Dearest Indifferent You,

I cried noisy, angry tears today.
My eyeballs are pulsing with grief.

I said, Hi.
You said, Bye.

I love you.
Let me say it again.
I love you.
I ell-oh-vee-ee why-oh-you.

My love for you is true.
The sound of our heartbeats are one.
I am blooming before your very eyes —
I am just not sure into what as yet.

Last night I rang your doorbell.
You opened the door.
“I lov — ” I began.
You slammed the door on my face.

I am in pain.
I am in despair.
I gnash my teeth.
My molars are cracked.

But I will never give up.

Yours in torment,

You Know Whooo

Nihao Oppa! Why are your crying? Did YY make you cry. YY be nice to oppa. We only have one Lee Min Ho in this world

CHAPTER 8: THE CANDY AND THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER

There’s a pounding at the door.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!”

I freeze.

I know that voice.

“No! Don’t open —- ” I rush to block Babe’s path.

C R A S H !

The door goes flying as a guy barrels in like a tornado.

I shriek. Babe jumps.

“WHERE ARE YOU HIDING HER? WHERE ARE YOU HIDING MY LT?” the intruder, clad all in black, shouts.

“Who are you? How dare you barge into my house?” Babe is spluttering.

“Omg. It’s Lee Min Ho!”

“Lee Min Who?”

“WHERE IS SHE? WHERE DID YOU HIDE MY —– ”

All of a sudden, LMH stills. Lifts his head. Sniffs the air. Swings his eyes to where the splinters of wood dangle, hanging from the open doorway.

And then he’s off, like the devil is at his heels.

He climbs up and over the high gates and disappears.

“Hey! Hold up! You can’t just break into my house and run off!” Babe shouts.

The street is empty.

“Where is he?” Babe pants.

“He’s gone.”

“I’m calling the cops.” Babe stalks back into the house.

The world outside is a blue haze. So pretty. I twirl on my tippy toes. Breathe in the fresh, crisp air. It feels good to be free. To soak in the sunshine.

C L A P !

Thunder? What the —-

It starts to drizzle.

A leaf flies by, right on cue.

A cat rolls past lazily on its head, four paws up in the air. It blinks at me. “Meow.” I blink back.

“Open your eyes,” a voice says at my elbow.

I turn.

“AHHHH!” I shout.

A shadowy figure is at my elbow.

“Open your eyes.” A strange, disembodied voice.

“My eyes are open.”

“Open your eyes.”

“Quit saying that! My eyes are open!”

“They are open. But they see not.”

It points to a familiar figure a few metres down the street.

LMH.

He is running, head flung back, arms pumping at the sides, long legs flying. Right down the middle of the street.

He is running after a green bus.

“COME BACK, LT!” he bellows. “COME BACK TO ME-EEE!” He is crying, loud, wrenching sobs. “WA-AA WA-AA WA-AA WA-AA…”

Cars, honk, swerve madly. Drivers lean out of windows to shake their fists and curse after him. “Moron!” “You drunk?” “I’m calling the cops!” “You crazy lunatic!”

All the passengers in the bus are on their feet, pressed against the dusty windows, gawking.

Except for one.

A lone solitary figure sits, sips a glass of wine and yawns.

The bus lumbers on.

LMH continues to run. He is Forrest Gump on a mission. To reunite with the indifferent LT.

LMH ploughs down the street. Arms waving like a maniac, feet pounding, 200 metres behind the bus. Like that scene from Stairway to Heaven.

He runs past one block. Then two. A third.

“LT!” he shouts. “DON’T LEAVE ME, LT!”

And then it happens.

He stumbles, and falls, slo-mo. Crumples in a tangle of limbs on the gravel.

Up ahead, the bus draws further and further away.

Then:

His voice cracking, he whispers, “Stop, please. Someone, please stop that bus.”

“Meow.”

The upside-down cat rolls by on its head.

LMH jolts up, faster than you can say, “Famy is a minoz.”

“FOLLOW THAT BUS!” LMH roars to the cat.

The cat gives him a paws-up sign and rolls faster.

LMH slides into a faint.

The rain is falling harder.

“You want an umbrella?” The hooded figure croaks. It is wearing a long trenchcoat. Its face is hidden behind a fedora.

“Sure.”

