three.

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There's a girl who stares at you from the FASHION & CLOTHING DESIGN department.  She's short and stubby and distinctly reminds you of the cashier at the CVS by your house. You blink at the similarities. The glasses are what really get you,  because while hers are designer they're also like the  exact same as the guy behind the counter.. Hyung-seok, just call me Hyung, you think. She creeps you out, like all rich people do.

You can tell she's loaded because of her shoes. 

The laces are clean and her skirt is pristine. She has enough money to either replace or thoroughly clean them constantly. But it's the shoes that really get you because you can't afford to have shoes that clean unless you take the time out to clean them constantly by hand. 

(And you don't. Poverty is a stain that doesn't wash out of your t-shirts that become pajamas. It's jasmine rice in broth, fast food for you. It's walls so thin you can hear your parents mumbled worrying what are we going to do with you?)

Oh Bà Chúa Xứ you're so fucked if a girl goes up to her millionaire dad and complains about the impoverished delinquent that's taking up space in this school. They may not discriminate based on entrance exam— but if one of the rich kids goes up to her dad and he complains to the school, offers a— donation, you suppose?

Ah, you're so fucked, you're going to get kicked out. Then your parents will have to cut down on food costs again and you'll be a real dropout and then you'll never get a good job and—

You decide, pleasantly, to avoid her as best you can. Which is kind of difficult when she's hellbent on finding a reason to get you kicked out of school. You think this is a warning sign of what you are made for, taillights and truck driving until the early hours of the morning. That's what you're made for, your  má says you should be better and you live to achieve. You will graduate at the top of your class if it kills  you.

Your pride is as discardable as ashes, you toss it in the wind like a separation burial. Rage, though―

Rage swallows you whole, you wish you could just deck her and be done with it but— in, hold, out. You need to relax. Calm down, calm down. If you keep to yourself you'll be fine. You keep your eyes down and— well. Discard that too. You don't really care about what happens because your mà and ba are paying out of pocket for this school with money they don't have so the least you could do is not cause any trouble and keep your head down―

You bumb into a brick wall, or, someone— you sputter, "Sorry, sorry."

(You should have bashed his head in, watch the blood spatter vividly on the walls, like a signature. Splots in a pattern that police would know the answer to. You're sorry.)

You don't regret it, though. You should have killed him. You're sorry―

He turns to you, eyes wild, "Stupid bitch, thinking you can walk all over me—" his eyes are wild, "do you know who I am? I'm Lee Tae-sung, I'll kill you!"

"I'm very sorry." Something gargles in you, stomach spasming. You clench your fists so hard you know that you'll have indents in your palm, you bow, (you should have folded him―) , "So sorry, I will look where I'm going next time."

He grabs you by the hair and lift your face so you make eye contact with him, then he―spits. On your face. Under your eye. Your arms tremble with rage. "The hell are you lookin' at, go."

You could bash him in, stick your fingers in his eyes so he doesn't look at you ever again, but—

You promised.

The girl is watching you, and you don't have the kind of money she has to throw your weight around. You grind your teeth and smile with them, animalistic. You're a fire that they can't see yet, "Yes, sir."

You promised your mà you would eat well. You promised but―

You're a liar, you know, but this is the least you could do.

Something flashes in his eyes, some laughable attempt at fear. You curdle your stomach to debris—watch as your whole world collapses on itself. You wipe the spit off your face, smiling until he's long gone and you're stuck standing in that hallway, the girl is staring at you, still. Like she's hesitant. You bet she's wondering how to get you in trouble—you breathe out very deeply. It's shaky in,

"Only cowards start fights," you remind yourself, the spit clings to your uniform sleeve, "only cowards start fights."

You wash yourself off in the FASHION & CLOTHING DESIGN bathroom, sure that nobody will follow you. You're right about it, because nobody does.

Except, you walk out and the girl is there. She's holding a handkerchief. The fancy kind you only see in those expensive suit stores. You look at her and take it.

Then, softly, "Thanks."

"Why didn't you do anything back?" She asks. Her voice stays as still as a statue. Like she's reading a particularly dense book.

You look at the wall, "It's easier," you say, the truth burns your mouth, "I don't have the kind of money to afford getting into trouble." 

She looks down and — what are we going to do with you? Your mà's voice cuts through your head. "I'm.. sorry. You didn't fight back because I was there, right?"

You blink, "Yeah. I thought.. I thought you were trying to get me in trouble."

"Uhm, actually, I was going to ask you.." she fumbles over her words, "..can we.. uhm.. be friends?"

"I—I don't even know your name." You say.

No, you think sharply, no, I don't want to be friends with you, you're a threat, but―

"Ahh— Choi, Choi Soo-jung! It's—it's nice to meet you, Huỳhn!"

