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365 days Under His Skin
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The black bars of the wrought iron gate, which was in front of me, formed sharp lines against the warm glow of the apartment outside. My bare hand hung over the latch, its fingers shaking not from the cold of January but rather from the lack of courage I thought I had, now crumbling like a snow castle.
Naturally, Taekyung's beige wool coat, with its cashmere lining that weighs both armor and accusation, fits perfectly across my shoulders. After all, it's his body. The slight smell of his closet was still clinging to the fabric.
I felt as though my confidence was being squashed by the beige turtleneck that embraced my throat. The muted green color, which was meant to calm and quiet the screaming in your veins, made me think of hospital walls. The evening breeze blew through the tangle, finding every opening in my well-maintained composure.
Somewhere beyond the gate, a floorboard cracked. The cicadas' drone faltered, as if even nature held its breath. The metal latch burned cold through my palm as I finally pushed forward.
As soon as I walked into the apartment after walking into the building, it felt warm and comfy rather than the biting cold outside. It was filled with the scent of simmering soup, making my empty stomach clench, torn between hunger and guilt.
"Taekyung-ah?" A voice called from the kitchen, followed by the familiar clatter of wooden spoons against ceramic. The sound was so homely that it ached my heart more with guilt. This is a home. A real home. That's what Taekyung and I both missed from staying away from it.
Taekyung's mother—my mother now? —turned from the stove with a smile that stopped at her lips. She looked younger than I expected, barely into her late forties, with shoulder-length, wavy hair framing her face that balanced between soft and quiet authority. Her eyes were as dark as the space between stars and held that typical power that Asian moms hold: one glance could silence a tantrum or freeze your lie mid-breath.
"You look tired," she said, wiping her hand on her apron as she approached.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, hovering awkwardly in the doorway like an uninvited guest. But her gaze flickered to my frozen stance, those all-seeing eyes missing nothing: not the tremor in my hands and not the way I had hesitated before entering her son's home.
Then she pointed to the low dining table and said simply, "Sit." No demands, no questions, as if she had seen my behavior, which I thought she had.
However, as usual, I decided to remain silent as my stomach twisted—not out of hunger or guilt, but rather out of fear or possibly nervousness. I took a seat at the table. Shameless me, at least try to help her, my inner self chastised.
Just as I stood, as if noticing or hearing my thoughts, she said, "There is no need to help me; just sit there," and I did. Like a troubled child, like an imposter wanting to be exposed.
To push all the heavy thoughts away, I tried to distract myself and looked around, turning my head to find the photos lining the walls. Taekyung as a child with a gap-toothed grin. Taekyung graduating middle school His grin was already dimming, yet it reached his eyes. High school, Taekyung, with a simple curve that didn't reach his eyes. University Taekyung, his eyes hollow even in his victory.
And then there are other photos, another boyish type who looked like him with those high cheekbones but softer eyes… Oh, his brother, but there were only up-to-high-school photos. Neither boy stood with their mother in any picture except one.
There, tucked between graduation certificates, was a single family portrait. Taekyung's middle school self, his infamous coconut haircut framing a smile that almost reached his eyes. His brother's arm slung over his shoulder. Their mother was between them, her hands resting on their backs like they were anchors of her life.
That cracked my heart. The mother setting the table behind me would never know how that photo, this single fading testament to their wholeness, made an imposter's chest ache with borrowed grief.
The clanking sound of the bowl that was set in front of me by her made me pull back. The red broth was welling with tender tofu. My reflection wavered on its surface, clouded by rising heat.
"You haven't visited in months."
Her words landed like a shovel to the chest. He had neglected her. Just like I had neglected my own family, buried under scripts and expectations and self-pity. The old excuses rose like bile: deadlines, expectations, and the most common but unspoken, "You won't understand."
My gaze caught on the stack of elementary school workbooks crowding the coffee table, their pages filled with colorful sticky notes. A red pen lay uncapped beside half-graded worksheets, the typical signs of a teacher's unfinished evening. Of course, she'd always been an educator. Taekyung's university acceptance letter still hung framed by the TV, its edges slightly curled with age.
The realization hit my gut harder than a brick: she'd built shrines to her children's milestones in this apartment while they both left her to eat alone at a table set for three. Now, I couldn't tell who I hated more, Taekyung for leaving her or myself for being stuck in his body for his cowardice in his choices and my greediness for wanting to be him.
"I'm s-sorry, E-eomma." The words tore from my throat, barely louder than the simmering pot on the stove. Not Taekyung's apology but mine.
Then came the knife twist, her hand freezing midair before landing gently on mine. The warmth of her palm against my knuckles burned worse than any approach.
"Just eat, son."
Two sentences. Three words. Enough to shatter the composure that I have been holding on to from the start. The casual endearment—"son"—spoken so easily to a stranger wearing her child's face.
I stared at our clasped hands, her wedding ring digging into her skin, the only remaining thing from Taekyung's late father. The man who should have been here. The man whose absence had started this unraveling long before I ever stepped into its wreckage.
Her thumb brushed my knuckle, an old habit meant to comfort. I wondered if she felt the difference in the way her son's hands trembled, like they didn't used to. The way her son's eyes filled with guilt instead of emptiness. Did she?
The stew's steam flew between us. Its rich aroma suddenly felt suffocating.
Now the soup tasted like regret.
Like I have swallowed the wrong life. Like I had stolen more than just a body—I had stolen this woman's chance to mourn properly, to scream at the son who abandoned her, and to maybe, someday, forgive him.
But regret was a luxury I couldn't afford. If I had to wear this skin for a year, I'd damn well make it mean something. Even if every meal at this table felt like communion with ghosts.
A hot sting betrayed me first. I blinked, and the soup blurred into a red haze. No, not here. My finger locked around the spoon tighter in an attempt to hold on to me, squeezing my eyes shut.
Control Taeha.
My name…my real name… a silent scream in the prison of my skull. The tears came anyway, falling into the broth with tiny splashes that rippled outward like disappearing stars.
"I…I should go, E-eomma." My words cracked in between, making me curse internally. I pushed the chair back from the table; it was screeching like a hurt animal against the floor. Taekyung's mom said nothing for a moment.
"Taekyung-ah," she called when I turned around, which stopped me from taking a step. I didn't turn around or dare to look at her, but in the back, I heard a rattling sound.
After five minutes, she came with a black cover, and there was some packed in the box, as if she already knew… That her son would run away like this.
"Take this with you."
She handed me the bag, not looking at her son's face. But her hands did—that consoling, soft brushing against the overcoat, caressing my hand.
The words got stuck in the lump in my throat. "Thank you" was too small, like sugar dissolved on the tongue—sweet yet gone too fast. So I did what Taekyung would have done. What children like us do when they can't bear their mother's love, when their throat hurts to talk about it.
A stiff nod. The door shut behind me. The bag's warmth was bleeding through my coat like a fresh bruise.
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