Chapter Text
It stares back at her – two rectangular lines, crimson but faded, miniscule but seemingly large, huge enough to swallow her whole, to wedge themselves into the pit of her stomach to stich a home. Her fingers curl against it, and the cold plastic does nothing, feels nothing against skin, already numb at the idea, at the fact, at what’s waiting for her, for them. She trembles, and she suddenly feels how achingly chill the tiles of the bathroom floor are against bare soles, how the cold creeps into her, freezes into her, but not enough as a wake-up call from the trance she’s now settling uncomfortably in. She can’t recall when’s the last time she blinked, when was the last time she’s inhaled, exhaled – breathing now a stranger as her world tilts, spins, then stops, the spins again at an opposite direction, in an agonizingly slow pace enough to splatter, to blur the world beyond her, before her. She feels her heart constrict, feels every pulse, every thrum against her chest, and for a moment, she kids herself that she hears double, hears the faintest sign that there’s something beyond there, something she’s carrying within her, alive and burning, and echoing every beat of her own heart – a miniscule version of her, of Jinu.
She cards damp lavender tresses through her fingers, feeling every tendril stick, cling onto her, reminding her of the life that’s now clinging onto her just the same, unrelenting, loud. A clammy palm settles onto the crown of her head, eyes still wide, still blown by shock, her mind empty and full at the same, her emotions a combination of each stroke of anxiety, shock, happiness, doubt, and a thousand more that’s added fuel to the fire. Her ear rings, loudly then silently, as she feels nausea climb against her throat as if she’s a hundred stories high, each climb filled with tension, making her stomach churn and twist into haunting braids, ropes that only know how to twist, and twist, and twist.
The twin lines stare back at her in their faded crimson etches, reminding her of the situation she’s now in, knee deep, waist deep until there’s no space left for her to breathe. She feels her thighs numb against the toilet, feels the sizzle of limbs losing feeling for sitting too long against an uncomfortable makeshift chair, and knows that she has to move, has to stand. She’s been here for half an hour, or maybe full – she’s lost count, and she knows she will inevitably draw attention, and she can’t bear answering questions now, not now when she’s unsure what to say either, when her tongue feels like sandpaper, and her throat feels as if she’s swallowed ash and gravel. But she doesn’t move – she doesn’t have the energy to, and just bounces her left leg as if that will take care of the numbness, will shake her away of this reverie that is nothing and everything all at once.
There’s warmth that’s buried underneath the dread, a sunbeam underneath the nimbus clouds that’s shrouded her, and she knows, knows how her bones tingle, that she’s happy, that she wants this. But, somehow, for now, the warmth isn’t enough to cast against the torrential rain, and the rainbow seems far away, and wrong. She presses the heel of her palm against her chest, feels the loudness of her heart, and the heaviness as she tries to break the rigidity fear has forced her to feel, and she notices that she’s blinked for the first time, but not enough to wake her from the trance. A shaky breath leaves her lips, and she notes how it sounds haunting than a sign of life, seems like it’s echoing the tremor that’s made a temporary home neath her skin.
There’s an itch to go for a run, to break through the suffocating walls of her bathroom, of her room, of the penthouse; the desire to feel nothing but her calves burning, protesting, the wind caressing her as she weaves through the afternoon crowd to get away from her thoughts, and the lack thereof. She’s craving the reprieve running will bring her, but something tells her to stop – a motherly instinct, she supposes, a nudge to stop her from doing something she will regret later. Despite this, it doesn’t ease up the tension that’s settled in her shoulders, doesn’t melt the chill she’s felt deep into her bones, doesn’t wake her from the fear that’s stealing away the warmth that she knows is there.
“Rumi?” She hears Jinu call out from the other side of the door, and she’s surprised to hear him, almost letting go of the thin plastic she’s been holding onto like a lifeline for the past half-hour, hour, or two.
She lets out a shaky sigh as she decides to pocket the test, decides to decide on it later, decides that she wants silence for a while, wants something to allow her to settle into this newness before eventually embracing it with arms wide.
“I’m in here.” She says, and hopes her voice doesn’t give her so much away as she braces a hand against her knee, and reluctantly peels herself off from the toilet.
Her legs feels like they have a mind of their own, or a lack of a mind, as they do nothing to steady her – the stress of sitting uncomfortably already taking a toll on her. Shaking hands frantically turn the faucet, almost comedic how she’s using two hands, yet failing to turn it open on the first try. Eyes land upon her pallid, noting how pale she is, seeing the worry cast on her features, seeing fear haunt her before choosing to shake it off by splashing cold water against her once, twice, thrice before eliciting another shaky sigh. It’s just now she sees how awfully red-rimmed her eyes are, begging to shed tears she didn’t even know she was holding back until now. A choked sob leaves her, and she desperately presses a palm against her lips before placing her forehead against the cool mirror.
