within a hollow mind;

do you still write here??? if you do we should write together. I might not come back to this account (idk we’ll see??) but i’ll be writing here still!! Thank you for sending this. I’m not sure when it got sent, but I always loved writing with you too. i wish YOU the best

Growing old with temporary ideas is a dangerous game. It’s more unpredictable than this lifestyle. Death is just a promise they never listened to, but still accepted in order to live through the next day. They all live in the present. Tomorrow is not a guarantee, and it’s not a tragic fact to swallow. In the end, it comes down to how they choose their circumstances as adults, and she always refuses to be a living martyr.

She has died more than he cares to remember, and he has never been to a single funeral to mark the event. She skips out on her different identities and lives. Building a separate world with entirely promising relationships, growing attached despite the ruthless attitude it requires of them to be leaders, and running from another problem once it bares teeth. It’s no more thrilling witnessing it twice, so he avoids the event of her disappearance the identical way she never allows it to manifest in record.

There are more important things to consider than these expectations in their culture–it’s all useless. Criminals like them do not have funeral rites. He wonders if she even fears the idea. It has never served him well enough for him to believe in a God or spirit, or people for that matter. So he simply doesn’t.

Knew her in the way he should never have. Familiarized himself with her eccentricities, grew to expect her appearance in his life. Still convinced she is nothing more than a momentary tool. Instead they grew comfortable with each other’s mistakes. They constructed reasons to see each other outside of business and pretend it was all up to perfectly aligned circumstances.

You can never truly comprehend someone you view so shallowly. Ebony is an image to him, and she never hesitated to shatter it every time he dared to tell her who she was. Supply some sort of reason, otherwise the lack of reaction is weird. Abnormal. Too calm. He’s learned what comforts other people. It’s always the same general sorrow and he has to be cordial for the sake of business. 

They return the polite gesture and begin telling him some story about her he neither believes or gives a shit about. It makes him angry enough to form fists in the bottom of his pockets. He purchased a new suit just for the occasion– if her death could be called an occasion.

And smile is thin. Lies often are.

There are certain traits that come to define a child of a legacy. When your name outlives your own accomplishments it can be difficult to outrun the consequences of tempting complacency in a life ruled by impossible standards. Sunggyu always found it easier to be a disappointment by choice if he was going to disappoint his family in the end by being no one better than himself. 

They shared that pressure of the family name, Jungah and Sunggyu, if they shared anything at all. Sunggyu would never admit the fact that he admired Jungah for her strong will. Among other things. It would go unsaid, and she would be left to interpret a language of silence. They worked together by not really getting along. Trading insult for insult. Being so familiar with each other but not really knowing each other. They never really pursued conversation beyond thinly veiled sarcasm and barbed comments, only enough to pass along important information.

So it comes as more than a surprise when Sunggyu’s phone screen lights up with Jungah’s name. Normally they communicted with a few quick texts, an in-person meeting if it was urgent. But phone calls were rare. Maybe out of boredom, and definitely not concern, he decides to pick up. 

“Convince me this is important, or I’m hanging up.” He watches the stream of people pass on the sidewalk from inside the comfort of his car, idly drawing over cold glass with one finger.

Her breath shudders. The quiet intake of breath teetering over the phone line is defeaning in a way because it is so unexpected. She says something, but the words are tired and distorted, like she’s holding her phone away from her mouth. But he does catch the most important message of all:[I didn’t mean to call you.]

And that should be enough, should it not? More than enough reason to discard the call completely and hang up. Even tease her for sounding borderline congested. But he thinks of Jungah-- so controlled and quick-witted, breaking down to the point of hitting the wrong contact in her phone. He could blame curiousity, or a sadistic desire to know the root cause of distress. But he could not deny that he’d reached out willingly by posing a simple question. Empty of insult.“What’s wrong?”