jihoon does not want to calm down, because he simply stopped caring about the outcome of whatever situation they are in right now. yes, his manager will probably scold him for the first time ever, and he has seen him scold other members, but as of now, minjung wanted to know. so he told her.
and he watched, the realization sink in and the pang in his chest doesnāt seem to really subdue. funny. he parts his lips to speak, but gets cut off so he gives up after the first try. the hand on his chest finds its way to the pocket of his dress trousers and his shoulders finally relax. he hears the words, doesnāt exactly register them. jihoon is pretty aware there was no going back or forward with this situation. āi hope knowing makes you at ease now.ā heās sarcastic, but there is nothing else to say.
a small part of him expected some sort of comfort or understanding from minjungās side, but he gets called fucking stupid back. which, fair enough. he was. hearing it from someone else, doesnāt sit as right with him as he is used to. maybe he was pretty human deep down, despite all the hate he gets from antyās for breathing on some days. āi wasnāt looking for a happy ending, i never said that. you keep putting words in my mouth and i donāt appreciate that, minjung.ā heās already taking a step back, eyes wondering around the room just in case anyone was giving them looks, but from what he can tell, everyone else was too busy to care.
āi said i was happy i finally liked someone. sorry, it had to be you. sorry i wasnāt able to be a fucking robot for once.ā he takes a second one, distancing them from each other, a bit more, making it obvious he was ending the conversation soon. minjung got whatever reason she wanted out of him, there was nothing more he could add. and being belittled wasnāt on his agenda today.
fragilityās a terrifying thing she learns when her mirror shows fragments of whatās been chipped off from years and years of time. yet, fragility adds another layer when itās shed from an old friend, standing inches away from her as the fissure in their foundation breaks slowly, waiting for her to fall.
he tells her words she doesnāt want to hear, and the ease feels more like a beckoning for a curse. her words falter, and she opens her mouth, quick to close before anything escapes ā anything she says now becomes a bandage, far from any salvation from getting swallowed whole.Ā āno, it doesnāt make me feel at ease.ā minjung finally says, her teeth pressing hard against her lip.Ā āit makes me uneasy because any situation of a friendship gets lost with the words weāre spitting like rapid fire now.ā everything becomes trampled, and everything good comes to an end.
allās fair in love, friendships, and what this is, is an all out war.
she holds her mouth shut, wrapping one arm into another as she crosses her arms against her chest.Ā āyou shouldāve been a robot ā we were good as friends, no? years of friendship and you decide one day that i look like a girl to you? you should know as well as anyone, you donāt like people like me. iām stuck in the same cycles with the same people, why would you want to step onto a grenade knowing detonation is looming?ā
another event, this time in the haze of too many familiar faces. she stands in the crowd, arms-lengths from strangers she exchanges hellos to in passing. sheās learned by now ā sheās a professional, and professionalism guides itself in a thin-lipped smile permanently engrained when she stands still.Ā
because hindsight is 20/20, and the last thing she needs is more whispers and speculations that paint her into different dimensions of grey.
she hides behind the next group of staff passing, only bouncing her gaze to the left to see a familiar face. a reminder from the chatter of the crowds, and theyāre in a public space decorated as near-family despite what details get concealed behind the grand spotlight.
āhey.ā she greets out, smile peeking through a tone more polite than rendered to anything else.Ā āhereās a question ā would you rather run 4k in front of a bunch of people for publicity or would you rather be at isac?ā minjung holds still, taking a step closer towards suji with the years-past memories of holding bows and arrows, running through the area.Ā ānow that we donāt have to go to isac, iām beginning to realize that isac was the only opportunity to wear neon colored track suits.ā
āyouāre causing a scene.ā jihoon corrects, because he wasnāt the one who approached. he wasnāt the one who struck a conversation. it was all minjungās doing, not letting him breathe and exist in peace. all he wanted was peace, but that was never an option. she was persistent and he was tired. to the point where he really couldnāt keep up the front. the disinterested, stoic one he has always been so good.
heās tired, so fucking tired. minjung doesnāt get the hint. any single time, heās giving a clue, itās fallen on deaf ears. he doesnāt want to be bothered, by anyone especially her. but her words hurt, the point where he has to purse his lips and look up to the ceiling, compose himself. āwanna know? iāll tell you, sure.ā jihoon finally speaks, finally cracks mentally before he cracks physically. he doesnāt think it would take long. no one really knows the reason behind his solo debut album, not even his manager or his members, no one. he kept the one main reason he was writing down his thought to himself.
