Taehyung liked to touch anything beautiful that caught his eye.
Taehyung liked to touch anything beautiful that caught his eye.
In the mornings after you make love he touches the curve of your shoulder, feeling every bump, every flaw; he liked your vulnerability, your willingness to be compliant to his touch. He loved your trust, the way you held his hand in assurance that no, he wasn't hurting you, and that yes, you loved him for the ways he tried to make you feel it. When he presses his lips to one of your scars it was his promise that what you find ugly about yourself, he accepted it as a puzzle piece to something so whole and alive.
In the afternoons when you sat by the window, feeling the cool breeze flit by, he would come up to you and feel the silken strands between his fingers. Brown silk passed through his long digits like water; he presses his fingers against your nape, massaging you. He liked the way you closed your eyes and relaxed at his touch; the way the sunlight streamed through the windows and made art on your features, casting shadows where there were none and painted you ethereal. Against the backdrop of a summer afternoon you were like a sunflower, and he was determined to be the sun that helped you grow.
In rainy evenings he liked to hold you close; in rainy evenings where you sniffled in his sweater he liked to brush your hair away from your face, and he liked to lift your chin and press a kiss to your burning forehead. Taehyung was always frantic when you were sick, and he wanted to share in your agony. He was bad at making tea and tucking people in but he made up for it by warming you with his body all night. When morning came, wet and cold, there was nothing sweeter, and safer, than sleeping in his arms.
Autumn found you tucked his coat, and spring found him running after you in an effort to catch your smile. Winters found the two of you dancing in the middle of a field, away from civilization, building a world of your own, touching hands and foreheads as a testament of love. You didn't say much, and he said a lot, but somehow it worked. It works.
Taehyung loved to touch anything beautiful that caught his eye, and that happened to be you.
It feels like floating when you are actually falling; you wanted to get lost in his eyes before you woke up from your fever-hazed dreams.
Summer never really appealed to you until around four in the afternoon, when the sun’s intense heat began to mellow down.
This is when you begin to exit the confines of your room, feeling the warm breeze pass by.
At around five in the afternoon you begin to see shades of orange and pink streak across the sky in droves, fighting to color the heavens for one last time. Pink usually won at this hour; it muted the dark orange burn of the sunset, kissing the day goodbye.
This is when you wait for Seokjin to come by.
He passes by everyday in his bike, dark hair gently lifted by the breeze. He passes by once, in the mornings, greeting you politely with his sweet smile. You nod in acknowledgement, ignoring the gnawing pit in your belly. He passes by twice, in the evenings; he greets you again with his sweet smile, telling you to enjoy the rest of your day.
When he passes by again, you dare to meet his eyes.
His eyes. Dark like hot chocolate on a winter night, filling you up and reviving whatever was left of you inside. When you meet his eyes the pit in your belly disappears; flames burn on your body where his orbs rest. You had looked into his eyes so many times, and each time it felt like looking into them for the first time.
Today, when he passes by, you remember how it felt when you looked at his gaze full of love for the last time.
——
You had met Seokjin so many years before, on a warm day in July by the riverbanks. Your bike lay beside you, looking as worn as you felt. You had tried to learn riding a bike that morning, and with no one to guide you, you had emerged with scraped knees and bruises. You were sitting by the riverbanks on that warm day in July, watching the streaks of pink and orange battle for dominance as the sun went down when a small dog ran up to you and bit your sleeve.
“Jjangu!” A boy yelled from a distance. You had looked down at the dog with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, watching it tug at your sleeve insistently like it was a toy. You just really wanted to be alone, but here was a tiny animal stealing your attention.
“I am so sorry,” the boy said as he came up to you, panting. He was tall, with a head of pink hair. He had a cheeky smile, which crinkled his dark brown eyes as he apologized. He bowed as he picked up his dog. “I hope he didn’t tear your sleeve?”
