Chapter 2: Family Ultimatums
Suho's mind couldn't help but loop back to the moment their gazes had collided. It was like breaching an invisible barrier, a momentary lapse in the unwritten etiquette of the subway. Making eye contact in this underground world was akin to a glitch in the matrix, a fleeting tear in the fabric of anonymity that cloaked each commuter.
That brief exchange had been charged with the peculiar energy of the city itself – raw, unfiltered, and unexpectedly intimate. There was an unspoken rule in these metal carriages that wound through the city's underbelly: you kept your eyes to yourself, your thoughts insular, cocooned in the private world of your headphones or the screen of your phone.
Yet, for a split second, Suho had felt an inexplicable connection with the mysterious woman who shared his daily journey. She had become a familiar part of his routine, a silent companion in the sea of faces he waded through each day. He knew nothing about her, not even her name, and yet he wondered about the constellation of stories that lay behind her observant eyes.
The idea of speaking to her seemed as outlandish as shouting one's deepest secrets for the entire car to hear. After all, who initiated introductions on a subway? No one. It was an uncharted territory, a social script that simply didn't exist within the confines of New York City's transit etiquette.
The train rumbled to another stop, the doors opened, and she was gone, blending into the crowd with the same ease as a shadow merges with the darkness. Suho felt a twinge of something – regret, perhaps, or the tantalizing sting of missed opportunity.
Finally, his own stop announced itself in the impersonal drone of the train's automated voice. He rose, feeling the weight of his coat in his hand like the weight of unvoiced questions. Stepping out into the bustling station, he was immediately swept up in the tide of the morning rush, the throng of people each ensconced in their personal bubbles of existence.
The air was thick with the scent of coffee, the clamor of hurried footsteps, and the undercurrent of a city that never truly sleeps. Here, amidst the frenetic heartbeat of Manhattan, Suho found himself adrift, the image of the woman's face lingering in his mind like a refrain from an unfinished song.
As he merged with the flow of humanity ascending towards the streets above, the subway car with its transient cast of characters became a distant memory, the stage reset for the next act in the endless drama of city life. But the echo of that unspoken exchange remained, a silent melody that hummed in the back of his mind, a reminder that life, like the subway, was full of unexpected encounters and unexplored possibilities.
The Kim family dining room was a gallery of tradition, the walls adorned with paintings that whispered tales of the homeland, while the scent of bulgogi and kimchi filled the air, a culinary symphony of spices and tenderness. Suho's father, Mr. Kim, sat ensconced at the head of the table, his body a fortress succumbing to the relentless siege of illness. Rheumatoid arthritis twisted his joints into a silent testimony of pain, while the brain cancer waged a shadowy war within.
Suho had been apprehensive about dinner all day, the leaden hours stretching like the unending chasm between expectation and reality. As he sat down, the familiar weight of familial duty pressed down upon him like the heavy silverware they used only on special occasions.
Without preamble, Mrs. Kim's voice sliced through the strained silence, her Korean accent undiluted by years of living in America. "Suho, I can't believe you're still single at your age. Your older brother, Joon, is happily married and has kids. What's wrong with you?"
Her words hung in the air, each syllable a barb hooking into Suho's skin. He sighed, a weary sound that seemed to carry the burdens of his dual existence. "Mom, it's not that simple. I'm just focused on my career right now."
But Mrs. Kim was unyielding, her hand cutting through the air as though swatting the very notion of his career aside. "Career, schmareer! You need to find a girlfriend, and fast!"
Suho's response was instinctual, an eye roll he had perfected over years of similar conversations. "Mom, you can't just snap your fingers and conjure up a girlfriend."
The matriarch of the Kim family became animated, her energy almost palpable as she leaned forward, her eyes alight with a mixture of frustration and determination. "Oh, yes, I can! I don't care where you find one. A dating app, a zoo, hell, I don't even care if you find one on Facebook Marketplace!"