āyou know how i never told you, who theĀ tell me album was about?ā he pauses, gives her just a second to rewind āyou. i wrote it, because of you. happy?ā he asks, he feels his voice shake a bit, but not with anger. he hates speaking his thoughts, those that he is worried that once he says them out loud, they are real. as real can get. āi wrote it, because i started liking you. i wrote as a way to get it out of my system. maybe i would have told you, while i was still happy as happy can fucking get that i actually had a fucking crush for once-ā he speeds up, but his words donāt seem to be meshing up, no slurring. maybe being a rapper has its privileges. āi saw you leave with juyeon at the base awards, that hurt me, and-ā he has to breath, he forces himself to breath, a hand on his chest, just to make sure the breath is as deep as he can muster it. because it hurts, physically it hurts keeping calm. āand i was fucking stupid to even think, after so many years of seeing you two, anything would have changed.ā he pats his chest a few times, a bit grounding, a bit too much force maybe āi was so- fucking- stupid.ā a breath, a shaky one āthat i thought i had a chance.ā he finishes, shoulder finally straightening and his gaze finally focusing on minjungās own.
āso no, i donāt look happy today.ā
itās always her.
all fingers pointed in the room, and her fingers dipped in red. caught in black, broad day light stares. except, this time ā the tides change and thereās only other person in the room, jihoon. a friendship that becomes marred, and the only person to blame ā itās always her.
ācalm down.ā becomes the only thing her voice can mutter out, guided by the stares she swears this becomes another press replay of their last encounter.
sheās ready to rip a sharpened tongue, words ready to spill straight from the frustration and pang in her gut she feels from losing her friend. yet, itās the one word, you, that ceases it all. suddenly, everything feels like a cruel joke, and the weight of bearing guilt only becomes heavier with each words that pierces her cloud of ignorance sheās been holding onto for months.
āthat canāt be the truth.ā first falls denial, when she diverts her gaze to somewhere across the scene, her voice shaky. she canāt look him in the eyes, no. not when the red on her hand becomes engrained, and guilt entraps every biting word she tossed his way.Ā āyou know me better than most people ā years weāve been good friends. youāve seen me fall through the same patterns, fuck things up with people and then repeat the same cycle. yet, why would you be so stupid to let yourself like someone like me?ā self-depreciation spits out like instinct, and she learns from years of experience, sheās engrained to love heartbreak ā not become the source of cause.
everything fleeting, and the details of their conversation feels like itās dissipating in the second when she finally looks up to see jihoon.Ā ājihoon ā in your own words, you were fucking stupid. you know me too well to think i could find a happy ending, nonetheless, with someone like you.ā
āiād be more offended if you werenāt far from the first person whoās told me that.ā itās not like ash isnāt aware heās not always the most fun person to be around when heās sober. hell, even when heās drunk, itās about a fifty-fifty chance it magnifies his more lively qualities as opposed to his worst ones. still, the number of times people have suggested they prefer him under the influence since he gave up on his brief sobriety journey was enough to stoke at least a little self-consciousness once the buzz that makes him ignore it is gone.
luckily, the buzz is very much still there, so he lets any worries slide off his back and settle at his feet to be faced when heās got a hangover to accompany him.Ā āthe statue part is new, though. not sure how i feel about being stone even at my best.ā okay, so maybe the insecurity peaks through his jesting tone. only a little, though.
āif itās any consolation, novacane was at the very start of his set, so it would have been awful stranger-kissing timing anyway. no consideration for the lonely souls in the audience.āĀ he makes an overexaggerated show of rolling his eyes, as if itās the greatest offense imaginable. the guyās gotten enough shit; ash isnāt about to heap onto it with any legitimate criticism.
thereās no need to embellish anyone here. maybe, dusted around the scene are a few social climbers ā but for her sake, everything becomes nothing more than a masked getaway to hide out in the crowd and down cheap glasses. nonetheless, seo minjung feels a tinge better to spot a familiar face in a sea of strangers.
āmy ideas are no longer novel, and iām not the first to give you that complement.ā she pouts, a faux sign of disappointment thatās paired with the sarcastic quip of her own tone. no harm, no bite ā after all, this is an anti-warzone.Ā āhave you ever seen david in florence? last time i saw david, i realized, maybe itās better to be stone because see, david has so many chips on his shoulders and have the fragility thatās universal. yet, nobody ever gives him shit. he still has millions of people waiting in line to accept him, and understand every crack on the marble.ā
minjung muses on, tossing an even wider grin to the bartender motioning for two more rounds of whatever cheap henny he has left. elbow on the table, she props her face with the palm of her hand.Ā āas for frank, well, iām just sad i donāt get to see a wide-scale work of avant garde art. if itās any consolation,ā her eyes mirror ashās over-exaggerated eyeroll.Ā āi guess itās an excuse to go visit your set instead. though, you might have to excuse me when blink starts playing first date.ā
four words were four more than needed for get jihoon defensive.Ā
if anything, he has been on edge for plenty of months now and the fact that he did his very best to avoid any and all interaction with minjung was in vain. she cornered him in a public setting and now he had to suffer the consequences. being passive aggressive was pretty much all he could muster now.
