𝙞 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙞𝙩. 𝙞𝙩 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚. 𝙞𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙧𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙨, 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙖𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨, 𝙨𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. ━━ m. hornbacher / @chrjaehoon
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𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙤𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚. as if. if anything suran is more so a spectator to the sport. a hungry pair of inquisitive eyes peering over the bastardized scrapbook rendition also known as mother’s dating (dating? wedding?) history. suran’s own has pages ripped, names crossed, corners singed, coffee stains, water damage, and question marks in farcical circus font that makes one wonder—what the hell are you doing? she’d like to know too. but what twenty-something didn’t have a fucked up ledger and a trail of fractured hearts and burned bridges? suran wouldn’t have considered it abnormal of her, knowing how people are, how she is, how ‘love’ (fickle and flighty) tends to be.
all this, as one would imagine, is a popular conversation topic among ballerinas during early morning smoke breaks. love. dating. etcetera etcetera.
and usually, a nosier ballerina, bony fingers struggling with a neon pink bic lighter would say: you just haven’t met the right person yet. in which she, head swirling with nicotine and eyes sharp would spit: i’m not the right person [for that shit] ever thought of that?
though, statistically, she isn’t far off. let’s recap. the last few years had been a case of cheating followed a case of fucking imploding into oneself (hers and hers, there’s no longer any way in telling where her issues ended and another’s started) followed by... well, nothing. did she need more? is she not two for two in shitty outcomes? is it not tantamount to the mess her mother left behind already? three broken hearts, two broken homes, and one mind-bogglingly corroded daughter? yeah, she’s not trying to top that.
instead, suran sates the pathetic, quivering thing inside her with something else. raw, like a nerve, the thing we speak of is omnipresent, yanks at her hair and prickles the tips of her fingers. it presents itself at night as a crushing pressure on the sternum, a crawling up the spine that seeps into bone, a hollowed out crater in the crux of her hearth. it? it. loneliness. neediness. desolation. does a monster really need a name?
whatever it is, when it gets to be too much, she’s thankful for the likes of bang jaehoon.
it’s nothing special. the arrangement itself is purely for the sake of fiction. he, who needs some type of inspiration for his latest so and so (suran honestly didn’t hear a word past help and i’ll pay.) and she, who craves the occasional palliative touch in misplaced and utterly fabricated affection to quell her unease.
so, here she stands today. myo suran, girlfriend for hire. kinda.
to her credit, she’s dressed according to part. like a freak, jaehoon had specifically detailed what his “type” entailed, from hairstyle down to the type of socks to pair with her shoes. all of which is the best ensemble she could put together based on the reference pictures he sent her prior. like i said, he’s a freak. but all of that prep is naught, if he doesn’t show up in the first place. and suran stands in front of the cafe a vision, like some sort of too pretty to be a piano teacher or a untainted demure sheltered flower or mother fucking lizzy bennet like he wanted. albeit, one with an unlit cig tucked in her frowning mouth.
he’s late. men.