“Are you okay?” Jinu asks, bringing her back to the present, and she hears the door knob turn before light from her room, spills and mingles with the warm light in the bathroom. “Hey,” she hears him say as his fingers wrap around her wrist, tugging her so she can collapse against his shoulder, so she can listen to his heartbeat to still hers that’s wild, and afraid against her own chest.
“Sorry, I’m just…” She says, whispers against his chest. What is she, exactly? She doesn’t even know, but she knows she’s overstimulated; she knows she’s filled with effervescent emotions that are fighting their place for her to feel, everything happening all at once.
He presses a kiss against the top of her head as he wraps his arms around her tightly as if the very act can shield her from the assault of her own thoughts. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head, and forces herself to lift her head to look at him, to take in the worry that’s now overtaken his features, to take in the calm and the softness of his brown eyes as they search hers. “I want to go for a walk. I need… air.”
She says, and Jinu nods, threads their fingers together to lead her out of the suffocating walls of the bathroom, out the room, but she stops before they can leave together, halts just enough so she can look up at him with the promise of I’ll tell you later. “Alone, please.”
He nods, and lets go, and Rumi’s heart aches at how easily she can see the powerlessness he feels cross his features, the understanding tinging his eyes enough to communicate that it’s okay, but he still wishes she’ll tell him to come, to soothe this ache he’s unsure what.
She nods the same, a reassurance of some sort, that she will tell him, that she just needs this, that she just needs the space to allow herself to feel the multitude of emotions that’s crowding over her, and making it difficult for her to breathe. Her legs feel heavy as she walks away, as she submerges into the confinement of one solitary room to another, the elevator walls feeling smaller during the descent – the venture downwards a mixture of too fast, and too slow. She tugs her facemask snug against her face, but doesn’t bother to hide the wild purple tresses, untamed, clinging onto her like a child to its mother, free of the braid it’s usually confined in as she weaves herself out of the building, and into the chaos that is Seoul at two in the afternoon on a weekday – all busy-bodies, caffeinated, and wishing to be at the confines of their home; fatal zombies to capitalism as they count away the hours that’s left, as their minds disappear anywhere but the warmth of the sun, the noise of cars honking and strangers chattering, and the speed of life.
Rumi lets out another sigh as she decides to become one with the noise, tearing through the sequence of adults trapped in a responsibility they never asked for, letting her limbs guide her, draw her somewhere where she can find reprieve, solace before she decides to bear the weight of what happens now. Her hair feels heavy, and disgusting pressed against her back, against Jinu’s hoodie, and his shirt – damp and wild and thick and itchy, and for a moment she wants to fight the tangles, and let it loose from underneath, despite the threat that if it spills free, it will get caught by whatever pavement she’s walking on, a high chance to trip, and knock the air out of her lungs. Briefly, she chastises herself for being frozen in time, for foregoing spending hours weaving her lavender tresses into her signature braid as she crosses the street.
She has to thank capitalism for allowing her to go unnoticed – strangers busy, trying to get somewhere, eyes glued to their phones as they walk briskly, as they charge forwards with the hope to get back to their office before their lunch break ends or before a boss notices. Smiling for a photo is easy, pretending to be okay is easy, forcing herself to be here is practiced, but she has no energy to perform, her thoughts tangled in the noise of everything and nothing all at once.
Rumi thumbs a strand of loose hair, and tugs it behind the shell of her ear as she pierces through the crowd of pedestrians, now invisible between sweltering bodies, and makes way to a boba place she’s seen from across the avenue she’s been mindlessly traversing in. The airconditioned air is a welcome reprieve from the warmth of the sun as it wraps her in a comfortable embrace as she opens the door, the bell from above her announcing her arrival to customers buried in their own ruminations. They don’t look up, but a cheery annyeonghaseyo is thrown automatically as a barista waves at her with a practiced smile. Despite the mask, she finds herself returning the smile, eyes crinkling before it’s gone as she approaches the counter and recites her order – wintermelon, boba pearls, and fifty-percent sugar; her go-to when all she wants to do is sink, and think about everything. The order is quickly made and fetched, quick enough to stop her from spiraling, and forgetting, quick enough to let her disappear without being interrupted.
She takes the corner seat that’s shrouded by a jukebox, and a magazine stand, a place where she can just be. Rumi then takes a sip of her boba once she’s settled against the plush leather settee, the sweetness taking over the bile she’s unsure when it’s risen, allowing her to savor the normalcy for a while, to clear her thoughts for a while, to ground herself. She lets out a breath, counts to three as she takes another sip, as she lets herself feel the anxiety, the panic she’s been trying to fight off. Her fingers drum against the plastic lid as she opts to people watch to quell the fear that’s stolen away the joy she’s supposed to be feeling, the warmth that’s supposed to be there.