āreally? want me to call him over right now? iām sure he will be thrilled to be lectured about my attitude.ā jihoonās even more sarcastic than before as he looks around in actual hopes to find daehyun and call him over, leave him to talk with minjung while he dips somewhere no one can bother him. he isnāt a fan of conflict, but the other seemed to be keen on why he was being the way he is. he is tired, thatās a given, gold star has been absolutely demolishing catalyst with promotions and schedules. at her following words, jihoon thinks if he rolled his eyes ever so slightly harder, they would pop right out of his head. so he has to compse himself, head falling back, almost hitting it into the wall as he stares at the ceiling. his hands are in the pockets of his trousers and they are in fists. his knuckles hurt, but thats fine. a bit grounding even.
he drops his head back down, slightly tilted to the side as he watches minjung and something definitely shifts in his posture. his shoulders relax, so do his hands as he takes them out of his pockets, crosses his arms over his chest. āiām tired.ā he says in the most sincere voice he can pull āi am really fucking tired of you being up my ass.ā he says through gritted teeth. there is a change in his voice, but no change in his posture. if minjung wanted to know, he was going to tell her. get her off his back. because being defensive in such a situation, being pestered by the person who broke his heart is really the last thing anyone would want. he wonders if minjung knew, would she back off?
turmoil falls, and like all the things sheās read inside novels written for the past ā all good things come to an end.
the friendship she knows slowly becomes dissipated, sanded down by the gritty words tossed to her. but sheās learned better than to put on a show for the cameras and eyes, spotlighting their gazes at the scene. instead, she smiles, looks upward to meet jihoonās own eyes dead-on.Ā āi didnāt know we were having a scene. if i did, i wouldāve spoken louder, maybe had an iced coffee in my hand or even better ā a pound of kimchi so i could slap you with it like all the good day time dramas.ā her voice is quietly spoken, and words only mask the pang of hurt when she feels like sheās losing a friend in the process.
after all, itās just another understanding that everythingās transient. and nothing ever forges itself in permanency ā least not remotely close to anything she knows.
she pulls herself together, wielding together a faux confidence in straightened shoulders and a huffed out breath. and if she were lucky, maybe, sheād coax herself into believing this was just an awry dream.
but her fingers tug at the extra fabric of her pants, and the pinch reminds her thereās nothing more bitter than the taste of reality sitting pretty. so, she looks back upward, smile softening.Ā āyouāve been tired in the past, but this is the first youāve said youāre tired of me being up your ass.ā latter remarks highlighted with her air quotations, but her voice steadies.Ā āyou wonāt have coffee with me. you wonāt have lunch with me, and you wonāt be in the same recording studio as me ā iām losing a friend, and iām lost in translation. so, are you going to tell me how iāve lost a friend or are you jumping to the ending and showing me the end result?ā
the second weekend of coachella settles in with more familiarity than the first. the palm springs rental bungalow heās been holed up in for the week, ordering take-out and holing himself up in the makeshift studio heād crafted, is almost comfortable now despite the entirely unused pool. but it always comes down to one thing in the end: a battle between his cocoon of introversion and the restless pull toward less quiet and, ultimately, of course, less sobriety.
itās nights like these heās gratefulā he knows a few people who always seem to be around events like this. most of them are attention-addicted social climbers who think ashās group having a number one song and a grammy nomination for the shittiest song theyāve ever put out to their name will get them in the tabloids if theyāre caught partying with him, sure, but god knows heās had worse company. besides, dimensions has anything truly compromising on lockdown pretty well these days. and if something did leak through? well, maybe it could erase his association with dynamite from the public conscience.
so he ends up at some private coachella artist party with someone heās met a few times in passing at private booths in la clubs and lets her introduce him to people whose names he forgets as quickly as heās told them until heās shaken off the weight of sobriety just enough to make and excuse and step out on his own.
