Chapter 32- The weight of living

Chapter 32: The Weight of Living

Memory of Flowers

I was six when Mom first brought me to the field. That February morning, the dead flowers crackled under my boots like cereal. I remember how they clung to my wool tights - brittle brown petals that Mom would later pick off one by one while I ate toast at the kitchen table.

"Look how brave they are," she'd said, brushing a crumbling poppy from my knee. "Even dying, they hold their shape."

When we returned in April, the field had become a different creature entirely. Lush. Alive. Terrifying.

Twenty minutes later, we were in the ER. The doctor's penlight shone in my eyes as he said words like "histamines" and "immunoresponse." Mom cried when the epinephrine needle went in. I just remember thinking how unfair it was - that something so beautiful could hurt me so much.

Now, when life feels like that spring field - too bright, too much - I remember: even flowers know when to lie dormant.

4:17 AM - Running on Empty

My lungs burned like I'd swallowed lit sparklers. Somewhere around the third block, my ponytail had come undone, and now damp strands stuck to my neck like seaweed.

"Wait—" I grabbed a fire hydrant, doubling over. "I think I'm dying."

Zain jogged back, barely winded. The streetlight caught the laugh lines around his mouth. "You're fine."

"I'm not fine," I wheezed, pressing my forehead to cool metal. "I just coughed up what might be a lung."

He offered his water bottle. I chugged greedily, water slopping down my shirt.

"Classy." He wiped my chin with his thumb before either of us realized what he was doing. We both froze.

A car turned onto our street.

"Shit—" Zain yanked me into the shadow of a parked van. His chest pressed against my back, his breath warm on my ear. "Paparazzi."

I held my breath as headlights crawled past. His fingers flexed against my waist.

When the car rounded the corner, he didn't let go right away.

5:03 AM - Porch Light Confessions

The wooden steps groaned under our weight like they always had. Some things never change - the chipped paint on the third step, the way the railing wobbles if you lean too hard. The easy silence between us.

Zain lit a cigarette. The first drag made him wince - he'd never actually liked smoking, just the idea of it.

"You'll get caught," I said, watching the ember glow.

He exhaled through his nose. "By who? Your mom's at her conference. Mine's busy pretending I don't exist."

The bitterness surprised me. I picked at a splinter. "Why are we really doing this?"

"Because you said you wanted to get back in shape."

"And you just happened to show up at 3:45 AM?"

His shoulder bumped mine. "Couldn't sleep."

The sky lightened by degrees. Somewhere, a newspaper thumped onto a driveway.

"Zain." I watched a ladybug crawl across my knee. "Why do you keep asking me to come back to STEM?"

He stubbed out the cigarette. "Because it's where you belong."

"It's where you belong."

The ladybug took flight.

The Cigarette That Told the Truth

He lit another. And another. Each one barely smoked before being crushed under his heel.

"You're wasting them," I said.

He shrugged. "Just something to do with my hands."

The fourth cigarette brought the question I'd been dreading:

"Do you miss him?"

I plucked a blade of grass, split it down the middle. "Mostly I miss how simple things were before he left."

Zain nodded like he understood. Maybe he did.

"How did you know?" I asked. "With Layla?"

He laughed - a real, unexpected sound. "I wrote her name in my science notebook. Like a fucking twelve-year-old."

"And now?"

The lighter clicked open. Shut. Open.

"Now I know the difference between infatuation and..." The streetlight caught his profile. "And something real."

The Moment That Almost Was

His pencil hovered over a calculus problem. I watched his brow furrow, the way he chewed his lip when stuck.

"Need help?" I teased.

He turned. Our noses almost brushed.

I could see:

The sleep crust in his left eyelash

A fresh pimple by his eyebrow

The tiny scar from when he fell off my bike at nine

His breath smelled like spearmint and smoke.

The car horn made us jump apart. My notebook tumbled to the floor.

"Shit," he muttered, rubbing his neck. "We should—"

"Yeah."

Neither of us moved.

Yumna's Heartbreak

The bathroom stall shook with her sobs. I recognized the sound - the kind of crying that starts in your toes and tears its way up.

I slid down the opposite wall. "Remember Ms. Kang's art show last year?"

A sniffle. "What about it?"

"You told me my finger painting looked like 'emotional abstractism.'"

A wet chuckle. "It looked like a toddler sneezed on canvas."

"And you bought it for 5,000 won."

The lock clicked. Her face was a disaster - red nose, smeared eyeliner, the works.

I handed her a wet paper towel. "Paint this, Yumna. Not what they want to see. This."

The Art of Breaking

Her triptych told the whole story:

First Panel: Raees mid-laugh (soft pastels, his smile slightly blurred like a fading memory)

Second Panel: Just his back (harsh charcoal lines that scratched the paper)

Third Panel: Empty except for a single brushstroke where his hand should've been

When they called her name for second place, her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"At least the prize money covers my therapy," she joked, fingers trembling around the ribbon.

The Aftermath

Raees slouched into class like nothing had happened. His earbuds were in, his eyes carefully avoiding our corner.

Erica moved first.

I caught her wrist an inch from his face. "Don't," I murmured.

Then I kicked his chair.

The crash was deeply satisfying.

As he scrambled up, I whispered: "That's for making her paint her pain."

Behind us, Yumna started a new sketch - this time, of herself.