a sigh and smiles bitterly. How come he just realized it now?
One knock, sounding like a thunderstroke. The breaths that he knows so well it become a home to his ears for too many years. Too many exhausting years.
The door unlocks from the other side before Wonwoo does it. Nonetheless, he'll never know how to carry himself and face who's there. But he needs to, doesn't he?
So, he sees a boy. A man — that used to be skinny, at the same height as him, and all canine smiles. Wonwoo blinks. Thunderstroke. He now sees a bouldering physique, taller than him, and trembling lips. He sees a man, a storm within, and no trace of the sunbeams once stored at the ends of his lashes. Wonwoo blinks. Unkempt hair as each tip drips a raindrop to the threshold. White polo he ironed just last night is now drenched and lost one button. Eyes staring back at him like he's a forever promise that couldn't be kept.
Eyes, then, turned bloodshot red, Wonwoo wonders how many times he saw them and received a whisper of "I'm sorry." after. Before he loses count and before the two words bell his ears, he reaches for the towel hanging on their dining chair and places it on a non-stranger's hair. He hates getting his floor wet anyway.
Wonwoo remains silent and to his surprise, he doesn't receive the two words but more.
"Tara na. Alis na tayo," Mingyu's trembling voice is as broken as what it sounds like. He removes the towel and looks with such certainty in his eyes, like it's rushing forward, brimming with anticipation, desperate for a last-ditch effort.
Wonwoo sighs that fills the silence between the spaces against them, Wonwoo stands a bit straighter because maybe his feet are now firm enough for yet another storm. When the rain calms down a bit, he swallows the lightning in his throat first, then speaks, "Gyu..." Wonwoo whispers. "Tama na," almost soundless yet ear-splitting
Tinignan siya ni Mingyu — tinignan nang mabuti. Nangungusap ang mga mata at maaninag niya rito ang pagguho ng bawat natitirang dahilan para kumapit sa isa't isa ang sirang sira niyang mundo. Nawindang ang buong sistema, nanginig ang mga tuhod at mas nanlalamig ang mga kamay na animo’y nakakita ng sangkatutak na ligaw na balang tutok ang bagsak sa kaniya.
It takes Mingyu two solid minutes and three slow blinks to look away.
From all their repetitive fights before, Wonwoo knew this was going to happen. He expected raging voices, hurtful words thrown at each other that came out unprocessed by the mind. He expected clothes on the floor and a messy kitchen table. He expected a notification from the landlord and complaints from their neighboring flat tenants. Jeonghan and Seungcheol probably knew it by now too and would be trying to stop the fight.
But instead, there’s only silence.
At hindi niya inaasahan na ang sangkatutak na bala, mula sa kanilang sariling gatilyo, ay nakalapat sa kani-kaniyang sentido.
Mingyu steps inside of their apartment and passes by Wonwoo without a glance but leaves a damp on his shirt a person five steps away can see.
"We are leaving," Mingyu says with emphasis of each word, hands on their two suitcases that would, later on, never going to make it pass through the door and be of use for its purpose.
Wonwoo lets out a sigh dahil sa hindi na mabilang sa raming beses niya 'tong naramdam. Hindi na niya mapangalanan lahat pero iisa lang ang alam niya, he's so tired of this.
"It's already late. We are 30 minutes late already."
"I'll buy a new ticket. I'll book another hotel or whatever it is. We are going," he says with the same adamant disposition because perhaps if he slips too many coins to a claw machine and maneuvers the luck to the right direction, one prize is enough to compensate for all the failures.
"Tama na." Wonwoo repeats more firmly because he doesn't want to sound weak.
Mingyu, jaw tight, hasn't said anything. No lame excuses or perhaps, sound justification for Wonwoo to understand him. But maybe there's nothing left to say. Maybe he knows it too, that this is way past due, and he's just trying to save it, because that's the only thing he knows how to do. To run fast, clothes all drenched, when time is running out. To realize what he's about to lose, not when it was still all his.
Mingyu massages his forehead and tries to breathe more stable. Wonwoo sees his eyes crystalized, the same eyes he looked for when he stepped onto the stage as a summa cum laude. The same eyes he searched for more than his own reflection in the mirror when they were getting ready for their first anniversary date. The pair that once held the softest light that doesn't make you squint but the kind that makes you stare longer. The pair that's looking back at him now, crystalized with nothing but the heaviest darkness.