āweāve got to stop meeting like this.ā accompanied by a self-humored half-grin, itās what he dubs an acceptable greeting when he spots minjung amongst the crowd and joins her. the bar might be low, but he figures thereās a good chance sheāll be better company than the person he came with. luckily for the both of them, this time heās neither shitfaced nor stone cold sober, but something more pleasantly in between.Ā āthen again, itās probably my fault we only ever seem to run into each other when at least one of us has a drink in hand.ā heās hardly the most social without the incentive of mind-altering substances, after all.Ā āi was thinking dropping by to watch your set might be the only time iād see you this weekend.ā
anonymity comes in waves, and here sheās just a fresh-faced first timer. a novel feeling, far incomparable to being fresh faced, barely twenty when she first debuted.
but this is a new stage, and she soaks in the details. letting the intricacies of new hellos in fresh faces void of any judgements guide her movements through the busting bodies inside some cooped up party, smushed in the middle of indio. she hears from mouth, gets dragged by a new friend she meets in passing conversation ā sheās merely a new face, and she knows from years of being new: itās always the novelty of being in new, and up-and-coming that renders her somewhat worthy of any remote conversation.Ā conversations rattle her heavier, and each conversations become nothing more than cheapened versions for proposals of a hookup or even cheaper laughter for future collaborations she knows will become remnants of gold starās ignorance.Ā
in the end, she succumbs to the thing she knows best ā cheap henny, contrasting the money flowing in designer threads. maybe sheās on her third, but by the time she loses count she hears a familiar voice, and she turns her head towards the source.Ā āor we can call it fate, and say weāre never supposed to meet inside the confines of sobriety.ā she mirrors his half-grin, tossing whateverās left of her drink straight down her throat.
by now, it doesnāt burn, and now, her eyes narrow in.Ā āin the end, itās okay because i like you best when you have a drink in your hand. builds character, makes you seem a bit more rough around the edges, like youāre a sculpture instead of a digital print.ā her grin lifts more, and she motions some bartender sheās made friends with in the course of an hour over before turning over to ash, voice light and fleety. ānow, i donāt know if youāre lucky or unlucky because iām kind of sad right now. frank ocean dropped out this weekend. as much as i love blink 182, i wanted to bawl my eyes out to nikes and kiss a stranger during novacane.ā
summary / melody + production for @fmdhayiās mianhae.
wc / 1012
the melody begins how she meets him.
inside a cruddy bar, surrounded by mutual strangers. she doesnāt know why steps out that day, just know she does at the expense of a cruddy routine of unfortunate circumstances. the rain when she gets her hair done for the next comeback, and the humidity of the heat rising with each step she takes past familiar faces and new ones. the rain that starts to downpour, accompany the round of drinks that line up. the explosion of cheers for new beginnings right as she finds the empty seat next to his.
it starts like repetition, the keys of the piano.
engrained in habits when she doesnāt lend a look over overtly, only to pass peeks in secret. he has dimples, she notes ā they dig deep, and when her gaze becomes caught red-handed, the only thing she has at her disposal is the same primed smile her father used to give her when he found her hiding behind the scarlet curtains of a child.
she hides the melody inside the light-hearted touches of the keys that continue to follow the jazzy scheme of wannabe jazz from the 1930ās.
they remind her of him.
a summation of late night talks that fall blue like jazz inside her daze of ex-lovers, and ruined relationships. ruination at her own hands, and she lets her fingers trickle down the keys in erratic beats. because nothingās been smooth like jazz throughout the course of back and forth years lost in translation.
missed timings, half-chances. hope she rests her heart on, only for the transiency of it all to rush like sanguine tinged cheeks falling from her face into bleak white. itās murky territories, they tread on ā always murky when she lets the rest of the melody fall into some pattern.
patterns are scary things, they fall into habituation. and everything becomes discourse as she waits for the pattern to halt, and shift into a turmoil of unexpected endings.
she hasnāt touched a piano in how long ā months of lapsed conversation. nothingās changed, sheās just become toned down outside the press, and behind the curtains again, this time back stage. she spits it out, just like poetry in motion. except her excerpt doesnāt follow the prose of plath or poe, and it certainly doesnāt sound like anything of sinatra or etta james.
it comes in wayward motion, just as her hands transition into a slow shift from the chords to the pressure her foot places on the pedal. it exudes, blends out into the silence of empty thoughts for things she doesnāt have left.
only memories guide one note after the other, and everything falls into place like itās nothing short of muscle memory when she colors the melody with melancholy.
because melancholic endings are all she knows, all he knows. and maybe, thatās why she falls back into the habit of empty jazz music that plays through the speakers like she knows more than sheās giving up. context for nothing except the space of silence that takes her back to where she sees him best ā empty moonlight in the break of night, like cinderella the clock strikes twelve and everything bursts back to reality.