She’s unsure why fear’s taken ahold of her so fiercely, unsure why it’s clouding over her, thundering over what she’s supposed to be celebrating with Jinu. But it’s the dominant feeling that’s pursuing her right now, like a predator to a prey, and she knows she has to deal with it in order to abate it, in order to quiet it enough so she can feel the sun, the warmth of having something she’s never even thought, of considering of having until now. She presses her palm against her stomach, feels the imaginary slope that she knows will be there in a few months time, and allows her fingers to curl against Jinu’s hoodie, willing herself to fight the fear that’s clinging so desperately onto her. She breathes out another sigh as she tries to find where the parasite is coming from so she can unfurl it, so she can quiet it, so she can understand it; and part of her knows that it’s stemming from the fact that she’s never had a role model when it came to motherhood, and from what she’s experienced with Celine and how she’s carried it, she’s afraid that she’ll be just the same. Whilst Celine had ensured to give her a life that’s comfortable, the ice that’s settled in her veins, the walls she’s built, and the wounds she’s carried had been direct consequences of an upbringing that’s built on guilt, purpose, and hatred.
She knows for herself that she wouldn’t lead motherhood the same way; knows that if she – she’s already decided that it’s going to be a daughter – comes with patterns due to her heritage, she won’t be teaching her to hide, to loathe that part of her that’s equally beautiful. She knows that her child will be born into a family full of love, full of acceptance, and full of joy unlike the family she’s been born into. She knows that no one will sneak that kind of ideology into her upbringing, knows that she won’t let anyone; knows that it will never be a threat, but she’s afraid nonetheless. What if her insecurities bleed into it? What if she makes mistakes? What if she fails?
Rumi whistles out a stuttering sigh as she pokes through her boba tea, and wraps her arm tighter across her stomach, and chastises herself for being ridiculous. She supposes she can stock up on parenting books, discreetly attend workshops, go to therapy, and… she can always ask for support from those around her, especially Jinu’s. She knows she doesn’t have to go through this alone; so what is she doing now?
She reaches for her phone from her jean’s pocket, and unlocks it to a photo of her and Jinu as her lockscreen – his brown eyes finding hers, communicating warmth even through the photo, and Rumi feels her heart swell, and the ice thaw. She stares at it for a long while, and wonders if their child will have his warm eyes, and soft smile; wonders if she will be just like her mother, or would she be as ridiculous and adorable as her father. Anticipation replaces fear as she forces herself to open the messages application, and clicks on her conversation with Jinu. Despite living under the same roof, their chat box is lively as if they’re far apart, as if there’s miles and miles of distance stretching across them. She just notices that he’s sent her a message earlier – a reassuring, call me if you need me, sitting unread until now.
Rumi feels the unshed tears sting her eyes, and blames it on the hormones as she rereads the message, and as if waiting for her to see it, three dots appear, indicating he’s typing, and she knows he must be worried sick to be watching an empty chat box for two hours. A watery chuckle leaves her lips as she types, and she sees his own text bubble stop, silently allowing her to say what she wants to say. Despite the digital exchange, he still finds his way to show he’s willing to listen first before saying anything. God, she loves him so much, and she knows their child will be lucky to have a father like him.
“Meet me at the Cat Café?” She sends as she stands to order his favorite boba tea – strawberry cream with boba pearls filling half of the cup, seventy percent sugar (tooth-rotting sweetness she can never get behind), and a second of the wintermelon she’s emptied half an hour ago.
Her phone pings whilst she’s waiting, and she knows he’s already on his way to her. Beside her, a five-year-old in a braid pesters her mother, eyes wide, faux tears clinging onto the edges, and a full-on pout on display, and she can’t help the excitement that blossoms through, that replaces the anxiety she’s earlier felt.
“Eomma,” the girl pleads, clinging onto her mother’s hand, tugging as she uses it to anchor herself while her gaze travels from Rumi to her mother. “I want to see Unnie Rumi.” She adds, and Rumi can hear the lisp wedged in between words as she takes note of the girl’s purple hoodie, and sees a photo of herself plastered on it.
“We’ll go to the convention after.” Her mother reassures, and Rumi is briefly reminded of the time where she’s pleading Celine to take her to the teddy bear museum, and how Celine relented after she’s thrown a tantrum.
She knows her daughter will be so much more… demanding.
The five-year-old stomps her feet, and sways, accidentally stepping on her white shoes, and the mother’s eyes widen in horror and part annoyance. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes on behalf of the toddler, and Rumi waves her off, and shakes her head.
“It’s okay,” she says, flashing her a smile, before remembering that she has her mask on. An idea blossoms, and before she can stop herself, she’s already tugging the mask off, and giving the pair a real smile than just a crinkle of her eyes.