“No, I don’t think so,” you responded. You looked at the dog in his arms; it couldn’t have been more than a few months old, so it must have been teething at the moment. “I think he is teething, though.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I mean he looks like he’s still adjusting to his teeth. You need to give him something to bite so that he doesn’t destroy anything.” You fish inside your bag and pull out a hard doll from inside. It was actually a wooden bobblehead toy you received as a gift, but it was so ugly that you wanted to get rid of it. You hand the toy to the dog, which promptly clamped its teeth on the protruding head.
The boy looks down on his pet, surprised at how it seemed to calm down with its newfound toy. “Thank you,” he says, smiling at you again. He was really good-looking, with his eye smile and the way his eyes seemed to be so warm. “I’m Seokjin. By the way — what happened to your knees?”
——
This is how it started, your riverbank dates on late afternoons.
When you had told him why your knees were bruised he promptly put down his dog and rummaged through his bag. “Please sit down, “ he told you as he brought out a first aid kit. “Let me clean your scrapes, they look rather nasty.”
You reluctantly sat down on the ground again beside him as he prepared the cotton balls and disinfectants — yes, disinfectants. You stare in horror as he brought out a large bottle of alcohol, dousing the cotton ball completely. He holds your knee gently, dabbing lightly on the nasty wound at the center of your knee, as if he knew you hated the alcohol’s sting. This is when you discovered that Seokjin always did more than what was asked from him —from dealing with scraped knees, to bringing you home out of worry. Always, always more.
He had walked you home that night, afraid that you would have difficulty in carrying your bike. This was the start of your late night walks together; him bringing you to your apartment, waiting until you got in; you watching him from the windows as he walked away with a bounce in his steps.
——
You had always considered yourself difficult to love.
You had high walls, you were shy, and you terrified of falling for anyone. You were terrified of the slow sink into believing that for someone special, you would be willing to cut a hole through your walls to let someone in. You were terrified of wanting to get lost in someone’s eyes — his eyes. For the longest time you were secretly lonely inside your fort, seeking warmth to match your own.
Until Seokjin came along.
He was sweet, he was smart, he was kind — a rare combination that triggered your unusually cold heart awake. To him you were mysterious, you were closed-off, but he saw love spill from the cracks on your walls in the way you wiped the corner of his lips when he ate pizza messily, and from the way you unconsciously pulled on his arm to warn him as you crossed the street — he knew you had so much to give, like he knew there was a vast field of flowers and sunshine inside your walls. You could feel yourself falling — you knew what was happening, but you were letting yourself go. It felt like floating when you were actually falling; you wanted to get lost in his eyes before you woke up from your fever-hazed dreams.
It was a winter night when he asked you to be with him, six months after he tended to your scraped knees. He looked at you with fondness and fear in his eyes, but there were also tinges of love in his dark irises. As the snow fell around you, your walls collapsed with them, too. He holds your face in his hands as he leaned in to kiss you for the first time.
For this boy, for once; maybe you weren’t so difficult to love after all.
——
You and Seokjin rarely fought about anything, but if there was one thing he hated about you, it was how you always wanted to carry your problems alone. Seokjin wanted to help you, he wanted to carry it with you, and he wanted to protect you, but—
“Why won’t you let me?” he asks you as he matched your footsteps. You were crying your eyes out, silently weeping, busying yourself with arranging your books and clothes in the hopes of calming down the disappointment in your chest. It was just another day at work, hearing your boss praise your teammate alone for something you did. When you raised your concern that the credit should have gone to you, your boss simply asked you for proof — and you had none.
“Jagiya,” he pleads, grabbing your arm. You try to fight him off, craving his touch and wanting to push him away all at once. “Look at me. Tell me what is wrong.”
You stop struggling under his touch. Feeling no more resistance, he pulls you to him, cradling you as you finally whimpered and whispered against his chest all of your frustrations. He held you close, as if by pressing you against him he could absorb your pain and relieve you of the burden. He knew you hated being a burden to anyone, but he wanted to tell you that he would not count your transgressions, that his true and genuine love found your faults but he chooses to accept you as you are.
