𝘉𝘓𝘜𝘌 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘓𝘋 [ 𝘯.𝘫𝘮 ]
⧏ restart at prologue || redirect to playlist ⧐
synopsis — this is how you fall in love.
✧ na jaemin x (fem.) reader, strangers to lovers, college au, next door neighbor au.
✧ genres — the usual fluff to angst to fluff. word count — 16.8k!
✧ disclaimers — profanity, mentions of food, illegal and legal (u.s.) alcohol consumption, peer pressure, parental apathy, insinuations of sex and sexual activities, quarantine depression, people not wearing masks / not social distancing, a sexist middle-aged man, violence in the form of physical and instrumental aggression, minor hospitalization. nothing sexually explicit whatsoever.
✧ author’s note — with this piece released, i can finally say that i’ve peaked. the whole five month, on and off, writing process was worth it every step of the way and i know that it shows in the quality of writing. little miss ree is back at it again! as always, fix yourself a cup of tea and get toasty in the sheets because this one might just fuck you up.
✧ 01 — WHO IS THAT GIRL I SEE? ( ~ STARING STRAIGHT BACK AT ME ~ )
you fail to understand how a second-year psychology major and a first-year business major could possibly share a class, even though the class in question is 'chinese culture i.' yet, you know it for truth when the girl who's taken the seat to your left nudges you by the elbow and decides that, "isn't he hot?" is the most fitting line to start up a friendship. it also comes to your knowledge that the only reason she'd said that was because you were quite unashamedly studying the leather-clad back of the boy seated two rows down and three seats to the right.
folding your hands together brings a decisive end to your unrequited staring contest and the girl beside you retrieves her laptop from the powder pink sleeve she had tucked under her arm. the side glance you point her way emanates in apprehension as you watch the girl set a disposable starbucks cup, large in size, beside her powering-on macbook. the napkin wrapped around the cup clings to the sweat of the ice cold caramel frappuccino (with extra whipped cream piled on top) and just like that, you decide that whoever she may be, she isn't your cup of tea. still, tolerating her is your best bet at making friends on your first day of the newest chapter of your life.
you rush to turn on your own computer as she clacks in her ridiculously long password with those ridiculously long acrylics that, evidently, she's let grow out for far too long. what you assume to be the middle finger of her right hand pokes at the enter button with resounding finality and you turn towards her as she speaks again, her tone seeped within a sigh. "man, i missed him."
that's when you learn that the girl beside you, whose name is soojin as you also learn, is a year older than you while jaemin, your next door neighbor and designated campus 'hottie,' is two years older. "he took a gap year," she explains with very distinct gesticulations that has her fake fingernails all up in your face. you don't bat an eye the whole while. if anything, you're almost accustomed to her strong demeanor and aren't nearly as surprised as you should be when she asks you to accompany her to a party later in the day. the party that'd become your first official college-status party.
it's loud and it's gross and it's everything that pop culture's made it out to be. soojin introduces you to all her girl friends that all have the same baby tees, the same lashes from the same boutique, and a month-old manicure. their skirts are small, their dresses short, which only further confirms what you'd came prepared for because there you are, in a tiny tiny dress, downing burning shots of alcohol mixtures and sticking your chest out as you toss your head back to laugh at some dumb, made-up story that your new friend, haeun, has been drunkenly prattling on about for the last twenty minutes. you fit in perfectly, and as terrible as it sounds, you've never felt more relieved in your life.
one by one, the girls get picked up and thrown over the shoulders of angry boyfriends or some gruff-looking senior that needs a quick fuck upstairs. none of them display any sort of objection and in fact, it almost seems like they were waiting for it. like the whole night, they've been rooted in their one spot on the arm of the couch, or the corner of the coffee table, eye-fucking some man across the room until he became fed up enough with his own stationary position by the drink's table and came to scoop her up for their routinely intercourse, the nicest way to put it.
