(Ah okay I'll try and make this chapter more reasonable length. tysm for readin, vote if u do so wish and a-thank you)
philophobia (n.)
phil·o·pho·bi·a
An irrational or disproportionate fear of falling in love.
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My father loved my mother.
My mother used to tell me stories of when they were younger and still dating. How my father was awkward and uncoordinated, how his charm came from pure insecurity and sincerity.
"He used to bring me flowers every week because they were on the way from his work," she said with a smile. "Once when I was sick, he drove the two hours just to bring me medicine and soup."
"Appa likes you," I would sing. "He's in love with you."
My mother laughed. "How bold of him," she would joke. "Likes me, hm? I guess so."
She guessed right.
From my point of view, they were sort of perfect. My mother worked as a manager, my father a man of business, and both of them busy enough to pay bills but never busy enough to forget about home. They were an unexpected balance, with my mother so light-hearted, and my father always solemn, the two keeping the other in check from falling off too far. If anyone asked me then, I could've told them a hundred ways my parents had yet to fail each other.
But if anyone asked me after my halmoni died, I could tell them a few.
My mother wilted after her mother passed. I didn't know much except that they were close, and closer than my mother and her father had ever been. But I guess I didn't know a lot of anything, because that was the exact moment I remember my mother disappearing.
Six months later, when she lost her job and began to spend most of her time in her room pretending neither I nor my father existed, she and him fought for the first time since I knew them.
"Just get up," he pleaded. "Why can't you just get over it?"
"Leave me alone," she would say from her bed.
"You're not even a mother anymore. I know it hurts, but you have to at least try and—"
"Leave me alone," she had screamed, and threw a well-aimed slipper at him. She turned away, towards our house at the time, and only ever said those words.
Leave me alone.
"Umma," I would try. I would tug on the sheets, try and see past the shadows on her skin and the frailty of her body. "Umma, what's wrong?"
She would only stare at me, then turn back, closing her empty eyes. "Leave me alone, Angel. Just go."
I did.
My father withered away with her, and with it all, my own faith in my family. By the time I was thirteen, I long forgot about 'perfect'. What was 'perfect' for? The only way to go from 'perfect' was down.
"Don't you love Umma?" I would ask my father, when we sat at the dinner table with nothing but bad takeout and only the memory of my mother in her seat. "Why can't you help her?"
He would look back at me, skin sallow and atmosphere heavy. His age was tripled in only a few months.
"I just can't, Seohyun," he snapped. "Stop asking."
YOU ARE READING
Suicide Buddies
Teen Fiction"My mother once told me there are three, and only three, truly defining moments in your life. One: When you don't know. Two: When you realize you don't know. Three: When you know. This is about the third one." --- Angel Young is going to die. Or at...
