“Remember to mail me,” Sofia says quite insistently as she pats the hand Junho has written her email down on.

Junho grins. “Of course, Nonna!”

“And give me a hug before you go,” she adds, already opening up her arms to him. Junho decides then and there that he’s going to be very sad to see her go—he doesn’t really know anyone else who’s as open with physical affection.

Junho does his best to savor the contact and can’t help but linger, too scared to be alone again in the car for the twenty minute drive to Squirrel Hill. It looms in his mind, the thought of driving in the dark and again, he feels like a little kid, still having such thoughts.

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” Junho mumbles, taking a brave sniff as he steps back. “How much longer will you be in the states?”

“Two weeks?” She doesn’t sound too sure but it’s enough time that Junho’s already working it through his head when he’ll be able to see her next. Her warm brown eyes, crinkled heavily with laugh lines, seem to be smiling at him. “Come see me before I leave?”

He nods enthusiastically. “It’s a sure thing.”

“Email me,” she says again, patting his forearm before turning away to look at her son, who leans heavily on Luca, arm tossed around his shoulder as they stumble to the car. She mutters something in Italian, her tone incredulous before sighing deeply, for a moment looking utterly exhausted and aged by decades.

Rico groans. “Babbo is trashed again. I wish he didn’t do that, it just stresses Luca out more.”

“Sorry, kid,” Junho murmurs, sympathizing and more than a bit concerned as he lays witness to his childhood crush degrading his image even further by tripping over his own feet and hitting his head against the top windshield of his car. 

Pino is so sloshed, he becomes incapable of acknowledging the pain with anything more than a grunt.

Rico glances up towards Junho, uneasiness clear in his posture from the way he bunches the sides of his pants with his fists. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” Junho orders, watching the ten year old take off to let himself into the right side backseat.

Oh, boy.

Junho watches grimly as Luca helps his father into the left side, waving to Sofia as she gets herself into the passenger side. God, he doesn’t want them to leave. He purses his lips and pitifully eyes the long strides Luca makes to get around to the driver's seat and, not really knowing why, chooses that moment to speak up.

His first actual words to the bridge troll.

“Be careful on the roads,” Junho calls awkwardly from the side. Innocent enough, right?

Luca turns his head, eyes so narrowed, expression so annoyed, Junho feels tiny and undefended despite their similar heights.

He freezes in motion for a moment under that heavy gaze, unable to decipher clearly whether he appears more pissed or hassled. In the end, Junho decides the matter is moot.

Either way, he looks murderous.

“You too,” Luca mutters, to Junho's surprise, popping his door open and climbing in.

Junho presses his hands to his chest, stepping back to give them a clear berth to leave, and wonders absently why it feels like his pulse is thundering so much. He figures it’s the anxiety of heading home in the dark—which isn’t all that dark actually, what with the other cars and street lights and shop signs. But no one ever says a phobia has to be logical.

More and more he dreads that ride home.

“I’m such a wimp," he mutters, kicking at a pebble with his foot before turning around to head towards his mini cooper.

. . .

By the time Junho gets home, the lights are out, which isn’t much of a surprise. His father likes to work late—it’s the early mornings that he hates the most—and his grandparents, who are the only other ones to live with them, are away for a month-long stay in Korea.

It’s  just him and his lonesome now.

Junho does what he usually does when he gets home and no one is around: he heads into his dad’s room, turns on the TV to some random channel, and traverses into his grandparent’s room to do the same. It’s only after taking a visit to his own to change his clothes, grab a pillow, his Gudetama plushie, and a thick, soft blanket, does he finally settle in the living room to watch a comedy special.

He has issues that he’s well aware of. But who cares? He’s comfortable with himself.

For a time, he let his brain go vegetative, just mindlessly watching a comic tell jokes that he wouldn't normally find all that funny in a different mood. But it’s good, for a time, just being able to laugh.

Junho, who’s laid himself out onto the sofa curled up into a ball of warmth with his blanket and plushie, is already nineteen minutes into the special when, out of nowhere, mid-laugh, he remembers Ciana.

“I was at a funeral today,” he says out loud, still not quite grasping that the statement is a fact.

His breath leaves him on a guttural exhale.

He grabs the remote quickly, raising the volume in the misguided hopes that it will drown out his intrusive thoughts. But something keeps nagging at him, like there’s an echo in his head, saying only one thing. He keeps thinking of her name.

Ciana, Ciana, Ciana.

For a moment, his breath is caught in his throat, his chest feels heavy, his heart pounding, his head throbbing, and—

“I forgot! The letters!” comes his sudden outburst.

Junho makes a hasty attempt at rising from the couch and only succeeds in tripping flat onto his chest, palms down on the ground, face pressed against the cool wooden floors. They really need to get a new rug.

Much slower this time, he rises off the ground and rushes towards the kitchen to grab his keys off the hook, entering the mudroom to slip his feet into slippers before jogging to his lonely car in the driveway. With a click of a button, the doors unlock.

And then, there, right there, in the passenger seat, the letters lay concealed in white envelopes, held together by an elegant strip of blue ribbon.

A soft sob works its way through his throat and he picks them up as gently as he can manage with his fingers shaking. 

She touched these. She held these. She’s the one who tied it together so nicely, with clear care to the receiver. Him.

And now he’s crying all over them.

For a while, that’s all he does. He sits in his car, all alone, and cries.