She supposes it’s her hormones, a motherly instinct, that’s made her want to do this despite her state, that’s making her want to embrace the child, and give into her tantrums. Is this what Celine felt? Part of Rumi hopes so; part of her hopes that there’s a sliver of motherhood underneath the cold, and unrelenting prejudice.
“Hi,” she says, and the little girl perks up just as the mother holds in a gasp. “My name’s Rumi; what’s your name?”
The little girl flashes her a toothy grin, and Rumi finds that she’s missing one front tooth, making her smile all the more adorable. “Han-byeul,” she supplies, and part of the consonants are lost in the lisp as she bounces up and down just as Rumi’s lowering herself to crouch to her level.
Han-byeul throws her arms around Rumi in a small embrace as she squeals in excitement, and Rumi feels her heart swell knowing she’ll have her little one soon, knowing that in a few months’ time, this will be her and Jinu’s daughter or maybe, son.
“How old are you?” She asks once Han-byeul lets go of her to ask her mother to take their picture.
“Five,” she holds up her fingers short of one before raising a shaky thumb to complete the age she’s announced. “I just turned five.” She says and Rumi fights the urge to pinch the little girl’s cheeks, and opts to pat her head affectionately.
“Belated happy birthday; I wish I could have been there.” Rumi says just as the door opens, and the bells jingle to announce Jinu’s arrival.
He flashes her a smile as she waives at him, a smile of her own – genuine, and relaxed, making its way to her lips.
“Hi,” she says once she’s bid the little girl goodbye, and makes her way to Jinu, threading their fingers together, her heart starting to pick its pace up again.
He kisses her cheek, and notes the nervousness he can feel from a mile away. “Hi.”
Rumi passes him his boba tea as she leads him to the booth she’s earlier occupied by herself, the frantic beating of her heart filling her ears as blood rushes up her face. She knows it’s ridiculous to be worried, to still be afraid of how he’ll react, but a part of her is still housed by fear. She knows he’s just recently returned to music – recently just announced his retirement as an idol to produce music for Huntr/x instead, and knows that it’s just been five months since he returned to the land of the living, and he may think this is too fast, and too soon. What if he doesn’t want this?
“I’m…” she whispers as she meets his eyes before looking away, and fixates her gaze towards the strangers weaving into one another, into a mess of robots intending to find their way home now that the sun is setting, now that the day’s almost turning into night.
She’s suddenly too aware of the pregnancy test in her pocket, and feels its weight burning a hole into her. Rumi swallows once, twice, thrice, before she’s reaching for it, and curling her fingers around it. She’s hyperaware of Jinu’s penetrating, and inquisitive gaze pinned towards her, hyperaware of the words he’s stopping himself from saying lest he might chase away the confession she’s seconds away from saying. She shudders as she squeezes her eyes shut before staring at a traffic light that’s now just turned green – go, go, go.
She takes the test from her pocket, and slides it across the table, not bothering to look at him as she does so, trying to chase away her nervousness by counting the seconds left before the light turns red, before everything stops. The light flickers to yellow, to pause, and she can hear Jinu’s breath hitch as if in sync. As the light turns red, she feels her world stop just as he brushes his thumb against her outstretched hand, and intertwines their fingers together. He tugs at her to steal her attention away, and it’s almost comical how she slowly turns her head to meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he whispers, and she hears the smile in his voice before she can see it. “Hey, is this true?” He asks delicately as if afraid that any other word can shatter the moment they’re currently sharing.
Rumi nods, once, twice, thrice before she allows herself to flash him a cautionary smile. “Yes,” she affirms as she tightens her hold on his hand, afraid he might drift away. “Are you okay?”
“I should be the one asking you that.” He says as he exhales a laugh that’s filled with joy, of worry. His free hand cards through his raven hair, and he shakes his head in disbelief. Rumi can see the happiness in his eyes despite the nervousness intermingling with it.
“You’re not mad?” She asks, and he gives her a perplexed look before he stands up, and sits beside her, never breaking apart from their held hands.
“Why would I be?” He says rhetorically as he presses a kiss on the side of her head, once, twice, thrice – a silent I love you, as he holds her close. “I’m happy. I’m excited. Unless… you don’t want to keep it?”
Rumi shifts from her seat and lets go of Jinu’s hand to place both of her hands on the sides of his face, cupping his jaw. “I’m scared, Jinu.” She whispers as she holds his gaze, and searches for strength in them. “But I want to do this with you.”
“I know,” he can practically feel it in his bones – her fear, her reluctance, but he can also feel her happiness, her excitement. “I am, too.” He confesses as he presses their foreheads together. “But, I’ll be here with you. We’ll make this work; we’ll be afraid and happy together, okay?”
“Okay.”