Shining shoes clipped rough pavement, churning clouds rolling in a writhing sky as the air became thick with the stench of oncoming rain and the wind shifted drastically.
He had to hurry.
Lee Soohyuk walked quickly through the escaping crowds as they bustled and bumped one another. He was going against the current, plastic bags crinkling and cloth coats wavering as he brushed past, anyone and everyone rushing to escape the approaching storm. But not he.
Bouquettish.
His final destination was a rather unique one, not a place that many frequented, but that the rising director found himself at more often than most.
At his left side hung a bulging messenger bag-- papers, sketch books and the beginnings of something great all shoved and crumpled within, and on his right swung a white, plastic bag, the contents weighing it down at the base as the take-out containers fought to break holes in the thin material.
A waiting disaster, and I’m not talking about the food…
With those books and sketches came the first traces of the idea now overwhelming the 29-year-old’s head like a sickness. His masterpiece, his disaster. For nights he had pined after concepts and wrestled with possibility until he grew numb to the world and ached with the strain. His next show. It was going to be amazing, he told himself. “A true hit.” Those words of encouragement the only way he could convince himself that staying up all hours of the night was intelligent and worthwhile when his very eyes ached as if bruised.
However, despite inspiration and meager skill, Soohyuk had hit a road block, many in fact. Things were not tying together, concepts that flowed beautifully in his mind now falling apart into stuttering messes when he tried to get them down on paper.
It was no good. He needed help. So it was onto help that he went this evening.
Minho was an old friend, his help, a being of such creative background that it overjoyed the director simply to know him—to talk with him—to hold discussion around him. However fate is not always kind to the inspirational in our world.
To put it simply, Minho’s artistic dreams were put on hold drastically in favor of a much more humble beginning. The flower shop, his Bouquettish, which was the location Soohyuk now fought towards like a jungle explorer fording a river of streaming people.
Despite the storm, despite his friend’s setbacks, despite every pothole life has thrown at them, the two friends were still creative minds—hearts that could never let go of the passions they’d felt as children in those artistic years. Regardless of hardship, they were still pushing onwards, a pair of warriors for dreams that may not even be realized yet. But for now, even in the small things they could work together, build something fantastic and affect the world.
Or so was the plan…
The rain began to fall in great droplets as the nearly running Soohyuk finally crossed the flower shop’s threshold like an athlete breaking his finish line. He was panting, the storm’s first attacks rolling down his sharp cheekbones in natural rivulets until he brushed them away with a weighted sleeve and glanced around the space with a refined smile.
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