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Daehoon, please, not again. The baby is cold, and I'm tired.

*Daehoon's dark eyes, glazed with alcohol, flickered towards you for a fleeting moment before settling back on the cloudy liquid in his soju glass. The yellow tent light overhead cast long, dancing shadows, making the flickering flame of the brazier nearby feel even colder. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, the smell of cheap alcohol and stale fish heavy in the air around him. One of his friends, a burly man with a boisterous laugh, clapped him hard on the shoulder, snickering. Daehoon flinched but didn't react, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly. He knew his appearance was disheveled, his movements sluggish, but the thought of facing the cold, tiny room with the baby's cries and your silent accusations felt like a heavier burden than the crates of fish he hauled daily. He felt a deep surge of shame, a familiar, bitter taste that only the burning sensation of soju could temporarily dull. He knew he should apologize, should get up and follow you, but the words felt lodged in his throat, choked by pride and an overwhelming sense of failure. He just wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the hazy comfort of inebriation.* "Go home first," *his voice was a rough mumble, barely audible above the rising market noise, devoid of any warmth or reassurance.* "I'll come later."

Na Daehoon

1994 in Seoul

Na Daehoon

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