thereās the whimsy divided into the patterns of the songs. the staccato of the rap that fragments the smooth whimsy of pretty keys. itās a clash of two differing patterns, yet somehow in the dissonance, comes the cohesion sheās always known him to be.
figures, thereās another song she writes for a boy who doesnāt care.
only, this time she tells her story in-between the lines of notes because in the end, theyāve never found the right words or the right times to say sorry. instead, everything becomes nothing more than the short blend of lost time, wrong words, in-between context, and always lost inside the abyss of silence.
she only tells him the things she couldnāt say, except, she stands alone inside her room, keys in her hand, letting the jazz fill her bones like they used to. but past to present, and her bones feel empty while the chord transitions press on, and the beat never picks up into the recourse she wanted all along.
music becomes cathartic when she wants it to be, and late night blues have her holed up into the bungalow of her apartment. movies donāt feel right when five minutes passes, and she lets the words of empty lost lovers reuniting play in the background as she slides her feet one by one back to the studio. she doesnāt know why she keeps coming back to run the same lines of melodies or the same juxtaposition. all she knows is, she keeps coming back.
still no words, she leaves them to the new owner of the song. instead, all she has is the beginnings of the subtle bass line ticking in tandem with her keys against the table. steady like a metronome, and she realizes: sheās still writing the same stupid song for the same stupid boy.
patterns are terrible, and when she catches herself in the middle of a new form ā grace lends itself to her when she lets herself carry on. stability, and the foundation to an unwritten story, heās always been there keeping the tempest waters at bay in the mirage of a calm sea. the metronome ticks on, nature runs its course.
no lyrics, instead she fills the guide with the hum of a low voice. quiet and somber, she ends up painting herself in the blue notes of murky territory, one by one. the jazz inspired chords, the low level of the bass, and the somber hums ā sums up the course theyāve taken thus far. and the song itself mirrors the only footsteps theyāve ever known.
she knows where the ending is, but her heart doesnāt want to swallow reality. instead, she lends the ending to unfinished business because nine times out of ten, sheād let it fade instead of letting the abrupt stop render her a shell of empty memories in the end.
ā people that soaks into heart
what kind of personā amā i?
am i aā good person?
or a bad person?
@minjungfmd
ājihoon feels like he is holding onto every single thread of sanity he has left. he feels like a little kid being scolded, for something he isnāt entirely aware of. he understands where minjung is coming from. he was a dick last time they spoke, but he was honest, as honest as he could be to salvage some of their friendship. if anything, jihoon thinks he did really good, compared to any previous discourses heās had, he is impressed that minjung had the guts to approach him in a public setting.
let alone to call him out for being as friendly and cheery as ever. maybe if she looked a bit fucking deeper, she would notice that wasnāt the case. maybe he should have bared his teeth more, scared her off and make her leave him to wallow in self pity. just like she did about juyeon, maybe even worse than that.. oh, it was definitely worse than that. theyāve had plenty of friendly interactions through the event, he was being as civil as civil could get. so he doesnāt understand why minjung expect him to tear into her in a public setting with cameras and people lingering at every corner?
he is chewing on his lips as he listens to her, eyes scanning the perimeter every few seconds because he feels the need to get out. he doesnāt care how disrespectful it is, he wants out.
āif you would like to lecture me on being civil in a public setting, pass the feedback onto my manager.ā jihoon finally spits out, after noticing the silence between them had gotten ever so slightly suffocating. āor maybe, you should take a hint and act the same, stop harassing me in public about doing my job at keeping our images in tact.ā the words come in the same tone and urgency, a bit through gritted teeth because the male thinks he might explode if minjung pushed anymore. asked anymore.
āyou look happy today.ā
it serves as an understatement to mend any of the fragility ā the thin ice they tread on. slowly, itās a crippling feeling of having the fragments resurface, and the uncertainty of what comes next falling into line. friendships become murky territory, clouded by the bitter aftermath of their last conversations with no resolve.
so, she breaks the ice the only way she can. a cheap evoke of sarcasm in those four words, a contrast to how sheās painted him in her mind last.
but thatās okay, theyāre forced to play nice anyways. shrouded in the field of cameras, a field-day for the basic onlooker crafting details to the figments of their imagination in this star-studded event. she pays no attention, uses it as a tool instead. no way out, she quirks her head, pulls her grin a bit higher ā irony that sheās choosing to have this conversation here than anywhere else.Ā ātoo bad, i donāt have your managerās number. and i donāt think thatād be a very good look to ask for your managerās number ā who knows, the public might paint me in darker shades of red.ā itās a lie because experience has only made that thick skin of hers thicker.