and even though your unexperienced self has certainly not been eye-fucking anyone from your position on the floor, there's a certain degree of expectancy that comes with simply being around them when you feel a tap on your shoulder from behind, the same expectancy that diminishes with jaemin's sober eyes that come into view as you turn. he holds a hand out and you take it, feathers flaunting in pride when hoots and hollers arise from the select few girls that remain, none of which you personally know.
taking his hand, he yanks you towards him with a surprising amount of force that contradicts the patient smile he's sporting. such force that he's employed has you almost instinctively pushing him in retaliation when he leans and whispers, low and steady and right above your ear, "why are you on the floor? it's dirty and half your ass is out."
you object, but only verbally because you let him tug you along, "and why is that any of your business?" it takes a few minutes of inebriated steps through the throng of sweltering bodies for you to realize that he's headed for the door.
you're seated on the front steps, eyes trailing his every move as he busies with shrugging his blue-wash denim jacket from his shoulders and tossing it across your own, as he folds in the right of his shirt that's lifted from its tuck, and as he lowers himself down onto the spot beside you. only then does he give a response to the question you'd asked earlier, and even then, it's half-hearted, "because...because you're gonna get yourself into something you don't want to be in if you keep acting like that."
reiterating, "and why would that be anything of your concern?"
jaemin leans back on both his palms, eyes flickering to the street before him and then to his side. the long glance he's subjected you to sends shudders down your spine and before you can follow through with complying to your desires and slipping away from his presence, he relents, "fine. it's not my problem and maybe i shouldn't have dragged you out here to tell you stuff that you clearly don't wanna hear," and you agree with his words, but only up until then for he goes on to say, "but y/n, i don't like seeing you stoop so low for attention. and i'd hate it if you got fucked by some fly you attracted with that ass of yours, especially since it's your first day of colle—"
"and especially since the way i present myself and the way i want to live my life has absolutely nothing to do with you."
he shuts up at that, mouth closing before it attracts any flies of its own. you return the long glance you were given but replace the patronizingly patient smile with a scowl that's apparent as day in the flickering porch light. ripping your eyes from his hardened and frankly unreadable gaze, you click your tongue before stamping your heel to stand and, ignoring the slight sways your body has incorporated into its motor functions, you take your leave with no thought of how to get home; the party you'd just ditched had been hosted at some suburban house in the outskirts of the downtown district, meaning you don't even know where you are, to be exact.
your uber arrives around the time that you've completed your third lap around a nearby park, skin at the backs of both ankles bleeding and staining the sheeny nude of your new heels. the slam that you've shut the door with says much about your irritated state of mind. picking at the skin around your nails, you sneer at the thought of your hand in his, you regard his words with a heart full of contempt, and whatever considerate pointers he thought he gave with good intentions were painted with the same scowl that's yet to leave your face.
you don't bother to look in the direction of the gold '401' that gleams only a few feet away from your '402' on the wall. even the image of his front door lights a fitful of sour expressions that you're met with in the reflection. you watch the girl in the mirror slip off her heels and kick them to the side. you watch as she stares right back at you with these circles that hang from her eyes; they droop further the longer you stare. you watch as she rakes a few fingers through her disheveled hair, brushes a few fingers across where her mascara's been smudged. she's not nearly on the brink of tears but you fear that she couldn't seem any sadder, more disappointed in what she's come to see in herself.
head failing to hold its weight, she chunks through her thoughts like an algorithm chunks through probabilities. it's puzzling, what is it that has her feeling so warm in the coldest hour of night? is it the faux fur rug that splays beneath her bare bruised feet? the close walls of her studio entrance caging her breaths? the overhanging light that casts her shadow long?
straining her neck upright to catch a final glimpse of the girl in the mirror, she remembers with a part of her lips and the easing of the crease that knit her brows. she remembers the blue-wash denim jacket that hangs safe on her shoulders, keeping her warm in the coldest hour of night.