It smacks its head. Once. Twice.

Maybe, it has a headache.

“Are you a zombie detective?” I ask chattily. “Is that why you’re wearing a long trenchcoat and a fedora?”

“Never you mind.” It holds its head in its hand and moves it up and down for two beats, and —-

—- an umbrella drops into its palm. A swarovski crystal studded umbrella.

WOW.

The mysterious stranger passes it to me. There is a marking on the handle. MUGYULJOIE, it reads.

“Thanks. Is that your name? Mugyuljoie?”

“Never you mind.”

“Are you a magician? Like David Blaine?”

“Never you mind.”

“Are you mafia?”

“Never you mind.”

“You have a hole in your skull.” It’s in the shape of an umbrella.

“Never you mind.”

The mysterious stranger reaches into a pocket and fishes out —–

—– two toothpicks.

It turns away from me. Bends down. Grunts. Its shoulders are shaking. Whatever it is doing is hard.

“What are you doing?”

“Never – grunt – you – grunt – mind – grunt – ”

It straightens. Swivels slowly back to me.

I blink.

The wooden X in its skull glares at me.

“Don’t you have a bandaid?”

“Never you mind.”

“Who are you?”

“You’ll find out soon.” A raspy whisper. ‘If you live long enough.”

A chill goes through me.

“What do you mean?”

“Might want to ask your boyfriend what happened to his fiancée.”

“His fiancée? You mean, Victoria?”

“No.” A harsh cackle. “Veronica. His first fiancée. Who disappeared five years ago. From this very house.”

CHENG CHENG CHENG

—- Insert dramatic melo music rising to a screeching crescendo. Thank you, toki! —-

CHAPTER 7: THE CANDY AND THE FOREHEAD

“You can stay here till you’re well enough to go home.” He rakes a hand through his hair.

Home? That crappy rooftop? Are you kidding?

Home is here. With you, babe.

But, of course, I can’t say that, can I? My babe’s looking frazzled. There are purplish rings under his eyes. The bruise on his forehead glowers at me. My heart aches. Don’t you fret, babe. I’m here now. I’ll take care of you. I’ll —-

—- Mumble mumble —-

He’s grunting something, staring at a point above my head. He is resolutely trying not to lock eyes with me. Because he knows one glance would shatter that resolve of his. He is weak around me.

“What was that, babe?” All that stuff before? Water under the bridge. We’re puzzle pieces, two halves of a whole. I am him, and he is —–

—— “Victoria understands.”

What?

I go still. Frozen. My rosebud lips shrivel, tighten to a thin line. My nostrils flare. I am frothing white breath, and it’s not even winter. I am that angry.

I am mad. Shaking with fury. If I were a zombie, I would hurl myself at him right now, sink my teeth into that neck, rip out that lousy two-timing heart —–

I snap my eyes to the coward.

His chest is heaving and he’s looking at me with wide Bambi eyes. He looks like he might run out the door and never come back.

I growl. He jumps. I stomp to the doorway and plant my body there. He’d have to kill me to get past me. And there’s not a chance of that happening. Because I’d kill him first.

I let out a little breathy huff.

“Victoria knows about us?”

“About you.” He winces. “There is no us. Remember? I thought I made it clear that…” He’s upset. Naturally. Denying your heart’s desire is a painful thing. His mouth is a slash of tension. His jaw is clenched so tight I know there’s a hairline fracture there with my name on it. An X-ray technician will be astounded to see the word CANDY etched into his bones one day.

Poor babe.

Just like that, my rage evaporates.

I look long and deep into his eyes. Two black pools of pain. Loving me has done this to him. It’s tearing him up.

I need to show him that I understand. That our mouths may not be able to say it out loud, but our actions can. We belong together. I am Babe. Babe is me. Babe and Candy. It has a nice ring to it. Like Heathcliff and Catherine.

“I’ll take a shower,” I say, soft and sweet. “Thank you for everything.” I droop my head like a bruised little flower. Loll it from side to side, like a zombie. He lets out a yelp. Babe’s so nervy. His passion for me is taking such a toll on him.

“I’ll be out of here…” I squeeze out a tear, let it roll down my right cheek. “Just as soon as I’m done…”

He stares at me. A sad little kitten. Unwanted. Unloved. Womp. Womp.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to it then,” he turns, but not before I see something flit across his face. Relief? No-uh. It must have been sadness. The door closes softly. Yep. Definitely sadness.