Seokjin held you tightly, hoping that he was enough to take it all away. He pressed his lips to your forehead. “Love doesn’t count, jagiya.”
You had made love for the first time that night. A sense of absolute vulnerability took over you as you let Seokjin lead you to the bed and tuck you in, but you held him down and kissed him deeply. Sensing the difference in your kiss, and the heat that your dancing tongues had generated, he allowed you to pull him close, so close. He stripped you of your clothing, like they carried your sadness; he kissed your body like it delivered healing to a broken heart. His lips traced fire on your body, and if you could glow in the moonlight from his touches, you would have long lit up the night sky.
Amidst the tangled limbs and the heated sighs he never mishandled you, always so gentle and so kind. He held your hands as pushed once, twice, three times, feeling your body react to him. You panted beneath him, squeezing his hand tightly, asking for more. Thank you for this love that I rarely deserve.
He holds you close to him once more as you both settled from your highs. Thank you for letting me take care of you, even if I know it was hard.
——
It was a warm September day when the world decided to crash down.
He was only going to buy some groceries, he was only going to buy some supplies — he was only going to cross the street when a car skidded by and he flew up in the air, gracefully, and as he fell he wondered how you would find him.
This was the last time he gazed at you with eyes full of warmth. You remember screaming his name, startling passers-by as you watched him fall. It only took two seconds to lose it all.
You took him to the hospital; it was a blur of red and blue as Namjoon took him from you. His blood was on your hands, dripping gently on the floor as you prayed in silence that if there was a God, may He not take your angel away from you.
——
He woke up several hours later.
It was a dark room, full of beeping machines and white sheets. Moonlight filtered through the windows, giving some light on the floor beneath you. To his left slept a girl, curled up in a large pink sweater, sniffling slightly.
Who is she?
——
You heard someone moving on the bed.
You open your eyes. Seokjin was looking at you curiously, scratching his bandaged head. His eyes were large, round, and wary as you approached him. This was ringing some bells in your mind — he had never looked at you like this before.
“Seokjin?” You say, taking his hand. He didn’t fight back. Good.
——
Her hands were soft, and somehow familiar.
——
“How do you feel, Seokjin?”
“Honestly?” he says, rasping. “Nothing.”
More alarm bells rang in your mind. “Should I get the doctor, Seokjin?”
“No, but — who is Seokjin?”
She didn’t answer.
——
Dr. Kim Namjoon was about to go home when his mobile rang, and your name flashed on the screen. Oh dear. “Yes?”
——
You don’t really remember what Namjoon told you, or what you told him that made him run back upstairs with his coat hanging haphazardly on his shoulders. He found you lying on the hospital floor outside Seokjin’s room, screaming as your tears fell in streams. Did you not pray hard enough?
Namjoon picked you up and sat you down on a chair. It’s still possible to bring back his memories, he says as you blankly stare at your feet. But you have to be patient with him. He sighs. Three years into the job, and it still wasn’t easy to deal with crying patients, who were heartbroken and lost. There you were, fiddling with your skirt as you process the fact that the love of your life does not remember you.
If this was a cruel joke, it was already very well-played. No one had told you that loving someone meant that through difficulties and happiness you must stick around — even if it hurt. If you were the person you once were, three years before: closed off, unwilling to break down her walls, and terrified to fall — you would have sat in the chair for hours, asking yourself why you had to go through this.
But Seokjin changed you; this is who you are now. You stood up and opened his door, stepping inside. You were heartbroken, you were terrified, and you wanted to run and hide — but there was Seokjin, and difference now was you wanted to fight.
He looks at you curiously as you approached him, wiping your tears away. “Hello Seokjin,” you say, forcing your voice to keep still. “I am Y/N.”
——
It has been five years since you decided you loved him, and it has been two years since he has forgotten this.
