( kteyeon )
Contact between the two had come to an abrupt halt after the exchange of harsh words through illuminated screens – not because either desired the air of bitterness to remain pungent (the stench of regret lingers far too strongly for her weak stomach, and Hyosung despises the daunting notion of it all), but because of the sheer profusion of stubbornness which precedes many forms of apologies. Many a-nights ago had she assumed the role of silence, awaiting opportunities to fix fleeting moments of blind rage, the red mist.
It, daftly so, was presumed to be sorted the way in started – through a series of texts. Only this time the contents will have been mused over, selected so misunderstandings may not take place and history to repeat, avoided. In those spare, transient seconds before sleep invades, an upsurge of conspired emotions – guilt always at its centre – resides in the pit of her stomach, tying knots rivalled by the best of scouts. Hyosung grasps for the right way, the correct way, for an act of contrition to find its way upon the damned (she blames it partially for the bad blood; after all, albeit progressive, technology has become the bane of society) mobile phone.
When the sun rises, reflections are pushed back. It is something she prides herself on, the investment of energy in all of her schedules; fatigue is nothing in comparison to the reward received from doting fans. But it means she has little time to focus on anything other than short term. And so days are ephemeral snapshots of acting, presenting and performing.
Today, she films for Beauty Bible; blonde hair scraped into a high bun – a hairstyle unobtainable for a while after the sudden crop-cut during a comeback – whilst adorning a choker, striking contrast against the velvet material and her own milky flesh. She quite fond of the full frontal fringe that falls over her eyes ever-so-slightly when expressions are pulled (needless to say, that’s more often than not) and through the bustling halls, filled with crew and co-workers and people she greets but is never quite sure of their actual profession, she frequently admires her reflection from the dulled surface of her locked phone.
Matters of appearance transcend into dwindling insignificance, a jolt of ambiguity collides with the consciousness of a chronic daydreamer when greetings are exchanged by those surrounding – a warning to abandon fantasies in order to avoid misunderstandings, scandals and all those terminologies idol’s fear in place of the plague – and she’s quick to grace the newly acquainted with a gummy grin. Apparition of nights’ wonderment appear; wisps of hair golden pale in hue and those melancholic eyes with pupils like glossy ink drops on chocolate brown satin came to sight the same way in which lightening hits earth: in a flash.
Kim Taeyeon, the phantom of inundating guilt, stood plain as day before her. Instincts’ lead to a locked jaw, stoic and stony contortion of the face foreign in feelings and the periodic anxious clenching of small, balled fists. On overdrive is her mind, and all those nocturnal preparations of verbalized regrets dissolve into clouds of perplexity, tangled headphones in pockets that somehow cannot seem to be undone. It isn’t such a stretch to brand what ensues as a small miracle, for Hyosung herself is startled by the calamity in lack of communication. All exchange looks of the inquisitive nature; something clearly not right. Forced upon her features is a compressed smile of salutations, closed, thin lips. In contrast to famed flashes of gums (after all, the aura of mirth one which has become synonymous with the singer), this grin would fall better under the category of a grimace.
“Ah, Taeyeon…!”
She isn’t the most eloquent of womenfolk, but the mechanical tone lapsing into abrupt halt conveys what the curious eyes prepare to predict. What next, she’s unaware of how to proceed. So she freezes; daft empty smile painted on her otherwise thunderstruck face. What is one to expect with no forewarnings of the sort?