I squirt a whole bottle of lavendar shower gel over me. Dump a bottle of lavendar shampoo on my hair. I scrub and scratch every inch of my body till every clump of caked mud is gone. Then I throw myself on the wet tiles and roll about, scour my body up and down and side to side till I feel my skin tingle and smart. Sometimes, you get these pesky little bits and pieces of slime and dirt and grass that tend to stick in the most awkward parts. I once carried a bug’s severed head with me for three weeks, can you believe it? It was wedged between my third and fourth toes.

I almost scream when I see my reflection in the mirror. My hair is so long I don’t look like myself anymore. I look a wild-eyed, jagged-haired stranger. I don’t recognize this person.

“WHO ARE YOU?” I shout. This thing in the mirror opens her mouth so big it scares me. Her eyes are two glittering holes of hate. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO CANDY” I bellow.

Oh, wait. It’s me —-

Geez. Lost it for a moment.

Candy is cute.

I don’t look cute.

I don’t look like Candy.

Bad. This is very bad.

I need to do something fast. I’m competing for my babe’s heart. Against beautiful, elegant Victoria, with her perfect face and her perfect hair.

I spot the pair of scissors in a plastic holder and I know what I have to do.

I pull down a hank of hair over my forehead, and snip it off.

The eyes in my reflection are crazy big and maniacal.

But I look beautiful. I love me.

I’m back. Me. Candy. Cute, sweet Candy.

My new bangs are slightly crooked. Never mind. I’ll snip them to even them out.

Damn. The right is a bit too long. I grit my teeth —– I need to see a dentist soon, all this teeth gnashing is harming my molars —– and snip again.

I snip and snip and snip.

Ten minutes later.

I stand back and beam at myself in the mirror.

I look so cute.

Picture this. You’re a kid and your frugal mom, who only goes to the salon to get her own hair done, puts a bowl over your head and cuts beneath the rim.

That’s what I see smiling back at me.

I look like I got my hair cut by bending too close to a shredder.

And there are four layers to the bangs, somehow. My bangs are spiky little wisps that wave at me exactly 0.05 cm from the edge of my scalp.

My forehead is a smooth gleaming desert, my bangs the scrubs.

Damn, I look good.

I open the door. Step into the living hall.

“Babe.”

He’s standing directly in front of an open window.

He swings his head to me, and I gasp.

He’s showered and changed, and his hair is a curtain of dark, thick silk blanketing his forehead.

He’s snuffed out his forehead.

My babe is spotting bangs. Just like me.

Oh, my God.

He’s telling me what I already know.

We are bangs-spotting soulmates. Two halves of a puzzle. We fit. Candy and Babe. Babe and Candy. He is me. I am him.

“Babe.” I step out of the shadows.

He blinks. Takes a step backward. His hair slaps against his forehead, a black band strapped against his skin. Oddly familiar. I watched a drama called Perfume once. Shin Sung Rok navigated the ups and downs of his life with the same impenetrable wall, he hid the love in his heart and the pain of his past, barricading himself behind his forehead fortress for 16 episodes. Like my babe and (Hey, kat! What’s up, buddy?) —— W-what was that?? This just flashed into my head —–

I blink back my tears. Oh, babe. I see you. That hair can’t shield you. I see what you’re trying to hide.

“What do you think of my hair?” My voice is a husky whisper. I spin. Blow a breath.

He’s staring at me. His eyes open wide. He’s got his entire soul compressed in those orbs and they’re the colour of love.

Silence.

Then: “You look…” A pause, pregnant with emotion “….g-great.” A slight tremor. His face contorts, as if he is in pain. The way a man looks when he’s confronted with beauty he’s stupidly rejecting out of noble idiocy.

Is that all he has to say? I am tempted to push him through the open window. He must have sensed this, because he steps three paces off to the side before adding, “You have a large enough forehead that you can get away with short bangs.” He claps a hand over his mouth the moment he says this. He looks a little shaken. He’s allowed my beauty to make him waiver, to say things he shouldn’t. It’s tantamount to a confession.

Oh, babe.

He’s so sweet I’m floored.