It hasn’t been easy, and for the last two years you spent your afternoons waiting for him to remember who you were and why you always went to the riverbank. You had walked him around the city, reintroduced him to his dog, and reminded him everyday that he loved the color pink (“This sweater is actually yours,” you say as you gestured to yourself one day).
But for Seokjin, you wanted to keep fighting.
The first thing he remembered was that he loved to cook; he entered your kitchen one day and suddenly gasped, saying that he remembered stepping into this room before, and that there was a girl who hit her head on the cabinet door once (this was you, on your anniversary). He then proceeded to prod around curiously with the spices, complaining that there were missing bottles — just as he did before.
You hadn’t really tried to remind him that you were lovers.
One day when you stood by the riverbank, he lifted his head to the sky, looking at the streaks of pink and orange fighting for dominance. “I like the streaks of pink,” he tells you.
“Well, you do love the color pink.”
“It’s not that,” he says as he looks down. He lifts a finger and pokes your cheek. “It matches their color.”
——
He has turned at the corner of the street. He grins at you as he stops pedaling. “Y/N,” he says warmly. “Let’s go to the riverbank.”
The walk to the riverbank was silent. You were lost in your thoughts, contemplating where all of your efforts were going. You didn’t notice Seokjin smiling slightly, with his hands in his pockets. He glances at you briefly from the corner of his eye; you were looking up at the trees, watching the leaves gently wave with the wind. You looked so tired, but still so beautiful.
After two years of trying, he now recalls you. But this — you didn’t know.
When he pedaled away this morning, something about the look in your eyes triggered something in his mind. The sadness, the silent way of her holding in her sadness — this thought made him crash his bike on a pole.
Limbs tangled in sheets, her body warm against yours.
He sat down on the ground, holding his head in his hands. Warm steam from a kitchen stove, a hug from behind; the scent of flowers and tones of vanilla filling your nose at night. Soft hands, scarred in places, caressing yours; a sigh of love as she watches you make a fool of yourself as you decorated the Christmas tree.
It came rushing back all at once. There she was, your favorite girl. How many years had she struggled to make you remember how much you loved her?
——
The riverbanks were a silent place when you reach it. Cars rushed by on the opposite bridge, and the city was beginning to light up as the darkness descended slowly. Pink streaks were running across the sky for the last time, their encore performance.
“Look at the city lights, Seokjin,” you say, pointing at the buildings. “They look so beautiful. I love them so much.”
Stars had began to appear one by one. “I know,” he says softly.
You freeze. I know?
“Y/N.” He calls you. You turn to him, shaking. More stars had appeared above.
There was the bedroom, and there were comfortable sheets.
You are fast asleep, while Jungkook is wide awake. He listens to the peaceful rhythm of your breathing, knowing that your heart is beating calmly inside your chest. More than once, he had made it run overtime as you kept up with his pace. He takes in the sight of your dark hair, splayed on the pillows like a pair crow's wings in flight. Jungkook running his hands through your hair. He likes watching you as you sleep, because he knows you don't feel beautiful everyday next to him. You had often called him glorious, a deity among men -- you tell him he is beautiful when he laughs, when he looks at his work passionately. You tell him he is wonderfully ethereal when he doesn't move, when his profile is etched against the darkness -- sharp, defined, exquisite. He knows you feel inglorious next to him, but he disagrees -- you have no idea how wonderful you are in his eyes.
So he tries - he tries to make you feel that you are important, that you are glorious -- he likes what he sees when you react to his touch. When it all feels electric, and you come undone at his touch. He presses his lips lightly to your shoulders, at the exposed skin made cold by the season outside. He continues to trail kisses to the crook of your neck, which still carried your scent for the day (a scent he had picked out himself; Jungkook was not a dominating man but he wanted to mark you as his, by knowing your scent). His nose lingers as you rouse from sleep, feeling his warm breath ghost over you.
It is time. Jungkook's desires have come, and he wants you to play.
