I remember coming down the steps during the party at the retreat we were at. The journey down was enveloped by darkness, illuminated by life from only the entrance and the exit of the stairway. Each step steeper than what I remembered, I was swaying, being careful to not trip and fall. I have always been prone to clumsiness, but I was determined to make my way toward you. With the walls and railings on each side, I was bound to make it down the stairs safely. The only variable was time.
My intoxicated mind was trying to find ground in every step I took, while also holding two jello shots — one virgin and the other not. I was being careful not to spill them, wanting to preserve my present for you. Concern blinded me from understanding that if I turned the cup upside down nothing would spill, but I suppose that was the fine line between kindness and stupidity.
The world was different downstairs: quiet, still, empty. The few people down here were those like you: They were studying or they simply didn’t enjoy the burn of Bacardi. It’s a shame timing is inconsiderate, to have an exam the day after a party. It’s a shame that the sweetness of soju still isn’t enough to mask the bitterness of booze.
The scene downstairs contrasted the world above: crowded, chaotic, loud. You could hear the muffled sounds of screaming and laughter, the cries of college students finally having the taste of freedom. As lively as it was in the living room, I left their company for yours.
I saw billows of smoke spiraling from the joints I was too scared to try out on the balcony. I saw silhouettes sprawled on couches being lullabied by bottles of vodka. I saw our friends holding each other as they swayed from side to side, singing slurred lyrics, and mourning the end of a weekend. Concoctions of spirits sloshed out of their cups and bottles and onto the floor, a mess we would clean later.
Instead of being with the heathens dancing above, you were holed up in a tiny room with your…
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