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

You unclench your fist and swallow your soul whole, "It's nice to meet you too, Choi."

You look at her, so small, then at yourself. Your palms are red, bloody, and your eyes are burning up. Rage swarms in your body like a beehive. You crush your very livelihood for euphoria. You are your parents child.

You're sorry. You're a liar. You don't regret it―

The world turn to styrofoam and watercolor around you. This is like a walk down memory lane. The world turns to summer.. you think it's all a little hazy because of that. Stormy weather drifting thoughtlessly.. you, you are still. Mosquito water under your skin like a drainpipe. You should bust it open to watch the acid leak out. Childhood rotting in the sun because you left it out one summer.. summer—

Land of sweet summer and sweeter fruit. You used to pick mangos from the tree that's been growing in your bà's backyard since her great great great grandmother. You think that it would choke you up, that house was built by them. Infrastructure informal and slippery and the maintenance is costly, but your chú  is a handyman. He fixed the water system and—

You miss it, terribly. Even the worse parts.

Being as free as you were back then.

"I—gotta get to class now. Bye, Choi." You stumble. "I—I'll see you around, yeah?"

Your body wants to curl in on itself, you could collapse like a glass pillar and shatter everyone around you with scrapes and red red red gashes. A house made of loose foundation, card make up your soul and you are a two of spades. 

A useless card, the whole deck goes sour under your scrutiny but you raise bets so high it's an easy win. They flinch under your glare, red-eyes, brown so rich it looks maroon. A calamity, a sign of worse things to come. You're bad luck, and you hate it. It burns your mouth an ugly color.

That you can never be like the rest of them.

Luck is so out of your grasp you'd have an easier time wishing to be a millionaire. Though, that, you suppose is because there is no such a thing as a self-made millionaire. It's just wealth building and building until it collapses and so the cycle begins again. You breathe anew. You break yourself so thoroughly that you will never know where the first crack eroded.

You hate this. You miss summer. You miss being crowded by your bà. You miss home.

You miss home.

The reality isn't new but it hurts all the same. It's enough to make you explode. It's enough to drive you off the brink of collapse. Insanity is heart-wrenching, and you are too familiar with tragedy.

You miss home.

You're so, so sorry. You would do it again, though. You would kill him, if you could.

(You should have folded him like origami.)

_

You put your headphones in and listen to nothing.

It rings so loud it's deafening.

Kouji is in the room, his eyes are hyper-focused on the screen in front of him. You don't even bother wondering why, you just swallow the nerves and brace yourself for nothing. Your chest stirs with a vague hate, a loathing, a want you can't name, please. It sings, please, I'm so lonely. But you're made of empty space, for the hollow places.

You are the ghost of a person. All your business unfinished.

Mà, you think, mà I am not for greatness. You are for old books. For abandoned houses. For forgotten childhoods. To overcome is to abandon, and how could you when you're made for that sort of thing? Broken staircases and bruises fingers and angry, angry hands. You are made for abandonment. Made for empty classrooms. Made for rusted pipes, but―

What are we going to do with you?

That kind of sentiment only makes for rage and guilt.

"Oh! Huỳhn!" Kouji  shouts. "Y'said that—"

You ignore him, your headphones don't play music but you'll pretend. You nod your head along to a beat that isn't there and sit down in your seat. There's something ugly festering under your skin. Your bà would say that— that you were being strong. Holding it in like this, like a good child ought to. 

You want to tell him you aren't a child anymore, that those careless days are so far behind you you can't see them straight, they turn to sand around the ends. Fading to melancholia. 

Sadness, you know, is a disease that becomes you. 

Maybe it would have been better if you ceased to exist. Should be slaughred from the womb, maybe, if you were sick enough as a child your mà would stop grieving a death that never happened. It's a little tragic if you think about it, but mostly you don't. If this disease became you, truly, you might become a martyr for it; can you ever reach that high?

"Oi! Huỳhn―"

You think you might be pretty, then. When you've been slaughtered for someone else's vision, a billboard in the grand scheme.

"Kouji," You hum, voice slurring awkwardly around his name, "I'm a little busy right now."

"Yeah, I bet. Anyway," he disregards, "what'cha doing after school? There's this computer room―"

"Sorry," you say, voice sickeningly sweet, like your saliva is made of confectionery sugar. "I'm a little busy this week. Job hunting."

Maybe you should leave yourself behind. It might be a good idea. Daejeon was always quiet and noisy at the same time. Fury slaughtered at the field. Your heart left on the border where that one kid has his nose painted red, shaped ugly―you twisted it so hard but you should have broken his head completely. Folded him like a lawn chair. You think of your busted house, about your mà with her bitten fingernails and your ba with his hunched back. About the busted pipe at the back of the house that will never be fixed because school is important. 

