@mkjijoon liked this post for a starter.
sometimes the things namgil found the most comfort in was nothing substantial at all. to most, writing lyrics seemed like a job, something you got handed fat stocks of won for, but to namgil everything was personal. every lyric, every rhyme, every push and pull of the pen as it glided along the paper. he supposed, in a way, namgil was a god with his writing - not in the way that he was so confident, more likeā¦ it was the only thing he could really control. as soon as he smelled the ink, every ache and tension in his body ebbed away.Ā
so imagine his distress when he couldnāt find his notebook. it felt as if he was back home, back in middle school when the kids would taunt him, tease him, make him feel small. but namgil was an adult now. broader shoulders and longer legs. he could defend himself. if only he had his damned notebookā¦ he had searched the entire proximity of mk with no luck, retreating back to the studio when he could hear breathing, the door barely ajar, and as namgil peeked in, he saw his notebook in a strangerās hands. the man was seeing red at this point.Ā āif you plan on stealing my lyrics, donāt bother. everyone will know theyāre mine anyway.ā
jijoon was scheduled for the main studio at 5, and it was now 5:10. when he walked in at 5, there was no one there, only a few scraps of paper and a pen a top the desk. he assumed the person before him had just forgot to clean up, so he set his stuff down, and took to cleaning up the crumpled papers. as he bent down to grab a paper, a small book thrown under the desk caught his eye. he reached under, picking up the book, examining the outside. he opened the book, looking through to find a name, anywhere, trying his best not to snoop. but curiosity got the best of him.
in the midst of him being submerged in the lines of scribbled text on page, jijoon jumped at the familiar voice. he looked up towards the door, fully turning his body. "donāt worry," jijoon spoke to the male in the doorway. āi wouldnāt dare." he said, shutting the notebook in his hands, setting it on the desk in front of him. to be truthful, jijoon would have liked to sit and read through the whole notebook if he could. he admired the otherās writing, and the pure works of art that he created. of course, he wouldnāt ever admit that to his friend. that sometimes he would only listen to him for days on end because he understood the words. they werenāt meaningless, unlike most music. āwere you finished in here, or did you need to do something?ā
