⠀⠀⠀⠀ strikes of three⠀⠀⸻⠀⠀ with @impulsetheories
there are many things that yubin is capable of ― singing, dancing, being an idol, playing the piano, song writing, peeling a tangerine in one unbroken peel and the list could go on for quite some time. however if you leave it up to yubin to handle the most simplest of task, she could somehow mess it up.
for instance, strike one: she had forgot to set an alarm up despite her manager reminding her two times the night before that she needs to be at a certain location at a specific time. instead, she woke up and had to start rushing about. strike two: she wore mismatched socks and had only realise it when when she's more awake after having her make up done in the shop ( but at least it didn't matter too much if no one else points it out ) and strike three: in between of juggling her phone, some loose items because she forgot her bag in the van and a whole iced coffee in hand, he bumps into a member of riiot and in the worst possible way, causing the liquid to soil his shirt which she could only shriek and be apologetic about.
"oh my gosh- i'm so so so so so so sorry."
daesung is no stranger to bad days. recently, he’s been having an awful lot of them, made worse by the way reddit tells him bad things keep happening because he expects them to. something about the law of attraction. he didn’t believe it at first, and he still doesn’t really, but desperate times call for desperate measures. maybe he is the root of the problem.
today he’s trying very hard to have a good day. he’s been smiling and saying please and thank you more than usual, keeping his eyes off his addictive phone, and he’d finally cracked a book open again, despite not having had much time to read. it had made him feel mentally sharp and energized like all of his sources said it would.
he’s feeling alright. hell, he’s sort of feeling good. his guard’s down. it shouldn’t be. it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be, it shouldn’t be. he walks directly into disaster—one second, he’s walking with a pep in his step in his own personal space. the next, he’s covered in someone else’s coffee.
“aw man,” he complains, louder than he probably should’ve. he grabs the hem of his t-shirt and peels the wet cotton outward, as away from his body as he can while still staying fully covered. he looks down at the discolored print, almost sure to stain. it’s his favorite t-shirt.
he sighs heavily, all of his energy immediately depleting, and looks at the perpetrator.
“no, i’m sorry about your coffee,” he says, lacking conviction. he drops the hem and the t-shirt sags back into place. it’s cold and gross-feeling. he’s not having a good day.
“i deserved this. um—you don’t…” he eyes the things that she’s holding. no bag or purse, he notices. he doesn’t see any napkins. he asks anyway. “you don’t have, like, a napkin or a paper towel or something, do you?”