"Oh―what about.. next week?"

Your eyes fuzz up. Like a blurry watercolor photograph, "Well, maybe, but.. ah, probably not, sorry."

(You should have folded him like origami―)

He looks like he wants to say something, and maybe you should let him, but you didn't leave your rage before you got on the train to Seoul and it's still so heavy in your chest. You turn away. This will all be easier if you're alone anyway. You should just ditch everyone— except Choi Soo-jung because you need to at least pretend to like her if you want to stay in this school. How are you supposed to maintain a work-life balance like this— speaking of which.

You have to find a job. 

(You miss home, but you aren't sorry.)

(You would do it again and again and again, bash his head in. You should have killed him. You should have folded him like a piece of paper.)

_

"Honey, honey, how's school, are you eating?" Mà rambles through the phone, you can hear her hands wringing through the speaker, you can see it. "Are you eating?"

"I'm fine, mà— I promise." You say, feet backing awkwardly. Your backpack digs into your boney shoulders. You feel sunken into. "I'm gonna look for a job today, mà, okay, you don't have to send me anything. I promise, I'm good."

You have a temper like a fuse, it snaps and crackles, the gasoline bubbles under your skin and you try to water it down but that never goes well. You learned in chemistry once that hydrogen doesn't burn on the visible spectrum. Not for you, at least. Not for the scientists either―so they conduct a test, stick the tail end of a broom in front of them, like a meter stick and a half with a fuzzy pompom glued at the end and if it catches fire― they've found it. Congratulations! Don't walk into the fire.

"I'm good, I'm good, I'm eating."

You are a hydrogen fire. You can't see when you light up until you burn something trying to figure its way around you―

Or maybe that's when you're pretty. When you're bursting like a overripe fruit. It feels like you were dying, your heart rotting so heavy in your chest. An overgrown weed, a hydrogen bomb spilling off. You burn like you get angry. Quietly. Then all at once. 

"Honey, just, call, okay, call every night." She says, and you can see her wringing her hands if you close you eyes, "Promise, you have to promise. And eat, remember to eat."

You smile even though she can't see it. "It's okay mà," you say, and you feel so young, so helpless, your words roll over each other like they aren't made to go together, "everything will be good. I'm eating well. I'm fine, I promise. I'm eating well."

Your mà hangs up and you breathe in so deeply it feels like your whole chest is going to explode. 

"Everything will be good." You say it again, for yourself, "Everything will be good. I promise."

You are a filthy liar. 

"Yo―Hyun, right?" Someone calls out behind you, and you know that their calling out to you, but, "Hey! We live in the same area, right? My roommate―Hyun?"

You look back at him, and he's pretty, you realize. He's pretty and he's got a group of friends behind him. "Ahh―who are you?"

He tilts his head to the side like you should know him, it makes you angry inexplicably, "I'm Park Hyung-seok, from the fashion department!"

"Oh." You curl your hand around the idea, "You know Choi?"

"Choi Soo-jung?" He says, and his face gets pink, red, maybe, why are you angry? "Uh-uhm, y-yeah, she's, uh, in my class."

"Are you friends?"

His face is another color at this point.

"I―I think so." He sputters.

"Cool," you say, "me too, you said you know me, is she your roommate?"

"No, I― he― my roommate works at a CVS!"

"Oh, Hyung. Little chubby guy? He's got glasses and uh," you think back to him, then look at Hung-seok in front of you, "the same haircut as you do?"

Park Hyung-seok from FASHION & CLOTHING DESIGN department looks at you excitedly, like a puppy. "Yeah!"

"You live with him.. I thought―" you thought he was living with someone like him, short willed and poor and destined for the same fate as you, "nevermind."

You're made for leaking faucets in shantytown houses. For nothing at all, and that is all you will ever have. Maybe you could bleed ambition like your ba and má and bleed yourself for a future you're only half-sure of but—you're on a fuse. 

"So―you wanna?"

"Sure," you say, your voice is scratchy like you were smoking, you can't afford too smoke, "oh, it's Huỳnh, by the way."

He blinks, then squints, like he's looking through particularly stained glass, "What?"

"Huỳnh." You say again, slower, like you're talking to someone that has never spoken before, "That's my name, Not Hyun, Huỳnh." 

"Hun." He slaughters it; "Huin."       

"It's uh, fine." You say. It could be a promise, if you could make it; if you could make your mouth move, "Really."

"So you wanna walk with me, Huin?"

You look at him like he's a blight on humanity, "Sorry," you say, "I'm job hunting, maybe another time."

You're a liar. You are sorry, really, you are. You don't regret it, though.

What are we going to do with you?

(You should have folded him like a piece of paper. Made his corpse into an origami that means shut the fuck up in some fucked up language you can't say right either.)