I draw a huge lungful of breath and the effort makes my eyebrows arch so high, they nearly touch my bangs. “You look good, too, babe.”

My eyes well with tears.

“That covered forehead looks absolutely stunning on you.” My voice breaks.

He makes a strange keening sound.

My babe is so overwhelmed he can’t say a word.

@egads @pakalanapikake @wishfultoki @katakwasabi @bbstl @parkchuna @ndlessjoie @outofthisworld

@coffeprince4eva @bcampbell1662

@cloggie @sicarius @azzo1 @ally-le @anothernicole

@bea818 @oppafangirl @korfan @kiara @hebang

@growingbeautifully @kethysk @13infamyss @hotcocoagirl

@snarkyjellyfish

@stpauligurl @moomoomoondog @raonah

@lugirl131415

@blnmom @sensationalfantasy @ayaan @kethysk
@leetennant
@maybemaknae
@juniebug
@pickleddragon
@trinpie
@waadmay
@eazal

Poor Mr Babe, I just want him to get out of there! Maybe find a new identity and go into hiding from candy.
Loving Candy’s new hair cut, did you see my message about how I hacked my hair the other day? I guess if you look from the right angle, it is a decent cut 🙂

CHAPTER 6: CANDY AND THE NINJA

“Hello?” I whisper. “Babe, is that you?”

“Candy…?” Hesitant. “You’re in jail…? But, how —– ” Because it’s all your damn fault, you dummy!

I breathe in. Breathe out. Stay calm now, Candy. I’ve got to butter him up. Make him feel bad.

I pitch my voice two notches higher.

“It’s a long story,” my voice is wobbling. I don’t even have to fake it. Because I’m shivering. My knees are knocking together. My goosebumps are popping up all over my back. Which is kind of a nice surprise —– I’d thought THAT part of my anatomy was dead. So, yay.

“Can you get me out of here?” A burst of icy wind rushes in from the open window. “I’m – I’m s-scared…” The tremor in my voice is real. My bones are quaking. My teeth are chattering.

“Candy…” His voice has softened even more. It’s working. His heart is breaking. He must be blaming himself. I give myself a silent high-five. I. Am. So. Good.

Here’s the thing.

Everyone knows a Candy would die rather than admit that she’s afraid. So for me to actually say it out LOUD, to HIM, no less —- well, it’s a HUGE deal. Earth-shattering, in fact. C’mon, it takes like 12 episodes to TRUST the hero enough to acknowledge your weaknesses in a typical prideful Candy-centred drama! And that I’m telling him now? It’s BIG. A giant step forward in our relationship, and it marks a shift —– hold on, he’s mumbling something —–

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t do this with you anymore…”

What????

He’s supposed to say he’s coming to bust me out of jail like right now!

“We have nothing…” His voice shrinks. A bad connection. Or maybe it’s the blood pounding in my head. I could kill him. I could seriously K I L L him right now. His voice returns, hard in my ear, “…I’m sorry…” Shrivels again. I want to T H R O T T L E him, put my hands around his throat and
S Q U E E Z E —–

A second later, he’s at full volume. “Please don’t contact me anymore —– ”

“Babe, I miss you,” I cut in.

Fast-thinking, that’s me.

A Candy’s gotta do what a Candy’s gotta do. I can’t just lie back and whimper. Yoda whispers in my ear every night: “Do, or do not. There is no try.” Sometimes, I murmur back. And when I’m in a good mood, I hold longer conversations with him.

I hear you, Yoda. Loud and clear.

I’m going to fight for every inch of my babe. Even if it kills me. Or him.

A beat of silence.

Then: “Candy…” A sigh. I can hear him breathing.

“Babe, I miss…” And it spouts from me in a torrent, water pluming from a drain. Or a burst pipe, like the one in my kitchen.

“I miss your eyebrows.”

“I miss your smile.” His mouth twitching, trying so hard to resist my allure. And failing each time.

“I miss your nostrils.” The way they flare, breathe in my intoxicating scent of rank sweat, stale onions and cheap soap.

“I miss your throat.” The desperate bobbing of his Adam’s apple, fighting in vain for some semblance of control.

“I miss your stubble.” The feel of it. Scratchy, like sandpaper. The perfect foil for the smattering of blackheads on my chin.

“Your butt.” Apple-shaped. Toned, but not overly.

