The Haze

서른 일곱 (3)

37 Part Three

Confess

...

       

I'm startled out of a dreamless sleep by nothing in particular, just the sudden overwhelming urge to be awake. It's still dark outside, the sky now clear, revealing tiny specks of light scattered in the pitch black.

I blink slowly at the room around me, the silver moon-light bouncing off of the angular, minimalistic furniture. Getting up, my cold feet revel in joy on the warm floorboards, my hand absentmindedly running across the crisp, white, ironed sheets.

Seriously, who irons their sheets?

Rolling my eyes, I stand up, my arms feeling the chill of the AC that hums so quietly through the apartment. It's almost a crime, to have warm feet, but cold everything else. I wonder briefly if Jungwoo would even survive the night in my basic normal-people-apartment. 

Quietly, I pad into his dressing room in the dark, my arms outstretched to try and find a jumper. Turning on the lights would risk waking him up, the door to his bedroom on the other end of this room.

My fingers brush against a soft wool-like material, and I pull the item of clothing off of the rack and over my shoulders. His familiar smell welcomes me into the oversized jumper, and I can't resist flapping the long sleeves from side to side like a child as I tip-toe into the living room.

I see the remains of food from a few hours ago still sat on the kitchen counter, eaten in a comfortable silence while my endless thoughts raked and raked inside my skull. I'll admit that having Jungwoo with me has made this all a little easier, like he's able to soften the problem at its sharp edges.

Even if he still doesn't know exactly what happened, yet.

I gulp down a glass of water, making sure to stay away from the 'demon fridge', before plopping down onto the plush couch.

It didn't take me long to admit to myself that I shouldn't have called Grace's husband, just to shout at him like I did. I was afraid, tired and feeling sorry for myself. Not a good combination. Guilt fills my gut as I think of what I said to him, and the speculations from before about his body language on camera, are still swirling around in my mind.

I don't know how long I sit staring at my phone, but eventually the courage I need finally comes around. The uniform beeps ring down my ear, as I wait in silence for the voice at the other end.

"Hello?"

I hesitate, looking down at my trembling hand, worried that my voice will come out just as shaky, "I apologise. For what I said earlier." 

There's a pause, the sound of a door closing. "No doctor Alim, I'm the one who should apologise."

I'm taken aback by his calm and civil tone. Licking my dry lips, I ask him the question that's been burning inside my head, "... Why did you go to the press?"

He sighs, "I didn't. It was the medical council."

I shake my head in shame at myself. He was never the monster I made him out to be. That was just my way of making things easier to bear, a way of placing some blame on someone other than myself. I see that now, clearer than anything.