The rain starts falling gently outside as he turns you to face him. Traces of sleep still color your eyes as he lightly runs his slender fingers over your eyelids, your nose, your lips; he knows that you know what he is doing, and he wants you to relax before he goes any further. He lays you down on your back; this time his lips are ghosting over your features, pressing them lightly over your forehead, your cheeks; your lips. It was a light kiss, but he already left you breathless.
As his lips moved his hands also caressed your stomach; he lifted the hemline of your shirt, letting his fingers roam over the flat expanse of skin. Have you been eating?
His hands go further up; he meets no resistance of second clothing. He pauses, hesitant; do you want him to continue?
You only answer by gripping his hand, putting it where you wanted him to be.
He removes your shirt eventually, casting it aside somewhere on the floor. He looks at you beneath him, and you feel self-conscious; you make a move to cover yourself but he stops you, his grip on your wrists firm.
"No," he whispers, his voice husky. "I want to see you."
He discards his own shirt and proceeds to kiss you once more, covering your bare chest with his own. Even as he kisses he moves so gracefully, the expanse of his chest smoothly moving against yours. He was beautiful; any woman would want him, any woman who was far more exquisite than you were, more fitting of his existence, and yet he chose you; humble, simple you, who only had your love for him to offer.
Why me, Jungkook? You ask him with a tight grip on his arm as he ghosts lower than your belly. Why me?
He responds by dipping his head to your abdomen, kissing away your insecurities. Jungkook kisses like he knows what you are hiding, like he knows your fears. I chose you because you love me, he answers as he removes the last article of your clothing.
I chose you, he says as he kisses the expanse of your inner thighs, because you see past my glory.
Jungkook kisses you like it was his last.
It was sinful, so sinful, the way he manages to erase your insecurities; every woman wants to be loved as they are, and there was beautiful Jungkook telling you that he does, he does.
Grip those sheets tightly, he tells you as he goes deeper, further inside. You arch your back in response; this was your prayer.
His lips drip of you when he comes up for air. Have a taste of what I like, he tells you as he presses his lips to yours. I like it. I enjoy it.
I want more of it.
He roams his hands over your body, like an explorer unfurling a new map. He looks at you in the eye, leaning close; his hair was damp, eyes hooded with desire, with love. He wants you to feel his love, that this was his thanks for the moments you shared. Believe me when I say I love you, he asks you as he ghosts a finger on where he once was. Do you want me to show you just how much?
You were afraid. He can see it. He kisses your forehead; it's alright if you don't want to.
No, you say as you hold his arms. Please continue. Please show me; I want to believe you.
One.
Two.
Three.
Jungkook enters and it all feels so easy, like you were made to be put together like this.
Four. Five.
Six.
This intimacy was unknown to you, and the pace that his hips followed was a dance you had never known.
Seven. Eight nine.
Erratic, and bold. He knows where to touch you, where to hold you; you grip his strong shoulders to anchor you to the earth as he went faster, harder. Jungkook was so good at making you come undone. Should you be afraid?
Ten.
One pulsation, one exhale of relief. Two pulsations, and it elicits a high-pitched moan like a religious hymn to this religion, a religion of Jeon Jungkook and everything that he meant to you.
You come, come in his arms. The prayer is complete.
Eleven.
Another pulsation. He drops his head, groaning as he pulls out. You whimper when he does, a feeling of emptiness lingering.
Twelve.
He holds you close to his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. He intertwines your fingers, feeling his large thumbs draw patterns on your skin. Slick chest, damp hair, and the smell of intercourse linger in the air; it should've been dirty but you didn't do it with a lack of emotion.
There was love, and that is your justification. Were you a sinner for choosing to show your love like this?
Are you okay? He murmurs in your hair. Do not worry. And I hope I did not hurt you.
No, there was no sin. You did this with love. You made your choices, and he was one of them.
Jungkook was your choice, and you were his.
Comfortable bed, comfortable sheets, warm body on yours -- this is how it feels when it rains, but you are sheltered from the storm.