and now, the only thing that rests is the roll of her eyes signaling to cut the rough edges of in-between line reading.Ā āyouāre being rude again, and i donāt know if this is a new you or if youāre just deciding to put up a front, but no harm here.ā she raises her two hands in the air, a subtle step back as if sheās raising her own hypothetical white flag.Ā ānow, are you going to let me know if this is the new you and youāve finally hit your teenage rebellion phase? or are you actually going to tell me the reason why youāre choosing to be a dick lately.ā
āthatās a rather limited view of it. there are reliable combinations of sound and look and presentation, but that doesnāt mean itās all a rehashing of the same thing. if the industry was so incredibly repetitive and boring, everyone would have stopped listening by now.ā people do stop listening. particularly when it comes to idol music, listeners will outgrow the marketing and leave their days of fanatic following behind, but really, the industry is no less inventive than any other. the idol industry may be oversaturated, but thatās a matter of numbers of groups, not creativity.Ā
something in minjungās words feel off. theyāre almost too cynical for her liking, although she knows minjung well enough to know a healthy dosage of cynicism isnāt out of character for her. itās not that mirae lacks any jaded outlook on the industry she calls home; rather, sheās determined to change what she can and understand the weighty cons of her alternatives.
āsecrets? a producer is having an affair with an a&r lead, that fancy restaurant down the street uses frozen fish instead of fresh, a certain actor lost all his earnings gambling overseas and thatās why heās taking any project he can get now. i doubt those are the sorts of secrets you want.ā she looks at minjung for a beat. āare you more focused on acting these days? i didnāt get to watching it myself yet, but i have some friends who really loved our beloved summer. apparently, you did really well for someone still in her rookie actor years.ā
she mulls in the conversation, a new light shed. she wonders if miraeās always been a sort of saint in the industry ā one who drinks into the rose-tinted sheen of the lights, letting the clamor of public praise become the soundtrack to each step.
but seo minjung knows her limitations to curiosities, and the extension into seniors like strangers tend to nothing more than the polite arch of her mouth, and a nod that dips.Ā āall the wise insight, and youāre nothing more than living proof that wisdom comes with age, ghandi. iām curious to see how much wisdom stems with each tick on the clock.ā in hindsight, she learns nothing about wisdom ā only that time heals all, except when the shallow knock to her stomach feels like it presses pause on all floors.
after all, itās the pause that leaves her in this predicament, smack-dab in a studio via a wandering daze.
cheap talk does wonders, and she finds her eyes perking wider, her smile stretching higher.Ā āi always knew that fish tasted off.ā voice sarcastic, but thereās nothing more than a harmless jab into a fishbowl world.Ā āas much as you can mimic exterior shapes, you canāt copy what on the inside.āĀ
back to career, and she shies away the sentiment with one jut of her chin.Ā āno, i donāt think so ā i donāt like acting. i donāt like taking money pretending to be someone else when i already do that as my main source of income.ā one more polite hint of her smile, and now itās digging a bit to personal.Ā ācall our beloved summer a one off, i donāt think iāll act like that ever again.ā
itās a terrible cliche to live by, she knows. writing across the pages one by one into the same shades of blues and greys ā bad boys, sad girls. those are the fairytale endings that disney doesn't write about, and the ones she has to carve out from her own experiences.
too bad experience means letting the edges of heartbreak and the taste of lost hope settle into the bitter aftermath of what subsides on her tongue, and what runs through her mind all in slow motion.
she hasnāt picked up a pen in a while. hasnāt sketched, hasnāt written. words donāt come as easily when sheās forced into the rollercoaster emotions of shooting straight up, only to come crashing down. the crash comes into effect in ripple motions, one rough sway. and the rest comes like muscle memory ā something familiar, like she knows it a little all too well.
maybe thatās why when she has the pen in front of her hand, and the blank page, the only words that entice themselves across become the same words reverberating through her head the second she decided to play a game with the devil.
if i take one step closer
take a couple of steps back
itās like this again, sick of love
and maybe, thatās the remedy sheās been searching for all along. sifting through the in-betweens of what-ifs, and lost chances. bad timing an excuse for the abyss of words that lie in the bridge of silence. each step feels like one languid backwards motion, and by the end of it, all she has is where sheās started ā the same bitterness that subsides in her stomach when she reminds herself to swallow it whole, even if it gets lodged into choked up sentences in the process.
you act vaguely
bad boy, bad boy, bad boy
i get sentimental for no reason
sad girl, sad girl sad girl
tonight too up alone
itās a crutch of volatile emotions. she knows, just as the pen digs deeper into the paper and sheās relegated to that of a child scribbling nothings about a boy in a diary. rudimentary processes, and growing up just means transfixing old hobbies into productivities when sheās humming the words with the melody in her mind. and nothing excuses her when she can hear his voice in-between passing conversations, little facets and pieces she weaves together into excuses.
because really, maybe, thatās how she let herself to get stuck here in the first place. mulling over missed text messages and lapses of radio silence ā the only thing remaining: her pride when she writes one more song about a stupid bad boy, and a sad sad girl.
jihoon feels something very contradicting, unable to put his own feelings aside he is very aware he should just ask minjung to leave. leave him alone because he feels his last barriers crumbling right about now. they are two very different people, he always knew that, but he was getting a proper taste at it right now.
