SNS || jeon jungkook ✓

59. note

59.

The email is simple; I'm meeting with the director of their Public Relations, Park Dooyon. The formality of his job title intimidates me greatly— I don't want anything to go wrong.

I'm gnawing at my lip when I reread the email. Dooyon. I ponder on my thoughts before I sigh to myself and lock my phone. I feel like I know that name, but I'm not holding my breath. My mental capacity is questionable.

The only thing this email confirms is that I will have a lot of preparing to do. It's on the same day as my Teen Vogue interview, and now all too suddenly I feel pressured as if everything in my life is on a rushed timeline.

I can barely keep my eyes open when I sit up in my bed. I'm sad and nervous; the mix is a terrible feeling. I don't know how to approach contacting my mother about any of this. Will she care? What will her response be?

I'm both mentally and physically exhausted. The sun in streaming in from the small window to my right and the serenity of the atmosphere isn't correlating with how overwhelmed I feel. I lean over my bedside to grab my laptop. Am I ready to see my mother? No. Will it make me feel better? Probably not. It's the right thing to do. We're all family.

As I'm opening my laptop, David's voice startles me.

He is yelling from the living room, "You're kidding! You fucking scrub, I swear to God I will find your family and tell them how much of a pûssy you are!"

I widen my eyes to myself with a small chuckle. Only David would be awake at 6am still playing video games and yelling at random people on the internet. I'm relieved he isn't dwelling on our conversation from yesterday. That makes one of us. I am still dwelling on everything about yesterday.

I go to the FaceTime icon on my laptop and click on my mom's contact. To my displeasure, the WiFi isn't connecting. I grumble and pull myself out of bed with my laptop in hand. When I slide open the door and enter the living room, David is pacing back and forth with a headset around his neck. He looks angry.

"What happened?" I ask in a yawn.

My brother shakes his head at me as if I won't understand. "These shits on my PUBG server happened."

I am staring at the connection status on my laptop while he is talking. Typical David. I glance at his distress. The bags under his eyes tell me he was up all night. There are candy wrappers and water bottles scattered around his set-up. Crumbs from the cake I made for him are the only thing left on the plate.

"You're connected to the internet? My laptop won't work." I say.

"Yeah," he scoffs, "they DDoS'ed me. We won't have internet for a few hours."

"What?"

He is groaning in a fit of frustration. I watch my brother climb over the couch to return to his computer, only to start mumbling to himself. I'm clicking on the WiFi option impatiently as if that will magically make it work.

"These stupid kids online... they got my IP address and shut off my WiFi so that I'd disconnect from the server."

I furrow my eyebrows, "What? That's legal?"

"Who cares? They're just mad because I'm better than them at the game."

"Or because you're calling them pûssies." I retort.