It was at a Christmas party one Friday night, and you had no plans of staying long. Standing near the snacks table you observed everyone in the room. There was your best friend, being the center of attention; she was charming, she was tiny, and she was funny. She nods in your direction in acknowledgement; glad you came, grandma.
You turned to stuff your mouth with more spring rolls when he entered the room. He was smiling, bouncing on his feet as he followed another handsome stranger. He was chattering behind the handsome stranger so loudly you could feel a pang of irritation in your belly; however, it was Christmas, so you felt a little more forgiving than usual.
Your brother calls out to you from the other side of the room, beckoning you to come over and socialize. Dear God, the party was just getting started.
“Jin, please meet my sister,” your brother announces proudly, ruffling your hair. You punch him lightly and you introduce yourself. The man named Jin smiled at you, crinkles forming near his eyes. He was about to speak when a voice behind him said:
“Where did you get the spring rolls?”
It was the loud, smiling boy from awhile ago. His eyes glinted with glee and they were wide with wonder at the plate you held in your hands. “Those look really good.”
“I—I got them by the snacks table,” you say. You were about to offer him some when he just grinned at you and marched away, leaving you gaping after him. Jin sighed beside you, and smiled apologetically. “He’s not usually like this. Please forgive him, he’s quite a character, our Taehyung.”
Taehyung.
You went back to the snacks table to get yourself some more food and a drink. You were about to reach for the popcorn when someone said, “Popcorn and ice cream don’t make a good mix, you know.”
Taehyung stood behind you, peering at you with a knowing smile on his face. He was taller than you so he had to bend a little for him to hear you. “I wasn’t about to get ice cream, but I did want to get the popcorn,” you tell him.
“Oh. Dang, I thought I got it right,” he mused. “I was trying to guess what you’d get. Oh, and, I apologize for my manners. They disappeared with the food.” He extends his hand to you, and you look up at him as you grasped it briefly. His eyes glinted brightly again, warm and inviting. “I’m Taehyung. I don’t think you liked me that much when I entered the room.”
“I’m sorry?” you say, taken aback.
“Your eyes,” he says, gesturing at them. He smiled kindly. “I can tell.”
You felt guilt bubble inside you; why are you such an expert on pushing people away? He nods at you and leaves, heading for the door. He greets more people on his way out, his loud voice carrying no tinge of hurt from your reactions.
You were prepared to settle for a night of misery by the snacks table when he appears in front of you again, much quieter than when he entered the first time. He extends a hand to you again, smiling at you with the same warmth and kindness he had shown moments ago. “Hello, I’m Taehyung. Nice to meet you.”
You take his hand, not registering how small your hands were inside his. “Why did you leave?”
“I had to make a second entrance to change your mind about me,” he said, grinning proudly. “Did it work?”
You stare at him, not knowing what to make of him. He was nice, he had an odd sense of humor, and an infectious, rectangular smile, which you found yourself mirroring. “I really don’t get you, but somehow, it did,” you reply as you shook your head in disbelief.
“Excellent,” he beamed at you. “I now have someone to bond with over spring rolls.”
Hands
Two years after he entered the room twice, the two of you now sat in his room, sitting on his bed, facing each other. Two years later, he held your hands like this:
He takes your hand, cold yet soft, into one of his calloused and larger ones. Fingers rife with the marks of extended practices fit themselves between the grooves of your own unblemished ones, save for a few cuts here and there when you weren’t being careful with what you handled. His caramel skin was a contrast to you pink, but in the afternoon sunlight it was a palette selected by nature itself.
He was beautiful, like the sunlight that lit everything it touched outside.
“Did you ever play any instruments?” he asks you as he pushes your hand up, holding them tight. His fingers were so long that they almost reached your wrists.
“No, but I did draw, though,” you say, pointing out to him a callus on the ring finger of your right hand, where the pen pressed and sunk as you labored over sheets and sheets of paper. “The only mark of ever doing anything in my entire life.” You look at your hands nestled in his. “My fingers look so plain next to yours.”
