perhaps, you | woosan

Chapter Fifteen

POV: San

The commonly held belief of San, for whoever knew him, was the he was a proud gay, and an open gay, who wasn't scared of admitting who he was and had no trouble in doing so. Many closets envied that part of San, some angry that he was blessed for being accepted by his people while they weren't.

But that was a misunderstanding—at least, it wasn't plain sailing to get to where he is now. Ironically, the boat, although not grandiose and extravagant, appeared cozy and reliable to him. That was until he realised that under the thin layer of wood, was a small crack hidden, growing in its scale as water leaked in, helplessly sinking to the murky sea.

He only had his mother. That was the only family he knew, and unlike what the media portrays or what his classmates say, having been brought up by a single-mother fulfilled his life. He never felt the need of a male figure in his family.

"Good job San-ah! Mummy is proud of you!" she'd say, creasing her eyes in a thin line, smiling brightly that her gummy was also showing, brushing her son's head endlessly as he scored high grades in studies, or drew well in art class, or helped his friends out...literally anything and everything. He was smart and handsome—he was her proud son. She worked hard to feed him, and he did everything to make his mother happy. Life was complete with the two.

Yet things change when puberty kicks in. In secondary school, boys started talking about girls.

"Who do you think is the prettiest in our class?"

"Who would you date?"

"Let's bet who gets to kiss her!"

Suddenly both sexes became sexually aware, and San, surrounded by his male friends became aware of how their interest circled around the opposite sex.

"Yo, San, who do you like?"

He felt strange. He was more interested in talking about soap opera last night than girls' physical development. No, if he were to be absolutely honest, the one who fluttered his heart almost like how boys described girls do, was—he glanced at his male friend once, but shifted his eyes back to the questioner. Back then, he had no idea what this feeling was or how he was supposed to take them. But he was quick-witted to know this wasn't ordinary and wasn't what others expected to hear.

"Um...I'm not sure. They are all pretty," he chuckled stiffly.

"Look at this womaniser! Is this why girls talk about San the most?" his friend tutted his tongue in frustration, as jealousy coated his voice.

His friend's words echoed as he prodded on his way back home absentmindedly. Why did he not feel the way others were feeling? Was he weird? Was he abnormal? He suddenly felt like he was the only odd person in this entire world, lonely, devastated, empty. His early awakening muddled him, and he wanted one person—yes, only one was enough to tell him he wasn't abnormal, and he'd be okay.

He decided to ask his mother, his last refuge, and that was the biggest mistake of his life.

"Mum? Can I ask you something?" he started, standing next to his mother washing dishes, receiving the plates to wipe the droplets off.

"Of course, San-ah. Anything," his mother replied in a soft voice, her usual tone soothing his heart.

"Recently, I feel strange when my friends talk about girls."

"How so?"

"They are always talking about who's pretty and who's attractive and who's curvy and all that."

"Oh, boys will be boys," his mother chuckled, her hands kept busy washing.

"But I don't feel that way for girls...I think I feel that way for boys," he let it out, the next line exhaled in slight anxiety. "I'm not weird, right?"

It was the sound of a plate falling in the sink that alarmed San something was wrong.

"Mum-" "SAN!"

His mother grabbed the young boy's arms by her hands, looking into his eyes—and San read 'heartbroken'.

"I'm-I'm such a bad mother for not realising you were going through such trouble...don't worry San, you'll be fine. We'll go see people who can guide you to the right direction, okay? You'll be fine, we can get through this." She then tightly hugged the son in her arms, stroking his back recurrently with her hands full of soap bubbles—as if to cleanse San's sin.

Was he supposed to be worried? Was he walking in the wrong direction? Was he not fine? Was he supposed to get through this?

San felt his heart crack—and the pieces falling off little by little.

What had been added to young boy's busy school life was to talk to 'people who guide to the right direction' weekly. The therapist and the priest both told him that 'he was only confused' and that 'he will soon find the right path'. The three adults who knew of his secret said the same thing, and he concluded that he was indeed wrong. The reality that he was an unacceptable heretic to the world bit him, gnawed him, chewed him. The more he heard those pitiful, forgiving yet unforgiving words, the more they clawed on him, enclosing him entirely in the pitch dark that confined him as he beat himself being a failure.

He was growing numb. His mother's soothing voice and smile that once was his haven had become a hellhole.

That was when he met Jung Yunho—a purely coincidental soul that had thundered his way into his heart.