#the kiercy one will hurt more but this isn't about that

[kopikokiki]

444 (you're still blue).

— In which Elio breaks up with Kie. Her first move? To call her mom.

— Tags: @meistwentyinchheels, @calico-fleur.

— Likes & reblogs are appreciated! <3

NOW PLAYING: TV - BILLIE EILISH

Kie makes a point to call her A-ma with Kalo whenever she gets the chance to—but with how hectic classes have been, they’ve all agreed to keep it to one call every two weeks. It’s taken a bit of working around, but with Kalo’s eye for a meticulous schedule, they’ve managed to fit exactly one call every two weeks into all three of their schedules. The time varies, but it somehow always lands at a time when they’re all available to talk.

And maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the wave of heartbreak so overwhelming he’s clutching at his chest, but Kie might have forgotten that 2:37 in the morning on a Tuesday is not one of those times.

Still, her a-ma picks up.

“Kie?” And oh, the static of her voice is so sweet and familiar and unknowing that hearing it only serves to bring fresh tears to Kie’s eyes.

“A-ma–” Kie starts, voice hitching from how violently his hiccups jerk his body, “I— I–...A-ma—”

“Baby,” her A-ma murmurs, and there’s a rustling on the other end of the line; fabric, most likely a blanket being pushed aside. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

Kie likes to think he is a good child. He puts every modicum of effort he can summon into making sure his A-ma doesn’t have to worry about him—from patching up his own knee scrapes and memorizing which steps creaked along the pathway from his room to the medicine cabinet, to filling out all of his college applications alone and booking his own flight all the way across the country so she wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of it for him; he does all he can to make sure his A-ma does not have to waste more of her concern on him than she already does.

Kalo was always a little reliant on A-ma, anyway. Why would Kie want to give her A-ma someone else to constantly worry about the way she does with Kalo, even now that it’s grown up and a little more independent? How could she ever hope to be so presumptuous as to think her A-ma would take on that kind of responsibility without some kind of consequence?

How could he even dare to put that much more on her shoulders?

(How could anyone?)

…

But then again, these are outstanding circumstances. Unavoidable circumstances. The kind that would make someone call their mom at two in the morning just to cry about it.

And Kie, for all of her cautiousness and self-reliance, knows that A-ma understands those kinds of circumstances better than anyone.

Kie likes to think he is a good child.

Maybe this whole time, she’s been thinking wrong.

Because the way he lets a sob, unrestrained, gurgle from his throat and directly into the speaker of his phone as his body heaves over like the weight of the world is pressing down on his back—that is not something a good child would do.

“No, A-ma,” she wails, fingers digging creases into a sticky note covered in scribbled scars—a memento, a tribute to what she’d lost not moments before, “it’s— I’m not okay.”

A-ma is a good mom, though.

And maybe, for once, Kie can let himself be selfish enough to be grateful for that.

(It’s not like he has much of a choice right now, anyway.)

“Kie, honey,” A-ma says, kind but firm in a way that brings her a couple inches back to reality—not quite, but it’s there nonetheless and she knows it. “Talk to me, okay? What happened? Are you hurt, or—?”

“I—” A loud hiccup pierces through his sentence. Still, he claws away at the lump in his throat until it’s cleared enough for him to weep, “M– my boyfriend broke up with me. Five minutes ago.”

“Oh, Kie,” A-ma mumbles, her voice laden with the kind of sympathy only a mother could muster. “I’m so sorry, baby— what happened? Did he just leave, or–?” “He called.” Another hiccup, quieter this time. “I told him whatever he wanted to say, he could just say it over the phone.”

There’s a long pause—too long. “I shouldn’t have– but it…it would have hurt more if I had to look at him while he said it.”

Of course it would have hurt more. How could he have looked Elio—sweet, loving, caring Elio—in the face and listened to him say those words and pretended it was okay?

It would have been impossible.

“I can’t stay, Kie.”

“I know.”

“...I’ll call you. I promise.”

“I know.”