✧ 02 — GOOD MORNING, CATNIP
it's a habit garnered over time for jaemin to purchase a fair-sized bouquet of flowers once a week. he despises the romanticization of reserving flowers for a lover—though one might argue that he himself is the embodiment of romanticization—and so he gifts them to himself. he is his own lover, if you will. this week procures a simple bouquet of white gardenias girdled with bundles of baby's breath. he'd chosen it for himself, head ducking the questioning gaze of the granny at the register. with the curious amalgam of trust and compassion in hand, he pulls tight at the bow of rough twine that holds the stems and the newspaper scrappings in place. tucking the blooms under an arm, he leans into the door to his next stop of the morning, the bell tinkering as it falls shut behind him.
jaemin buys himself a stick of salted butter and a loaf of sliced focaccia bread, the one with pockets of cheddar garlic that the corner bodega sells as a wednesday special. he knows well enough that he's the first customer of the morning, he always is, but as he collects the change that's slid across the counter, head turning to the door with his body soon to follow, he's surprised to see that the second is already upon entering.
he's even more surprised to see that it's you. jaemin finds himself loitering for a bit, the coins and the stick of butter now jostling in the front pocket of his sweatshirt as his arms see to a bouquet of flowers and a loaf of bread, each to each. petulantly, he tails behind you, close enough to be distinguished as company yet more than a wingspan of distance from your heels. you're not nearly as mad at jaemin as you let on, the frustrations blew over after a night of mitigating sleep that'd soothed your drunken temper. perhaps you were only so riled up that night because of how inebriated you barely recall to have been, you don't know, you didn't think about it much, but you put on a face of impassivity if only to mess with him.
turning back around, you reach for a packaged sandwich without much mind, ears perking as the boy from beside speaks up in your silence. "i like your outfit," is what he says and you halt in your actions, eyes stilling where they had been skimming the nutrition facts with feigned interest. briefly (though it doesn't elude his attention), you glance down at the thin midi skirt you've paired with a weeks-unwashed cornflower blue hoodie, scrunching your nose at the visible tea stain at the hem. your laconic, "thank you," should have been enough to ward off whatever else he was set to throw your way but he only furthers, "apologies, i should have said 'good morning' first," to which you find yourself suppressing a chuckle to.
wary, you set the sandwich down and reach for a bottled yogurt drink in its stead, one you recognize from your hometown mart and the one you were initially here to buy upon noticing it during your first grocery run after moving. jaemin moves along the aisle as you pick up and set down various items, all of which you do not intend to purchase. coming to a half in front of the wall of alcoholic beverages at the back of the shop, you ignore the baffled look he's sure to be sporting before acquiescing to his unsaid questions with an answer that satisfies none of them, "good morning to you too."
the modern times, fruitlands canned beer catches your eye, it's the one your crazy cool aunt always brings to family gatherings and you almost reach for it before a lurking employee rounds the corner and you're reminded that at your age, the most you can do is stare. jaemin, on the other hand, has had enough of stifling his own chuckle and it emits right as you reroute to the neighboring snack aisle. he lingers back for a moment, allows himself the pleasure of smiling back when you peer in questioning over the separating shelves. that in itself is enough to forefend whatever tensions had been brewing between the two of you.
jaemin's chin is just above your shoulder, peering over as you check out. the beverage and the two bags of chips total to seven dollars and you pay with a ten whilst the boy from behind rushes to get to the exit first. but upon realizing that he lacked the hands needed to pull the door open, you willingly accept his flower arrangement with your own extra hand. (laziness had overcame and cajoled you to slip another dollar for a plastic bag to carry everything.) a light breeze picks up the second you're out the door, jaemin in tow, and pivoting halfway brings you and him face to face with a hand outstretched to return the bouquet.
he almost accepts it just as willingly as you had, an arm had already made it a third of the way, before his mouth decisively takes lead. jaemin shakes his head, hand falling back down to his side and the beginnings of a smile taking place, "keep it."
