6. This Is How We Suffer The Consequences

It's been a few hours since that disastrous phone call.

Night falls on my end of the world, and I am still lying slumped against the wall of my apartment. My breathing is laboured, and I make no effort to move. I am well and truly spent.

My phone, an innocent victim in my moment of blind fury, lies broken in the same spot it had shattered.

Her words ring at the back of my head. I just want to break yours. Just so you know what it's like to be on the receiving end. I-I will believe you when… when you actually start to mean what you say.

There was something about that last line that was pleading. Was she? Or am I just trying to disillusion myself further?

A cynical snicker stirs from within me, and I find myself laughing for no reason at all. Every breath I inhale, stings and pierces my lungs; every breath I exhale, hurts and pains me to no end.

I can't believe I let her go so easily. What was I thinking? Oh right, I wasn't. But why was I so ready to believe everything she was saying?

Oh damn emotions, how you cloud my judgment. We didn't have to say all that to each other. What were we trying to prove? That we can do without one another? That we're better apart than together? This spectacle has proved nothing else but how emotions can be a wild, untamed beast at the height of our desperation. It preys on our weaknesses and our vulnerabilities, and at just the right time (when we least expect it), it pounces, devours, and leaves no traces. We should have known better. I should have. I just didn't want her to have the upper hand. Call it a Casanova's pride.

But she is my world. That is the truth. How will we ever go back to the way things were.

What have I done?

What have I done?

What have I done?

What have I done to myself?

What have I done to you?

What have I done to us?

These were the only questions echoing through my mind long after he had hung up. The phone remains close to my ear even though the dialtone had long changed to an urgent beep, and eventually, cutting off completely.

Then, quiet. It has never been this loud. The heaviness of silence – a dull, slightly high pitched ringing – weighs in my ears like a faint throb, a pulsing sensation that just can't take a hint. It never leaves. It never leaves. It never stops getting louder.

I keep my eyes trained on the shadows, resting stagnant on the ceiling, as I lay limply in bed. The ringing in my ear begins to fade, and I hear my breathing: a most natural exchange, the short, shallow breaths of air entering my lungs and leaving through my nostrils.

Inhaling my last breath deeply, I exhale a sob.

Grief and guilt seizes my body hostage and engulfs me so suddenly, and I can't hold back my tears. I feel my ramrod straight body curl up into a fetal position, and I begin to sob violently, feeling the pain in every breath I took, every cough that wrecked my throat. I feel like I'm going to die.

I feel like I'm already dead.

My crying plateaus eventually, and I remain curled up like a little spiral seashell, shuddering with each breath. As I lay there, it suddenly occurs to me how much I'm hurting myself, by hurting him. I don't want this; I don't want to hurt him. I just want him to be aware of how he's been making me feel.

I don't want to lose him.

In a flash, I spring from my curled position and reach for my phone, which had slipped from my grasp in the midst of my earlier emotional outburst. My fingers shaking and wet from my tears, I begin to dial his number from memory, occasionally slipping on the keys.

"Please, Yi Jeong, please," I plead out loud, as I place the phone to my ear.

Hi, you have reached So Yi Jeong, please leave a message…

"No, no, no," I mutter frantically to myself, redialing his number, "You must pick up, Yi Jeong-ah, you must, you must…"

The same recorded greeting, cold and generic, comes through over the phone.

"No, Yi Jeong, no!" I find myself close to yelling, "No, Yi Jeong, don't let me go! YI JEONG, DON'T LET ME GO!" I dial his number again, again, and again, but every single attempt proves futile. "NO, YI JEONG! PLEASE, PLEASE! NO, PLEASE!"

I finally let the phone slip from my hand as my eyes begin to well up with tears again. I shake my head and look tearfully to the ceiling.

"Please, don't let me go."