It takes him longer than usual to get up in the morning. Strangely enough, heâs been awake for hours, eyes set on the white ceiling, memorizing the little cracks, the uneven painting job and contemplating on whether he should change the color or not. Maybe not, heâs not sure how the landlord would react to the fact that heâd probably paint it grass-green just because he likes the color - it makes him think of spring days and flower fields that heâs never walked through but that heâs seen many times in books. Jongsoo likes to paint the flowers green, he remembers, and the sky yellow with pink clouds because they look like cotton candy, he says with the naivety of his four years of age. Jongin thinks itâs fun to reach out and come out of the box sometimes; he thinks that being different is good and he likes how alive he feels whenever he watches his little brother because he resembles her a lot - not in the way he looks, but in the way he wants to do everything and be different from everyone.
He looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table and watches the numbers go by slowly one after the other. Itâs too late to still be in bed, but somehow too early. Jongin can bet that if he reaches his hand to grab his phone, heâll have a hundred missed calls and another equal bunch of text messages from his mother asking if heâs awake, if he wants to go with them, if they should wait for him, if he ate - âitâs late Jongin, have you had lunch yet? donât forget to eat.â He doesnât really need to open them to know what they say. Next time he goes home, he is sure that sheâll ask him why he doesnât sleep over more often or why he doesnât move back again because she worries about him living alone - being alone.
He gets up after another ten minutes, walks to the bathroom, takes a quick shower, picks up a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and goes to the kitchen. Somewhere between picking up a half-empty box of cereal, he turns the TV on but it stays on a random channel mainly because heâs not all too interested in what is on, itâs actually just a habit doing that, letting the voices on TV to keep him company while he drowns the little corn flakes in milk. When he finishes, the empty bowl is abandoned in the sink to next to all the other dirty plates and bowls. Heâll go for a late session of dish washing tonight, he tells himself.
There are no plans for him to go to college today and he asked one of his co-workers to cover his shift for the night, heâll just work a double shift the next day. On his way out, he takes his duffel bag, places the strap across his chest and walks to the train station. The next one is in five minutes. He can wait.
And then, on his way there, he carries a modest bouquet of white lilies - her favorite - and to anyone else on the outside, it might be just another sad picture of someone bringing flowers to someone they miss. No one really knows who he is or who she was but the whole world would sympathise with the situation because that is the norm. Everyone offers their condolences when someone passes away, everyone whispers about how devastated the family must be, how this must be and that must feel. Everyone thinks they know. Then again, death is just as natural a phenomenon as life, he learned the practicality of thinking like that, even if his eyes look dead and his silence speaks so loud that even he canât handle himself. Every year is different - heâs gone through five already - and every year he acts a little bit differently when that day comes. This year he feels especially deflated, he has no idea why. âHey. itâs meâ - itâs a whisper - âdid you miss me?â - I did.
Itâs almost an hour by train, to go back. Itâs less than half the time by car, if he could get into one, his life would be easier but itâs fine, he somehow enjoys the commute.
The smallest room in the dance studio is his for the afternoon and itâs where he plans to stay until its closing hours, encased in his little box, surrounded by sounds and the reflection of himself moving to the beats. He has yet to look at his phone.
However, the hours go by even though no one seems to care for it and the endless loop of song after song offer enough distraction until something else draws his attention and makes him stop. Jongin looks at the phone on top of his bag as if itâs offensive and contemplates letting it ring until whoever is trying to reach him gives up but then he moves closer. The name on the screen makes him snort. âOf courseâ - âroyal pain in the assâ, he can read, insistent and relentless, and Jongin knows that the other is not going to give up until he picks up so he supposes heâs doing himself a favor. âHey.â He manages in between attempts to even his breathing from the effort exerted before.
Hurricane Sehun proceeds to dump all the information in the world on him within the next ten seconds but Jonginâs head is spinning already and thatâs why he calls him a hurricane, because he sweeps everything on his way, no questions asked, no buts or attempts at valid arguments. âIâm practicing.â Jongin says, although itâs certainly not reason enough to stop Sehun from getting what he wants. âYou bought tickets⊠you know I could blow this and youâd be losing money, donât you? Acting reckless isnât like you, I think youâre spending too much time with me, my bad habits are rubbing off on you.â
He can only snort as he picks up his discarded towel to wipe the sweat dripping down his neck. âIâm pretty sure that my hand would have unintentionally hit the back of your head if I was there. Facetiming me while being mushy is not the way to get my ass to go watch that movie with you. Bring me a meat bun and Iâll consider it.â
yousharknotpass
baratheonpilled
dededos
blakekathryn