"What do you mean?" A crack voice. A confusion and a heartbreak. Mingyu knows what he means. Knows it too well he wishes he doesn't.
Rain comes raging now and truthfully, Wonwoo is thankful. He just doesn't know if it’s for the noise that drowns out the suffocating silence, or for the way it smothers the sound of his heart quietly fracturing beneath it all.
"I can't do this anymore, Mingyu."
Mingyu moves closer until he is only five steps away. Wonwoo wonders if Mingyu can see the damp he had caused on his shirt and if he can hear Wonwoo's heart galloping, he wishes he doesn't.
"S-sabihin mo sakin kung anong… anong dapat kong gawin, Wons. A-anong dapat kong baguhin. Tell me what you need... I'll give it… I’ll give it to you. Ask me everything, Wons. Please, I'll do it just- I can't… I can't let you go like this," beyond pleading, almost asking for salvation, trying to make himself believe that this lost cause arrangement is still up for reconsideration. Na baka pwede pa. Isa pa. Maybe on the 14th call, he’ll finally answer.
Unfortunately, Wonwoo is not a prize in a claw machine. Wonwoo is also the one harboring the coins, until he loses all of them, and for years and years, he still hasn’t learned how to walk away.
Two steps closer. The taller's shaky cold hand reaches out to Wonwoo's. And he wants to cry. It is so cold. Their one last touch will be so cold.
Which is to say, everything will turn cold, too. The thirteen years of his life and the life he used to pronounce as forever will turn into the shape of an ice cube that slowly dies down the drain. Not because it reached its melting point but because it waited too long just to realize it could no longer come back to minus seventeen degrees Celsius where it used to be stored.
So, he looks at each edge of their apartment looking for an outline, he looks at their ceiling longer and lets go of his hand first because maybe right now he finally can walk away. He can finally let it down in the drain. No more 14th call. He couldn’t even dare to answer the 13th one.
"I just- I just asked you to come home." Wonwoo chokes out, his voice barely holding it together.
Silence. Wonwoo blinks. He stares at the dim light bleeding from the kitchen — Wonwoo’s used to leave it on for the nights Mingyu sleeps on the couch or drifts in late, as if the glow could speak what he never could: I’m here. Still here. He’s still trying to trace the shape of it all, still searching the outline. There’s a flood of questions clawing at his throat, he wants to ask if Mingyu ever noticed the missing photo from the sala, or if it was ever truly there. He wants to ask if he is Mingyu's promise he could never keep. He wants to ask, bakit ngayon lang? Bakit ngayon ka lang? But Wonwoo swallows it down, jaw tight, because deep down there he knows it doesn't matter anymore.
"Pano si Seol?" Mingyu asks, looking at the floor.
"I'll take care of her."
Silence.
There’s only silence
And the thing about silence is that it kills you — not by the edge that knows blood of the knife, but by the fear from your own hand.
It’s the sting. The maddening sting of waiting, of the not-knowing, until your hand starts to shake from clenching too long — knuckles white, skin splitting at the seams — begging for the blow to swing at you so you can claw your way forward with gritted teeth and swing yours back.
To finally land somewhere that makes the ache make sense. Something that would turn into scars.
So, you wait. And wait. And wait. But it never comes.
Then, you look at the other hand, a hand that's also holding a knife, its tip pointing at you but you see it trembling, too. Red. Raw. Unexperience. The I didn't want this to happen. Just like yours.
And no one knows whose hand was first, whose silence was the knife — But both fists split wide open.
And all you can think, all you can fucking think is:
How did it come to this?
"Wons..."
He can't breathe looking at Mingyu's dilated eyes.
Wonwoo blinks. Thunderstroke.
Wonwoo remembers the studio apartment where even their breaths were audible through the partition wall. The canned foods and unhealthy snacks, just so they could fill up their stomachs. The somai for monday, kwek-kwek and kikiam for Wednesday. We will have pares for Tuesday and Thursday because both of us have six to nine classes. Friday's for lugaw and lumpiang togue because we deserve it.