He chuckled, running a thumb over your own. “I like them. My hands reflect my personality; yours reflect your own as well. The way they curve as you pause when you speak and the little scars tell a story.” He lifts your hand to his face, cupping them to his cheeks. Everything about him was so warm; his skin, his eyes, his voice; and now, the way he closed his eyes as he rested his face against your cheek. His hand kept yours in place, holding you close. In the last two years he had learned that you didn’t like your personal space being invaded, but for him—oh, for him—you were willing to concede.”Tell me your story,” he whispers. “Why do you have scars?”
You lift your hand to his hair, brushing them aside softly as you pressed your lips to his forehead. “Literally,” you whisper as you lower your lips to his, “or figuratively?”
Warmth
You had never felt so cold.
Your mother bustled next to you, fixing the white silken cloth on your head, held in place by heavy blue pins from her bureau. Your dress of the same color trailed on the floor like fresh snow on a winter day. In your hands you held a mixture of lilies of the valley and coral roses, the same color as your lips. It is a beautiful day in June, and this is your wedding.
And you were so, so cold.
xxx
When Taehyung proposed to you in the spring of last year, he had forgotten that he was allergic to pollen. He prepared an entire gazebo full of flowers and fairy lights, and begged his friend Yoongi to play the piano as you slow-danced.
Or tried to, as he was sneezing so hard.
“Tae,” you asked him worriedly as his eyes started to turn red like a traffic light, “should I bring you to the hospital?”
“No,” he wheezed, waving his hand in dismissal of your suggestion. “But I do want to go to the police station.”
“Why?” you asked him in alarm. “Did you lose something?”
“Yes,” he admitted, after a round of sneezing. “I lost my heart to you.”
Yoongi slammed the keys a little too hard as he played. “Goddamn it, Taehyung,” he muttered.
You rolled your eyes. “I’m bringing you to the hospital.”
“No!” He wheezed one more time before he bent down one knee, opening a small, velvet box, which held a band of white gold laced with deep blue sapphires. You felt your breath catch in your throat as he looked up at you, his red eyes brimming with unshed tears —whether from emotions or allergies, you couldn’t tell.
“This is not the most romantic proposal, as I think I am about to faint, but jagiya…will you marry me?”
He woke up in the hospital several hours later, holding your engaged hand.
xxx
You didn’t know why you were so cold. Taehyung was everything you wanted, and everything you loved; you knew you couldn’t walk away even if you tried. “Are you alright?” your mother asked you as she peered at your face. “You look tense.”
“I feel cold.”
“Well the airconditioner is turned quite low.”
“No, it’s more like…I don’t know what to do.”
“Are you leaving Taehyung at the altar, darling?”
“No!” You exclaimed. “I can’t do that. I do love him, you know.”
“Then calm down,” she says, patting your arm. “You’ll see him in a while. Maybe he’s the warmth you need.”
xxx
When the doors opened to let you through, the first thing you saw was him. He was standing there, with a boutonniere on his chest that matched the flowers in your hand. He abandoned the eyeliner, and his hair was dark — just how you liked it. He was glowing like a beacon at the end of the tunnel, and it took all of your willpower not to run up to him and hold him close.
xxx
When Taehyung heard the doors open, he froze, and for once in his life he didn’t know what to say. There you were, walking towards him like a daydream. He had often complained that you were so pale, but this time, there was a flush on your cheeks as your walked towards him. You were smiling nervously, feeling unfamiliar with all of the attention. He saw you clutch your father’s arm tightly, feeling his figure vibrate as he cried silently.
He wanted to cry, too. He wondered what good he had done to deserve this kind of blessing.
Finally, finally, finally when you came to him, he extended his hand to you, just as he had done years before on that fateful Christmas party. When your hand touched his, your nervousness faded away, like there was sunlight pouring down on the two of you. He kissed your forehead lightly, whispering, “Hello, I’m Taehyung. I heard there are spring rolls in the party.”
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