“F---fiv---” she can’t even properly finish her first word that she’s already choking on her own voice, unable to keep a decent composure despite the innocence of the question. Totally out of nowhere she has to list five reasons why she likes Blair---and just as suddenly, completely unexpected to her, both anxiety and fluster pounce on her back with vicious and voracious intents. It’s weird because she likes thinking about Blair; she likes being with him, she enjoys his presence, and so, so much more. Still at the same time this task includes doing something she’s terrible at, and always unwilling to walk through: that is, talking about her feelings. It’s not because of him---it’s her. She’s the problem, here. Incompetent and inept at anything, discerning and analyzing her emotions included. “Ah... eh...” Inhale, exhale. Min-Seo tries to calm down, despite the fact that lessening her anxiety has always been a titanic task. Her hand stiffly and shakily wraps itself around her neck, index and middle fingers conveniently placed: shit. Hearing her own heartbeat run this fast isn’t at all useful. Contrarily, it makes her guts sink even deeper. Why is she overreacting like this? She would like to run away, actually. That’s what her prey-like instinct tells her to do. But she can’t just do that, she can’t grab her things and go for it---it’s a question. A simple, fair question. How harmful can it be? How difficult is it, to selectively spill here and there what she thinks and feels? Min-Seo squeezes her eyes closed, fingers around the neck tightening their grip as well, to quickly release both holds right after. A gulp.
“Well, he’s... he’s---” her throat closes up again, a wheezing sound taking place of words before dissolving, once again, into silence. Min-Seo perseveres, however---let it be absolute crap, but she will say something. Anything. A cough, “Blair is... I-I don’t think...” cough, “There is anything that I don’t, um. Like. H-how---how can I explain myself...” (think about him, think about him, think about him.) Min-Seo frowns. (Just say the first things that come to you when you think about him.) “Nice... he’s... so, so incredibly nice,” finally, she mutters something coherent and complex, “I really mean it when I say I don’t know, I don’t know what I can say---it’s just... he’s good. Altogether. I can’t think of s-something that I don’t like.” handsome, charming, energetic, determined, strong-willed, kind---all things considers ideal. In general, she’s baffled he sticks around her out of his own volition: what can she, of all people, give to him? How can she repay him? How can she pay off this debt that feels more and more crushing with each time he smiles at her? Teeth bite down on her lower lip in uncertainty, fingers fidgeting with each other in nervousness. It’s too late to turn back now---she started talking, she ought to finish. No matter how much her chest and stomach hurt. (The more she thinks about him, though, the more she tries to cradle those warm moments, those little things. They feel safe. They feel right.) “I’m... I’m sorry.” it had to happen, at some point. Compulsory apologizing. “I just feel that... he’s giving me so much. That I can’t give back. I’m always moping around, and, and... I like how gentle he is... it’s odd. I’ve never---you know, I’m not... used to it.” a sigh follows as she forcefully represses awful memories, ones still so recent and fresh that even so barely mentioning them feels like pouring salt on a wound, “I can’t describe it. Just... what’s there not to like? Have you met him...?” a rare sight follows as she continues---Min-Seo actually smiles, endeared by her current thoughts, “He learned some Korean... and I don’t really know why,” surely not because of her: it wouldn’t make sense. There ought to be some other reason, a way more worthy motivation. With that her lips are pulled down once again, almost grimacing, “But he’s so---so. So simply nice. I...” without thinking, her hands reach her face to conceal it; her shoulders stiffen, tighten, and there is such a mess in her head, in her chest, that she doesn’t know what to do. What a fucking wreck, is the first clear thought that slashes through her confused mind.
She isn’t crying, she desperately wants to. Yet she is also thinking about him--- “... I really don’t deserve him, uh...” a muffled mutter follows as she subsides into dead silence. Just what is going on? What’s making her usual self-deprecating spiel so difficult?
