it's only the beginning,
the limitless me

Click. Click. Click.

"Y/N!"

"Yeah, dad?" I yelled back, eyes still fixated on a point in the distance. The rain continued pelting the street, seeming far away.

"Back in the house! It's raining!" He answered a moment later, voice still sounding muffled and distant.

I noticed, I thought as I smiled thinly, before pushing open the car door and stepping out onto the floor of the garage. The entrance was slick with dirty water that had washed in, like a muddy brown ink stain.

Slamming the door of the bright silver Toyota, I made my way towards the overhead doors, shortly pressing down on the green close button. I watched as the door unraveled in slow motion, slowly but surely cutting off the noise of the rain on the street until it was only a faint murmur behind the metal.

"Y/N!"

"Yeah, dad!" I yelled again, and sighed, walking backwards in the direction of the door connecting the house and the garage. I don't know how well other people managed walking like that in an occupied garage, but I had the layout of this one memorized, having been here enough times even though we had only moved here a couple of months ago.

The ends of my jeans were slightly damp when I entered, kicking off my converse and walking barefoot into the kitchenette. My father stood at the counter with his back to me, probably chopping up a salad. I hated those, but usually obliged to eating them for his sake.

Usually, I had soggy ramen straight from the cup, so this was a sort of upgrade for me.

"Ready?" He turned party to allow me a worn smile, the corners of his mouth and eyes crinkling with smile lines and worry lines alike. I shrugged, my answering smile thin-lipped.

"Wash your hands first." He sighed, bringing up a hand to wipe his forehead with the back of it. I did as he said, and then pulled back a chair from the small table just outside, which scraped the floor in a way that used to annoy me before I got used to it.

He joined me a moment later, wiping his hands on his apron—mom's apron—before untying it from around his waist and hanging it lazily on the back of his chair. "Help yourself." He gestured to the food.

I didn't say anything, but dug in, keeping my eyes on my plate as I piled up as much as I could on it. As my dad was normally a late worker, this was one of the rare nights we got to eat dinner together, but I was almost on tenterhooks. He was a used car salesman—it definitely didn't sound special, not special enough to explain his late returns, but I wasn't in a position to inquire about anything. And I was fine with that, after all that had happened.

"Ready for college?" He tried to keep his tone light and conversational, but there was a hesitant undertone to it that I knew he wouldn't be getting rid of anytime soon. 

"Not really." I spoke through a mouthfull of meatballs. "Maybe. I guess."

"Vague." The silence was back again. I refrained from looking up at him, not sure if I wanted to see the look on his face. There were sometimes days I went without talking to him much, even though we were otherwise close. But enough had happened to change that, at least a little. "Any plans?"

"I don't know." I mumbled, playing with my fork. I really didn't.

I hoped feverently that my statement wouldn't be taken as something it wasn't meant to be, but my dad had been much more perceptive—maybe overly perceptive—lately.

He didn't say anything after that.

Almost an hour later, I was in my room—bare and stripped of much of what my last room used to contain. Haphazard posters of cars and racers decorated the blue walls—Maseratis and McLarens against a clear span of the sky.

My mouth tasted like mint toothpaste, something that usually calmed me, but wasn't doing much good as of today. Even the calm, cool shades of my room did nothing to ease the river of worry that coursed in my veins.

Lying on my side, I stared at the picture on the spot of the wall directly parallel to my bed—a gleaming chrome and metal beauty, a beautiful arctic white Corvette.

A small sigh parted my lips, and I hid the lower half of my face in the crook of my arm, letting the other hang off the side of the bed. The bed was low enough that I could just skim the cold floor with my fingers, the low temperature refreshingly different from the humid heat of the night air.

When we had initially shifted to Seoul, I had contemplated wadding up and trashing all of my collection, all to rid the house and my dad's mind of suspicion and worry. But laying there—with the heaviness of the potential of the next day and all that anxiety gnawing at my mind, I was kind of glad I hadn't.

Sleep didn't come to easily that night, anyway.