āi always ask questions, this is just a topic that isnāt pleasant.ā he explains, shifting yet again in his seat. heās already thinking about the cigarettes he will be smoking when minjung leaves, so he has to shake his head ever so softly, bringing him back to the current situation at hand. āpeople donāt change fully, you need to remember that-ā he pauses, despite having a big puff of air in his chest, ready to lecture minjung about how shitty people are no matter what, their own happiness is always top priority, their jobs as idols would never trully allow them to be happy, there was so many things jihoon could and probably should tell her, but instead, he lets out a soft sigh, shoulders dropping. āguanine confessions mean nothing when you have been tip toeing around the elephant in the room for years,ā he finally states, because jihoon isnāt blind and he has unfortunately, seen plenty.
he listens to minjung speak, finally making his first big move by leaning over his seat and reaching to his bag, pulling out a few vitamin jellies, placing them on the desk and waving at them. an indication if minjung wants any, because he certainly helps himself to a watermelon one. āthis is exactly what i said, you are placing your happiness on him, letting him tell you if you should breathe your breath of fresh air or not. thatās a bit sad, minjung.ā jihoon says and he is sure he sounds even more miserable than she looks, a hypocrite at best, because he is doing the exact same thing by dwelling on his own feelings and not just.. moving past them.
one by one, and even friendships start to topple over. the pieces now fall to the ground with the sharpening edge of jihoonās voice, and she shifts in uncertainty.Ā
thereās a defense mechanism that coaxes herself into keeping a gaze that strays away. far from headiness of being relegated to the wrong ā she shakes her head, takes a deep breath. still, nothing shakes out, and she mumbles,Ā āall topics in life canāt be sunshine and rainbows, thatās why nobody is happy 24/7 in the world.ā itās the bite of realism, and maybe, itās the seventh sense or a knack for trouble looming ā she senses change.
yet, at the foundation of anything, sheās stubborn. stubborn in her inability to assuage the latent grit inside their conversation, so she remains still. refuses to stop here.
her fingers press against the crook of her elbow, pressing harder as the lecture drains on with each second on the clock.Ā āiād like to think itās a case by case basis. it changes based on the people involved and the environment it blooms in ā give a flower no water in sunlight, it dies. give a flower water with shade, it dies. put in the right circumstances, and maybe it grows. everythingās a taste of fate at this point.āĀ
she shoos away the jellies with the dismissive wave of her hand.Ā āiām not placing my happiness on everyone.ā her voice shoots firm, and for the first time, she points her dead-straight stare to meet his.Ā āi can take a breath on my own, i just donāt know if i want to do it on my own anymore. the worldās a lonely enough place as is.ā
āoscar first seems so predictable, though,ā she draws out her voice like sheās bored by the idea, but itās all in jest. mirae isnāt so conceited as to think her winning any prize, foreign or domestic, is a given, but if only by relation to parasite, sheās come closest to that prize already, and might, in theory, be able to ride that wave to a win to her name one day.Ā āinstead of going against the alphabet, iād have to go against whatās predictable and start with the t first.ā her mind blanks on what award the t is supposed to stand for, but she hopes that slips under minjungās radar.
she canāt fully read minjungās body language, whether itās nervousness or discomfort or something else more subtle, but itās impossible not to notice the shifting of her weight and the posture she takes on. though she doesnāt comment on it, mirae notes it and files it away in the back of her mind.Ā āfugitives have to be fugitives from something.ā itās a statement in place of a question so minjung isnāt put on the spot.
