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ㅡ Name: Kim Chungha Group/Occupation: I.O.I ㅡ

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He can’t look at kids anymore. He’s learned that about himself in the little time that he’s spent outside of the apartment. When he sees them, boy or girl, clammy hands clutching to their mothers or fathers, he finds himself turning away, holding his breath, and counting to ten, because he read that somewhere a while ago that doing so could prevent the urge to cry. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t.

He’s also not very good at smiling. He’s always been good at it; even as a little boy, deserted by his father at the age of eight, he still smiled as though nothing was wrong. He hasn’t smiled in days, doesn’t quite remember what it is to smile.

When he arrives at the apartment, it’s only half past eleven, so he’s certain that she won’t be awake for hours, not until five, at least, unless she had gotten up to be sick. He remembers that he’s left a bucket beside the bed as he locks the door. Then he fills a vase with water and sets the bouquet of flowers inside it, puts the bread in the toaster and water in the kettle. He heads towards the windows to draw the curtains, and she’s curled up into a ball so small on the couch that he almost misses her when he’s returning to the kitchen.

Her skin is so paper thin that the veins beneath it are protruding, making her look blue, and the dark stains beneath her eyes look like bruises. His heart clenches in his throat so tightly that he catches his breath, feeling lightheaded by the sight of her as he forces the tears away as he kneels down beside her. He can see that she’s awake, with lidded and swollen red eyes, and he brushes back blonde hair from her neck. Her skin feels sticky beneath his rough fingers. He’s terrified that he might break her.

“Hey,” his throat is so dry that the words almost don’t come out at all. “You’re awake.” He’s trying so hard not to cry as he caresses her face, smooths down her hair. “Are you hungry? I bought food.” He has to remind himself to breath. “Your favorite. Nutella.”

#;1

Look, don’t get him wrong, he’s not complaining about his job. Of course not. Not with an annual salary of 80K (not counting the lovely, hefty end of the year bonus), even though he locks away most of that cash for a rainy day (what can he say? He works with money. He’s practical). But working late on Christmas? On Christmas? And yes, his family is in Guatemala, and it’s not as though he can fly over to meet with them at a moment’s notice, but come on. Where’s the consideration? And, okay, technically he wasn’t really working tonight. Technically. But spending an hour and a half around Jill and Freddy, -- or Jreddy, as they like to call themselves -- the world’s most annoying office couple, is somehow not worth the end of the year bonus. And it doesn’t help that he hasn’t been getting enough sleep lately, because no matter how hard he bangs on the wall when his stupid fucking neighbor is playing her stupid fucking music (you call that music? That is not music!) noise at an obnoxiously loud volume at three in the morning, she won’t stop (!!!!!!!!!). So can you blame him if he’s in a bad mood and he’s taking it out on his job?

But at least he’s home now. Oh, Lord, home sweet home! Finally, finally. He’s been thinking of his couch all night, like an enamored fledgling thinks of his beloved, his couch and a good book waiting for him at home, less than ten steps away (no need for takeaway tonight, having eaten so much at the party that his stomach is now sticking out beneath his dress shirt). And no work tomorrow, he remembers! His neighbor probably won’t be home either! She’ll probably be with family! Ahhhhh, yes. Now he feels the exhaustion seeping away, replaced by relief. Then he thinks, God, I’m getting old, because who looks forward to going to bed? He’s interrupted by a bump against the shoulder, and he’s about to look up and apologise when a cold, sticky liquid soaks the front of his shirt. And when he sees who it is, who the liquid belongs to, (or belonged to a moment before, when it wasn’t leaving a quite possibly permanent stain on his work clothes) his mood plunges considerably and he scowls. “You.” There goes his night of peace and quiet. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

#;1

Taking a sip of his tea, he looked straight at Eleanor Waldorf, pretending not to have noticed who was creeping down the stairs, and laughed broadly. "Oh, Mrs Waldorf, as always, it is a delight to be in your company."