She had not known. Still, foolishly, selfishly—she had chosen to believe.

(Again, it wasn’t like she’d had much of a choice.)

A-ma is quiet. She knows Kie has more to say—how she knows, he’ll never understand. But he takes the opportunity to speak while it’s there; even if he’s barely getting the words out.

Her voice comes out meek—embarrassingly so. “A-ma, will—...will it be okay?”

He knows the answer.

He knows what A-ma tells her won’t be true.

He listens anyway.

“Of course, baby.”

And maybe that should have been enough.

Maybe she should have believed A-ma, then—believed that by some force of pure luck, by the sheer willpower that had carried her this far, it would somehow be okay. She would somehow be okay. It hurts now, hurts in a way she cannot hope to explain—but in her mind she knows that this hurt won’t last forever.

(Maybe he’d thought wrong about that too.)

“I don’t want to—” Kie starts, voice thick with unshed tears. By some miracle, with nails threatening to tear through soft sleeves and tear tracks bleeding into the corners of her mouth, she finds it in herself to continue. “I don’t want to miss him, A-ma. I– I loved him. I loved him so much and it wasn’t enough.”

A-ma hasn’t stopped whispering her comforts, voice a crackle through the tinny speakers of his phone. It soothes him, the way his A-ma’s presence always has—but the ache in his chest is making it so, so hard to breathe.

“I want to hate him,” Kie chokes out, a sob clogging up her throat again—louder, more insistent, demanding to be heard. “I want to hate him so fucking much. I– I wish I never met him!”

A-ma’s voice is tender, like a hug. “You don’t mean that, baby.”

Kie’s, in return, is tender like a bruise. “I wish I did.”

And maybe some part of him wishes he could hate Elio. Maybe some part of him wishes he could look at that stupid smile and those stupid eyes and the stupid curve of the knuckles lining his stupid fucking hands, and feel none of the staggering longing that crushes against his ribs like it’s trying to break them.

But Kie knows better than to rely on wishes.

“I thought—” she starts, mortified when her voice somehow splinters into several pieces, cramped within two little syllables. “I thought he loved me, A-ma, but– but he didn’t love me. He...he didn’t even like me.”

“He didn’t?”

“He called it off,” Kie continues, and all of a sudden the words feel like they won’t stop no matter how much he hiccups or sobs or tries to stop talking. “He’s the one who said it wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, that love wasn’t supposed to happen— that whatever I felt for him wasn’t supposed to happen– I told him I loved him and he told me— he told me to my face that someday I’d fucking move on—”

Doing her best to halt her words there, she heaves in a breath and tries to will away the piercing ache blooming near her temples. A-ma is quiet on the other end, but she’s listening. She’s always listened.

“I— I still love him, A-ma.”

The response, this time, is immediate.

“I know you do, baby.”

“But I don’t want to feel like this.”

“I know. It hurts, doesn’t it? I can’t imagine how heartbroken you must feel right now, Kie, and I am so sorry he did this to you.”

“He told me he didn’t care what happened last year. He said he’d stay– he’d stay with me, no matter what. He— he told me he loved me.”

“I know.”

“And I— I believed him.”

“That’s not your fault, baby.”

“Then why does it hurt so badly?”

“Because you still love him, Kie. Even if he doesn’t love you the way you love him.”

Another moment of silence. It doesn’t feel nearly as reverent as moments of silence usually do.

“...will I be okay, A-ma?”

“Someday, baby. Someday.”

Maybe, he thinks, that will be enough.

(Maybe, like all the other times, he’s thinking wrong.)

“I love you, A-ma.” “I love you too, Kie. Get some rest, okay?”

“I will. Goodnight.” “Sleep well, baby.”

The line goes dead. Kie kneels there next to her bed, surrounded by scattered sticky notes scrawled with at least a hundred little memories packed into the few study breaks she’d taken with him, and she does not cry because maybe if she can will away the tears, it’ll feel okay for as long as she can hold on.

(Maybe.)