maybe it would've been more polite to attempt refusing the offer at least once, a greater show of gratitude than the minimal, "okay," that you've responded with. at this point, you've long forgotten that your allotted play on impassivity has came and went with the tides of your exchange. it's now that you leave it behind.
jaemin finds himself hastening to press the crosswalk button for the two of you every time you come to a halt at an intersection; he chalks it up to your full hands. jaemin thinks that if the sidewalk congestion were to pick up anytime soon, he would have to sidle over and sling an arm around your shoulder; he chalks it up to not wanting to lose you in such a crowd. and when jaemin sees his (and your) apartment complex coming into view not a block away, he finds himself wishing that he'd never pressed the crosswalk buttons at all, if just to spend a few more seconds listening to you blather on about your introductory accounting class (you seem to have much to say about how much you despise the professor already).
and when his front door clicks shut behind him, jaemin feels that he's only now starting to appreciate how the walls are paper thin, for not a second after he hears your own door shut, you've hit what sounds to be a set of drawers or the leg of a chair, and the strained wail you give is enough to get him smiling like a dumbfounded, though very besotted, idiot.
what little he knows of you has him strung high, held at the nape by the hands of something he knows he has no control over. unfortunate, for jaemin falls so easily, clumsily, as if he'd seen it coming and had already outstretched his arms in anticipation of hitting the cold, unforgiving ground with full force. it's unfortunate because to him, you're like catnip. and he might just play around with you until he loses interest.
✧ 03 — SWEET, DAINTY, AND READY TO STOMP ON PATRIARCHY
your eyes have been open for far too long, you're convinced of that with how your contacts seem to be dry plastered to the surface. this girl, mina, has half her weight upon you and you struggle to keep her upright as you fish for your phone with an unoccupied left hand. breaking out into open night, you find the metal and uncased back of your phone fares far colder than the streaks of wind that curl their way around your unclothed (for the most part, sheesh) legs.
the uber you've called comes in fourteen minutes and in that time, you've righted the girl upon your other side so that your right hand could handle the situation with a more practiced dexterity. mina's no longer mumbling incoherently, now that the door's shut behind you and the driver's swerved onto the crammed main road; it seems that the sudden breaks and acceleration of the nightly traffic have lulled her to sleep.
heedful of the lingering gazes that the driver, male and middle-aged, subjects you to from his angle of the rearview mirror, something inside you desperately wishes that you were the one that was asleep. you turn away, forfeiting the will to voice your unease at the brink of exhaustion.
your forehead pressed into the car window is bound to leave a nasty oil mark. you've sweated all night, toiled, labored to keep that silly smile on your face. and for every smile, smirk, wink you gave in the duration of the night, you now repent with a frown, groan, sigh through the early morning hours.
here in the backseat, you gather the fragments of what tonight has left you and looking carefully, you realize there isn't much. your body feels as heavy as it feels light and at the core of your stomach knots a rabble of dead butterflies that once flew free. when the driver comments on your appearance, a tacky pickup line in tow, you give him a nod and a mumbled thank you. there isn't anything in you that's willing to put up a fight for you've already been at odds with yourself all night long.
you drag mina all the way into her sheets though you know she won't remember enough to offer you a bare thank you, much less remember who you are. having to strangle her drunk and resistant self into bed made it so as you returned back outside the dorm, the driver had already took off despite how 'sweet and dainty' he thought you looked. slipping your heels off, you walk back to your apartment in your itty-bitty skirt, paying no mind to the whistlers and hollerers that so often preyed upon 'sweet, dainty' young girls after dark.
your phone is on silent, you've made sure of it, but that doesn't stop the incessant lighting of your screen as notification after notification surfaces. so-and-so tagged you in a post, so-and-so dm-ed you, follow request, liked your post, liked your post, added you into here and mentioned you here. you get drunk on the thought of being in the limelight, yet you're drowned in isolation the moment you sober up. and on nights like these, as frequent as they have come to be, you seek after your consolation on the rusted grail of your fire escape, adjacent of a certain someone's.
