twenty-three suns | kang taehyun

TWO DAYS LEFT

The last time you saw Kang Taehyun, he'd dropped you off at your house in the middle of the night, a brazen request from you after you'd fully realized that you had done the one thing you'd agreed not to do—fall in love with him.

Maybe love wasn't the right word. After all, you'd only known him for three weeks. Twenty-one days. Could you even fall in love with someone if you'd only known them for three weeks? There were so many things that you still didn't know about him, so many red flags that could be discovered. But there was one thing you knew for sure—the traits you did know about him, you absolutely adored. The way he asked you for your opinion on things—almost shyly, a stark contrast from his usual confident bluntness, the way he took care of you, even though you didn't need it, you liked it. The way he touched you and knew everything that you liked, going hand in hand with the caring part of him. He knew your favorite drinks and food orders by heart, and he had no problem ordering for you when you went out, something that you always smiled at, but only when he wasn't looking. The way he cared for animals melted your heart. The way he talked about his friends, teasing yet affectionate—you could tell that he really cared about them. The way he acted around you parents. The way he smiled. The way he cooked. The way he loved—no, he didn't love you back. The way he cared for you. Yes, that's the correct word.

Your room looked bare, reminiscent of the way Taehyun's apartment looked the first time you went over to his place. Almost all of the personalization was gone. The only things that remained were the clothes and trinkets that you used daily, and those would be packed away in your last suitcase, only half-filled, on the morning that you would leave. Other than that, your walls were empty, and so were your drawers and your floor. And that too made you feel uncomfortable. You hadn't seen your room this desolate since you first moved into the house as a very young child. It began to solidify the idea that you were really leaving, and that was almost too much for you.

Outside, the sun was setting, and you could hear your mother's voice calling you for dinner—one of the last dinners you would ever have in this house as a resident, and not a visitor. You swallowed past the lump in your throat as you ghosted your fingertips over the tops of your upright suitcases, nails dragging against the material as you walked by. You did the same with the wall and the railing down the stairs as you approached the table, looking down at the familiar plates of food as your mother hurried around, setting down side dishes and utensils. "I made your favorite," she said hopefully, looking up at you, "you haven't been eating much these days."

"I'm just thinking about how soon I'm leaving," you said, sitting down and picking up your fork, "it feels really... weird, I guess."

Your mother sat down too, looking at you with a furrowed brow, her concern obvious. "We're going to miss you a lot," she said, "but we're only a phone call away. Just like when you went to college."

"Yeah, but—but this time I won't be able to come home on the weekends. I don't even know if I can come home for holidays," you said shakily, and your mother placed her hand on top of yours—when did her skin become so wrinkled, speckled with age spots? You felt yourself beginning to tear up. Did you really want to leave your parents like this? Your friends? Taehyun? The last name made a sob threaten to crawl out from the depths of your chest, but you held it in.

"You can always visit," your mother said firmly, "and we will always be here. You know that."

Unable to find the right words, you nodded, lips pressed into a tight line as you tried to suppress your emotions. You poked your fork into the food your mother had made—your favorite—and spooned it into your mouth.

As expected, it was perfect.

Well, almost perfect. The saltiness of your tears made the taste just a little bit off.