──────

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My fingers felt leaden and heavy as I stared at the lecturer at the head of the room, far enough from anywhere close to where I was sitting. Everything seemed dull and muted, and my foot rested uneasily on the bar connecting the desk and seat.

Nothing bad had happened—yet.

The extremity of the pessimism overtaking me had been one of the most intense things that had I had ever felt. Worse than the grief, the pain—but maybe not the guilt.

As the professor turned his back on the class and drew another line on the whiteboard, my heart constricted. Here I was, in the last lecture I was supposed to have, my first day of college—and I hadn't talked to a single soul except for a 'sorry' muttered to some kid I had bumped into.

And that, despite my lack of enthusiasm about anything, really, was kind of pathetic.

As the monotonous lecture continued—sluggishly, I must say—my eyes sought out the side of another student sitting a few seats diagonal to mine. He looked the least attentive, messy black hair brushing the tops of his thick eyebrows, one eye closed lazily as he leaned back in his seat.

If this had been high school, he wouldn't have been paying half the attention he was now. But I also knew that if this had been high school, I would have been the centre of attention.

Which wouldn't have been that bad, if it had been in a good way.

I know I should have been paying attention, I knew that back then, too. After my past had been blackened by everything I had done, I had gotten in. The college wasn't half bad either, and I knew I should have been thankful.

It's just that I couldn't bring myself to care anymore.

I didn't realise I hadn't taken my eyes off of the ravenet until he turned to me with a cheeky smile, and winked in my direction.

Cheeks aflame, I whipped my head to stare at the teacher again, humiliated beyond repair. It was a small thing to be so embarrassed about, but what counted was that I had necessarily been caught doing something that I—well—hadn't really been doing.

I was twice as hyperactive for the rest of the session, bouncing my knee hyperactively. As soon as the teacher dismissed us, I shot up from my seat.

Haphazardly gathering the notes and mariers decorating the wooden table in front of me, I arranged them in my arms messily before rushing out of the door, through the thick crowd that had already formed at the entrance.

The heavy thudding of my sneakers bounced off the marble floor, resonating in the relatively empty corridor. Most of the students clustered in patches, or dawdled behind in the halls, so I was one of the only people out. Only once I was well away from my former location did I turn to check if the boy had followed.

Nothing. The eased sigh left my lips before I could help it, and I turned a sharp corner, into the hallway that led to the bleachers.

He had definitely had the air of a troublemaker. Harmless or not, the boy had given out a vibe that was as attractive as it would be repulsive to me—I had had enough trouble to last a lifetime.

I knew I should have been grateful—not many colleges would have been willing to accept a student with such a past, disregarding the grades, but my mother's reputation had preceded mine. Sixteen years, and I still owed her too much.

Gyeongju-seon was good enough, maybe even too good for me. But I was too skeptical about getting in trouble again, even remotely—there was an established fear.

The sky was bruising violet and orange as I stepped out into the ground, squinting against the still bright sunlight. My guess had been correct—no one. The place was empty.

I stuffed my notes into my backpack, not caring as they folded and wrinkled. I'd manage.

As I looked up, he caught my eye.

His eyes were closed, I could see, even though he was straight opposite me on the bleachers. His kicked-up, battered converse rested on the white bars in front of him, a single elbow propping his relaxed form up. The cigarette hung between his right index and middle finger.

Thick, white smoke curled around his slim hand and face, head tipped back luxuriously as he inhaled the fumes.

An experienced smoker—I could tell by the way he held the thin, pale stick—but he looked young, maybe a little older than me. As he tilted his head to the side, his features emerged from the haze—sharp, bold and handsome, too beautiful to be delicate.

The most obvious thing about him was his hair.

A thick, luscious mass of violent red hair brushed the top of his forehead, shot through with darker streaks, obviously treated with proper care. His eyelashes were long and feathery—dusting his cheekbones as his eyes closed, looking about as viscous as the smoke. The leather jacket was worn—cloaking broad shoulders, pushed up his forearms, where prominent veins stood out against slim, sinewey muscle.

He was beautiful.

Trouble.

Slowly, I turned around, and walked away.