Wonwoo remembers a college boy with too many part-time jobs, calloused hands, but a tender hold. Big dreams larger than this life and the next. The jokes and the laughter sounded like lyrics from answered phone calls playing on a turntable. And he pleads. And pleads. And pleads that his twenty pesos two days unli calls and texts load won’t expire just yet.
Wonwoo remembers the soft kiss on his forehead and cheeks against shoulder blade. The breaths that made home in his ears.
Wonwoo remembers the I love yous, the promise. The not a lot, just forever.
Wonwoo remembers Mingyu. Skinny, at the same height as him, all canine smiles.
He remembers his boy.
His Mingyu.
His Iyo.
Wonwoo blinks. Tears.
Wonwoo looks at each edge of their apartment, looking for an outline because there must be somewhere it has to end. Somewhere the lights no longer catch on. There must be.
He looks around, eyes tracing the faint trail of light bleeding from the kitchen — and there it is: their room. Inside, a queen-sized bed, a nightstand, and the warm lamp resting on it, gathering dust, and left to rot there. The cabinet that can fit all of their clothes — old ones and mostly new. The things they used to only dream of. They’re all there. Or maybe they’re not. Wonwoo can’t tell. The light stops at the door, and the door stays shut. All he can do is to remember what it used to be and what it could have been. Not what it is now.
He wouldn’t know the lamp hasn’t worked in weeks, or that their old clothes are already packed away. What he knows though, what he truly knows, is that this room is too big for one person.
So, this is where it ends.
"I'll leave tomorrow. I just need this night." Wonwoo says.
"Ako na lang aalis."
"No. You should stay."
Mingyu couldn't respond immediately, so he just nodded after a minute or two trying hard to make a sound.
"Maligo ka na at magpalit ng damit baka magkasakit ka." Wonwoo doesn’t look at him and goes straight to their room one last time. "I'm going to sleep now."
Sometime after that night, the rain stops. It's no longer the 23rd of November. And Mingyu will be there at their apartment building's parking lot. His hair is drier than wet and gives the only time in the world he knows to Wonwoo.
He will see the thirteen missed calls and the hundred messages, and he will try not to cry because he will call Wonwoo.
And of course, Wonwoo will answer. Because he always does.
Mingyu will say, "I'm sorry."
There it is, the two words. Wonwoo still doesn't know where the count ended but he knows this will be the last time he will hear it.
"Okay lang," because what can he do now?
It will take more than five minutes until one of them learns that the silence is the murder of the moment so one has to speak. Despite the trembling, Wonwoo will, "Happy anniversary, mahal."
"Happy anniversary," Mingyu will say. "Can you tell me you love me?" It will sound soft like the times when he's asking Wonwoo to hug him or kiss him — not too desperately but too lovingly. "Just this once."
"I love you."
Mingyu will bite his lip as he listens, trying not to let the tears orchestrate their way down his cheeks, but his own self betrays him. As always.
"I love you, too," Mingyu will reply.
On the other end of the line, Wonwoo will put his palm on his lips, his tears already plummeting to his face.
Tell me, I am losing you, aren't I?
"Good night, Iyo."
"Good night, Kin."
The morning after, Mingyu will go back to their apartment. Same password. Same unit number. But when he opens the door and looks around it will feel too quiet and abandoned.
He will look around, really look around. He will open the door of their bedroom and ransack the space nook and cranny searching for a pulse only to find the place flawless, as if someone had cleaned it before leaving. Half the cabinet is empty, the other half holds his clothes, neatly folded. And that’s how he will know — it no longer feels like home.
Then, he will notice something on the table. A tupperware and a yellow sticky note that he knows so well from.
He will see a curry and it will still be warm. Then after, he will read what's on the sticky note.
There it says,
Happy anniversary, Iyo! Sorry ito lang handa natin :( Pero sana ayos lang. Favorite mo naman 'yan, eh!
Love, Kin.
ps. binayaran ko 'yung renta for next month. quits na tayo ah wala na akong utang sayo. tsaka gyu, it's time to give me the third condition now, right?
Mingyu will look at each edge of their apartment to find the outline too but he will not see it because the whole kitchen light is now turned off.
And Wonwoo is not there anymore.