93: The Messages

Shit. Inho shoved a handful of chocolate kisses in his mouth all at once. This isn’t okay. Inho didn’t want to be the villain in his own story. Fortunately, he considered himself a very solution-oriented person. Chewing fiercely, he quickly drafted texts to his dad, Jasmine, and Jamie.

Jasmine replied right away, easily forgiving him, and as they texted, joking back and forth, it was like nothing had ever happened between them at all. He felt a small tension in his chest ease.

His dad didn’t answer immediately, but also forgave him, though Inho’s mushy message seemed to have made him cry all over again. Inho shook his head, smiling fondly at his phone.

When Jamie’s message came through even later, it didn’t have quite the same tone. Don’t text me, was all it said, and well… fair enough.

Inho ate the last of the chocolate, he was starting to feel over-sugared and sick. Nobody was coming in today at all. Maybe because it was Valentines day? Or maybe, because it was pouring rain outside the automatic doors. It was a dreary late-afternoon, almost indistinguishable from night.

The cute personal trainer that always touched his arm drifted over to him with a warm smile. She was dressed all in pink spandex today. She must have someone to celebrate love with, he thought with a prick of envy.

“Hey Inho,” she tilted her head shyly, “Do you like them?” she gestured to the now empty bag of kisses.

“Nah, they make me feel kinda puke-y.” He crumpled the package and tucked it into the trash bin below the counter. “It’s so dead in here. How’s your day going?”

When he looked up from the garbage, her expression had gone sour. She didn’t reply, instead, she stormed away to the back room. He heard her mutter, “Dick” as she went. He had no idea what that was about, so he dismissed it with only a slight sense of foreboding.

An hour later, he was still doing nothing, drumming his hands on the counter. He’d only checked in two people, and there was literally nothing to do. He took his phone back out. It was time, he decided, to read Stephen’s texts.

He was feeling very ambitious after his successes with Jasmine and his dad, and having even managed to call Stephen last night. If Stephen did call him back, he should at least know what he was in for.

Yet, he could tell they were going to be hard to read. So, it was with great trepidation that he pulled them up.

His eyes skittered over the words, and he scrolled quickly over the oldest ones. They’d gone from mushy good morning texts straight into one-sided devastation when Stephen had realized he had left. Inho’s throat tightened as he read them. It was hard to imagine his intense, confident Stephen writing these words. He’d really done something horrible.

He took a long slow breath as he sifted through Stephen telling him he loved him. Then hissed the air out through his teeth when he reached Stephen cursing him out. That was absolutely to be expected. For several days, no messages had come at all. Did he give up here?

When the messages started again the tone had changed. It became a log of sorts. There were only a few entries, but each one was long, thoughtful, and painful. With wide eyes, Inho realized they were Stephen’s thoughts immediately after he left therapy sessions.

He started to tear up. He couldn’t picture Stephen as someone that would listen to a therapist, and yet here it was. That he even admitted to going was wild to Inho. He supposed it was probably less stigmatized in Canada, but still. Inho was rattled. Stephen was always a closed off person, who hid things, and lied. But, here his defenses were down, he’d made himself totally vulnerable.

Tense and curious, Inho kept reading. There was a lot here, about Stephen’s family, and his struggles around leaving the church. How he suspected working so hard to shake off religious guilt had made him into someone who couldn’t admit fault.

Inho read and reread. How he fit into Stephen’s life was here too, and Min had been right. His ghosting had definitely hit Stephen extremely hard. He sank down to crouch behind the counter. This was… a lot.

The final text had come through just 3 days ago, and it ended like this:

I know I told my therapist that I wasn’t stupid enough to love you anymore, but I felt like she thought I was making a mistake. She never tells me what I should do, though. (It’s obnoxious) But I can tell sometimes, what she’s thinking. And, for some reason, I like that she thinks I’m wrong. Even if you’re gone for good. I think maybe I’d rather keep loving you for now.

Inho was having trouble seeing the screen. Unshed tears were obscuring his vision. Three days ago. What did Stephen decide? Why did he stop texting? He hadn’t mentioned anything on their call...

The front door slid open, someone was here to work out. Inho immediately rose from his crouch, but turned his head down to hide his wet face.

“Well, hello.” A man said. Inho didn’t look up, just buzzing the gate for him to pass through, but the stranger put his hand over Inho’s phone where it sat unlocked on the counter. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Inho froze. That was English. Surely, he was imagining it after all the yearning he’d felt for the last thirty minutes but… He looked up.

Stephen was standing in front of him.