“Your forehead.”

“Your chest.”

“Your abs.”

“Your legs.”

“Your veins.”

“Your cheekbones.”

“Your teeth.”

A pause.

“I miss you so much.”

Another pause.

I love you. I am about to say it, but I stop myself in time.

Candy doesn’t say I LOVE YOU till Episode 14. That’s safe. I think. If she says it early, like around Episode 8, you can be sure all hell is going to break loose, and she’ll fall down the stairs, knock her head and develop amnesia. Or the guy will fall down the stairs, knock HIS head, and develop amnesia. So, yeah, I’m not going to jinx myself here.

There’s a silence, long and deep. I breathe.

“But, Candy,” he tells me, gently, “you —- ”

A click.

The line goes dead.

“WHAT THE HELL!” I shout.

“Time’s up,” the guard shrugs.

“In here.” The guard unlocks the cell.

I feel my skin prickle. Eyes are watching me. I sidle in, keeping my head down. I’ve watched a ton of prison dramas and movies, okay? The trick is to play smart and keep a low profile.

The door clangs shut.

I stare at my feet. Stay calm. Don’t panic. Start counting. One. Two. Three. Four —–

“Hey.”

I freeze.

“Hey, you down there.”

My head swings up. Slowly.

There’s someone sitting up there. Like wayyyyy up there. Perched up high on the wall, legs crossed.

“Hey,” I whisper. Swallow.

“I’m Sic. Who’re you?” She’s got on a black balaclava. Like a ninja. Maybe she’s a ninja. Maybe that’s how she got up there.

“I’m Candy.” Swallow again. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She cracks up, her shouders shaking.

“Ha-ha. Ha-ha,” I join in her laughter desperately. She stops laughing. Fixes me with a stare that chills me to the bone.

“Why are you laughing?”

“Uh. I was just —- uh, happy to meet you.” My palms are sweating.

“My name is Sic.”

“Okay. Sure…Sic.” Breathe. “Whatever you say, Sic.”

“What are you in for?”

“Being a public nuisance. Destroying private and public property. You?” I say timidly.

“Shitposting.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Do you know what shitposting is?”

“No.” I dart my eyes toward the cell door. Where’s the guard? “Not really.”

“Don’t you want to ask what shitposting is? Don’t you even want me to EXPLAIN WHAT SHITPOSTING IS?” She is shouting. Oh, God. Help. Get me out of here, please. Somebody. Anybody. And —-

—– she’s standing. Oh, my God. How’s she even doing that? She’s standing, her feet on the wall, her body bent sideways, parallel to the floor below, like a scene from The Matrix.

Wait. She WAS standing. She isn’t standing. Not anymore.

Because —–

—– she’s taken off with a grunt.

She’s barrelling into the air, arms glued to her sides. Like Ultraman.

And then she makes six convulated loops, stretches out her arms wide, makes a turn, and plunges down. Headed straight for me.

She lands with a loud THUMP that rattles the walls, her bare feet arrowed to the floor.

Right in front of me.

Like one, short stride from me.

“Candy.” A snarl.

She takes one step forward, and we’re nose to nose.

My blood curdles.

“Hey, Sic,” I squeak.

“Candy.”

“Y-yes, S-sic?”

Sic stretches out a black-gloved hand, palms up. “Watch.” Wriggles her fingers, and ——-

C R E A K

——– a blade pushes out off the tip of her index finger. Slowly. Noisily.

It’s coated with brown stuff. I squint to see better.

It’s R U S T.

CREAK CREAK CREAK CREAK CREAK CREAK CREAK CREAK CREAK

It takes ten excruciating minutes and 55 seconds —– I counted —– but, finally, it’s out.

I’ve never seen a sadder, rustier blade in my life.

I open my mouth to tell Sic to get a tetanus jab ASAP, but before I can say anything ——

“You in the boxers.”

I turn.

The guard’s unlocking the door.

The door clacks open.

“But who —— how —– ”

The guard shrugs.

“Gentleman there bailed you out.”

There’s someone standing in the middle of the hallway. Tall, straight, a glimmer of purple and red in the middle of his forehead, shimmering like a third eye.

It’s him.

M. A. Babe.

MY babe.

“Candy.”

“Babe,” I whisper. “You came.”

I burst into tears.