♡ A story about learning to love, learning to hurt, learning to 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥 ― and most importantly, learning to be human. ♡
𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 4x
Marino Hills, California in the mid-2000s is hypersensitive to the idea of change. It clings desperately t...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
❥ ❥ ❥
THE SUMMER OF 2007 Recovery & Transparency
❥ ❥ ❥
A month later, gossip surrounding Minho Lee's suicide attempt continues to spread through Marino Hills like a virus. The first few days, where June started to bleed into July, were the hardest—when the news was still fresh, and half the town was speculating on whether Minho was alive or not. By the time the week was up, and it was determined that Minho would live, people felt comfortable to fabricate and misconstrue the truth. They began their assumptions.
Now, the story has died down, but there still exist pockets of Marino Hills where viral infection runs rampant.
"Poor Lina," Narae laments as she's pouring maple syrup over her pancakes, "I couldn't imagine having a son like that Minho. It's truly awful."
She says the words to her husband who she's been pretending to love as of late, but Jisung overhears, sitting close by. Jisung has to pretend that his tears from last month never existed, like he didn't vomit up his vocal cords screaming at the reality that Minho could die, and it could be all his fault. Jisung has to pretend it doesn't kill him inside to watch as Blossom Delights is stripped of its decorations when a new owner purchases the property. He has to pretend he doesn't get flashbacks to the blood on the pavement when he sees Minho's name printed in the local newspaper as The Kid Who Tried Suicide.
"He's a sick boy," John adds, taking a small swig from his water-and-whiskey mix he's been trying lately. It doesn't make him any less of a drunk.
Tears brim at his eyes with cactus pricks, burning there, but Jisung can't do anything but stare down at the half-eaten eggs and bacon in front of him. His stomach is churning. He doesn't want to listen. Doesn't want to watch Minho's bloodied corpse be dragged through the mud any further. The boy doesn't deserve it.
"It's so sad, don't you think?" Narae's voice is soft. She's talking to her husband, but Jisung listens anyway. "She raised that perfect Taehyung. I didn't even know that was her son, they're so different. It's so unfortunate that God gave her a suicidal homosexual as a son."
John makes a noise of agreement, and then Narae turns to Jisung. It's sickening that they can candidly chatter about a child who's not their own.
"It's a good thing you're not hanging around him anymore, isn't it?"
Her smile is sweet. It doesn't deserve the bitterness of her words attached to it. It doesn't suit the venomous bite to them.
Jisung forces a smile. It tastes like acid, but he's learned how to pretend the taste is sweet. It's rigid around the edges, like the pieces of glass Minho used to slice into his arms and—