The ludicrousness of her suggestions should have been comical, but the underlying threat lent the conversation a gravity that tugged at Suho's chest. His father, a silent sentinel up until now, emitted a groan of agreement, the sound resonating with years of toil and expectation.
"You know, your father and I have been discussing," Mrs. Kim continued, her voice taking on a steel edge, "if you don't get serious about finding a partner, we might just give your inheritance to Joon. He's taken the proper steps in life. In fact if you don't find a girlfriend and have it progress towards marriage by the end of this year you'll be written out."
Mr. Kim, his voice a raspy shadow of its former strength, added his piece, his words laced with a mixture of sorrow and reproach. "Your mother is right. We built this wealth for our children – children who follow tradition, who build families."
Suho felt the walls of the dining room close in, the portraits of ancestors gazing down in silent judgement, as the clinking of chopsticks against porcelain played a discordant soundtrack to his growing dismay. The threat to his inheritance was a blow, but the disappointment etched into his parents' faces was the true crucible.
He wanted to argue, to defend his life choices, but the words dissolved on his tongue like salt in water, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of unresolved tension. The dinner continued, each bite a morsel of unspoken conflict, as the Kims sat around the ancestral table, a family bound by love, duty, and an unyielding grip of tradition.
Suho attempted to steer the conversation towards his work, describing the complexities of his latest coding project and the potential it had to revolutionize the tech industry. His words were met with a polite nod from his father and an almost imperceptible glaze over his mother's eyes, her interest dissipating like steam over a hot bowl of soup.
Mid-sentence, a chime from Mrs. Kim's phone cut through Suho's monologue. The transformation on her face was immediate and profound; where there had been polite disinterest, a radiant smile now bloomed as she beheld a new Facebook post. "Look," she beamed, showing the screen to her ailing husband, "Seojun just started walking."
Suho's words withered on his lips, the irritation blooming in his chest like a thorny bush. His mother's glee was a stark contrast to the tepid reception of his professional achievements. It was a familiar sting, a silent acknowledgement that in the race for his parents' pride, he was lagging far behind.
As if summoned by the very thought, the doorbell rang, heralding the arrival of Joon, his wife Minji, and their children. Mrs. Kim's excitement was palpable, a sound of pure delight that Suho couldn't recall ever being directed his way. "Sorry we're late," Joon called out, his voice carrying the ease of the favored son.
He ushered in his four-year-old daughter, a little girl with eyes as bright as the spring sky. "Come on, Hana," he said gently, helping her into a chair. Joon's glance towards Suho was accompanied by that all-too-familiar Cheshire Cat smile, one that seemed to revel in Suho's discomfort.
Mrs. Kim was quick to redirect the gathering's attention. "Minji, Joon, I have to show you my latest project—it's a collection of traditional hanbok designs I'm contributing to for the cultural festival," she said, herding them away from the table.
Left in the wake of familial adoration, Suho found himself seated next to his niece, Hana. Her innocent face turned up to his, her voice carrying a message that belied her tender years. "My Dad thinks you're an asshole," she stated matter-of-factly, a parrot echoing words she didn't understand.
Suho blinked, incredulous, casting a glance towards his father who had, at some point, succumbed to sleep, his snores a soft counterpoint to the undercurrent of tension. "Hana, we don't use that kind of language," Suho reprimanded gently, though his heart wasn't in it. It was hard to fault a child for the sins of the father.
As if on cue, Joon's three-year-old son, Kyung-soo, piped up from the other side of the table. "Dad says you're gay!" The accusation was uttered with the same innocent conviction as his sister's earlier statement.
Suho sighed, feeling the warmth of his affection settling on the one member of his brother's progeny who seemed oblivious to the adult complexities swirling around them—little Seojun, who was contentedly sucking his thumb, a bubble of tranquility in the eye of the storm.
Indeed, he sure did love these family gatherings, Suho thought, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The irony of it all wasn't lost on him; in a family obsessed with appearances and legacies, it was the unfiltered honesty of the children that laid everything bare.
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: AzTruyen.Top