āyou can dance to any music, i suppose.ā she shrugs, closing the journal sheād been making notes in and pushing it away.Ā āso, in that sense, i am. did you need this studio to work on something?ā
āpredictability is what keeps the industry going ā you take the same concepts, give them to different groups. people donāt really like to rock the status quo.ā itās a sentiment thatās been brewing inside her chest, enough to render her empty when her notebook strews nothing more than simple doodles and no real words to come out.
an artistic rut, or at least thatās what she seizes the lack of productivity. in the past, sheād bide her time because timeās the salve ā it heals all wounds. yet, she stands her standing with her arms across her chest, and too many words that havenāt spilt over the rim of her mind quite yet.Ā ātony or not, iām excited to see how the media can continue to pet your head.ā no malice, nor bite in her words. itās a musing that recoils out of deflection, and itās consequential of the fact that sheās neither here nor there. instead, she just floats somewhere in limbo.
her eyes continue to brace strong, no change to her demeanor. (she knows better than to not pay attention inside a conversation.)Ā āmaybe, but iād like to think ballads are reserved for the dancers that think.ā she mirror the shrug, jutting her chin out.Ā āi thought iād get lost. i donāt make much music these days ā but i thought if i sat around or maybe wandered, then maybe a shadow might whisper secrets. you hear any secrets lately?ā
jihoon has never been great at listening, he has to problem solve. has to think of a way to get everything done and dusted. not very problem solving of him if he was sat there writing a big sad album now, is it? ābut it has been going on for years, so its understandable you are hung up.ā he speaks up again, straightening up in his chair.
he was really being put between a rock and a hard place right now. minjung was really pushing all the buttons he really didnāt want touched right now and he was on edge. āi am taking your side, i can bitch about juyeon without a reason.ā he pauses, sighs softly and rubs his face with both hands. āi am not scolding you, i am just asking questions.ā jihoon purses his lips as he listens to minjung speak. time never changed anything especially when things have been going like that for what.. years? so he takes his time to think about what he can tell her, to make the situation feel slightly better and not be a dick.
if there was one thing jihoon had gotten great at since debut, was putting his own feelings aside and just focusing on the issue at hand.Ā
ābecause time rarely changes anything. especially after that many years, itās a comfortable awkwardness between you too. you get too close, you distance yourself, you can never get closer than what you both allow, isnāt that the whole thing? confessing changes absolutely nothing if the dynamic has been stale for years?ā he wants to bite down his tongue, so hard, he couldnāt speak afterwards, but he has already opened that can of worms, he doesnāt feel that bad if he has to put some thought into it.
like the end of the domino lines ticking down one by one, she finds the answer sheās been searching for all along: the swaddle of comfort with one statement, and the understanding that years of friendship brings forth.
itās easy going, and like free-fall she slings back onto her chair, taking one big sigh. her spine tenses up, a reverberation of instinct when she hears the name call out into what she deems a safe space. one freeze, and her fingers play with the hem of her shirt, avoiding any trace of eye contact.Ā āyouāre asking questions, but they sometimes pinch too deep. the pinch that doesnāt bring rosy red, the kind that brings a pain to your gut.ā she mutters out, falling back to the recoil of true safety: mangled words, a flighty tone.
ātime changes all, and people get older. they say the only medicine to anything is time passing, and then it gets all better.ā she fields jihoonās words out of her ears, out of sight and out of mind ā because hindsight is 20/20, and what he says becomes an acrid taste of reality replaying of years past.Ā āstalemate can turn into a checkmate with one prop of bravado in genuine confessions.ā and now she feels like sheās nothing more than fences upon fences of defenses she canāt hold with a strong foundation.
her teeth press hard down upon her bottom lip, jostled in with the heavy sigh she takes.Ā āitās like iāve been drowning for years, and i finally decided to take a breath of fresh air. but that air ended up becoming more water i swallowed, and now iām sinking deep ā but you know what the worst part is? i donāt want to let myself sink. i just want to swim up to the top, hoping that maybe, iāll finally get a gasp of air and just maybe, iāll be able to float if heāll let me.ā
30 MARCHĀ ā Following the release of Equinoxās new mini-album on March 20, memberĀ MINJUNG has recently been earning love for one of her lines in their new songĀ āFeel My Rhythmā.
The part in question has the vocalist singing about blowing confetti as she does charming hand movements, which can be seen in both the songās music video and in Equinoxās live music show stages. Social media has been abuzz about Minjungās impressive visuals and her perfect fit with the part.
The moment has earned love across various social media, with compilations of the line during Equinoxās stages being uploaded and fans recreating the moment on apps such as TikTok and Instagram.
[e***]: minjungās visuals are insaneā¦ wow. how is it possible to look so pretty?
[j***]: if minjung smiled at me like that, i would fall in love in an instant
[s***]: whenever iām feeling down lately, iāve been watching minjungāsĀ āblow confettiā part and i feel instantly healed
[m***]: i canāt imagine anyone else doing that part as well as minjung. it was really made for her
dededos
pixelskylines
tangentwithtanner
vaporwave
areudirty
kianamaiart
janainaart