"you're still up at this hour?"
"yes."
"do you have class tomorr—today?"
"yes."
and then hesitantly… "did you have fun tonight?"
"no."
jaemin takes your monosyllables with an eyeful of surmise. he doesn't push it and hopes his solidarity is just as much present in his silence. if anything, the way you've lowered your back down onto the upper steps of your fire escape tells much of your reluctance to converse with him. that is his belief for you to contradict. "jaemin?"
"yes?"
spangled upon the cleavage you've left for any and all eyes to feast upon are a disco-balled assemblage of lights, filtered through the grated slats of the upper steps you were lain below. he thinks you look lovely this way, scintillating though shadowed, raw though clothed. jaemin keeps the thoughts to himself, holding his breath to remind him that they aren't for you to hear and only for him to think.
jaemin might faint in the tight guard of his breaths for the fabrication of your own thoughts into words comes slow, as anything might in the hour of four. the streets below hold only two or three streams of vehicles, the moon takes her time traversing from one end of the earth to the other, and as languidly as you can, you place the words in your mouth one by one.
"i'm lonely as fuck."
swallowing, you prop yourself up on your elbows to gain leverage with your combating inner voices by means of his encouraging eyes, affectionate eyes. in the split second between your last and next word, you decide that you like his eyes, or at least the way he looks at you with them. the instilled sense of belonging that comes with meeting them with your own.
"but why is it that some people only make me feel lonelier instead of...accompanied?"
jaemin lets his resumed breaths even out before venturing for an answer. he could say many things. 'because you get along with some people more than others,' or 'because not everyone can provide the presence that you need,' or 'because you just aren't associating yourself with the right people' but he finds that none of them really encapsulate the situation at hand. he barely knows you, what can he possibly say that you would take to heart any more than the first three pinterest-derived quotes that come up when you key in the same question you just asked?
so he lets the reinstated evenness of his breaths predicate the wanderings of his mind, trusting that his offerings could hold some, any worth in the haggard sighs you've been concealing all the while. he trusts that he has something, anything that he could use to comfort you, though your ailments unbeknownst and his means yet to be discovered. jaemin rides on intuition when he peers past the fog that screen between his thoughts and his vision to see that you've thrown your sights elsewhere, distractedly, indolently.
and so he starts, "look at me."
you comply.
"y/n, tell me about you."
"what?"
"tell me all about you, i wanna know everything."
"why d- what do you mean by everything?"
jaemin doesn't mean to smile. but what choice does he have when he's the object of your attention? really, it only widens as he rambles on, gesticulations in hand, "just like...you, you and your lucky number, and your least favorite food, and the color you like to see most in the sky, and— and, i don't know, which of your parents you secretly like better."
"i— uhh okay. uhm," you've since forgoed the use of your elbows, sitting up attentively as you retrace the list he'd given. "my lucky number's four," you count it off with a finger, "i hate eating anything orange," another finger, "and uhh, i think blue looks nice, just blue," a third finger, "and as for my parents," your hand drops, "i don't know." you utter the last with such sureness that contradicts the unsure nature of the words itself.
jaemin knows, but he doesn't push it, "fine by me." and your eyes make their way back to his. they're lined in a sort of understanding and some other peculiarity you've yet to get a grasp on, perhaps that's why you like them so much. he muses now, a little something that everyone always puts out there, but he'd shrug at its frequency because he genuinely wishes to know. "what's your dream then?"
and as common a question it may be, its predecessors you've answered, your remnant tipsy and worn out state, and your ever-growing fondness for the boy has your brows furrowed in thought. you've no idea how you stumbled upon this specific of an answer to his inquiry — maybe it really is a dream of yours that you've unearthed in this unprecedented moment — and you find yourself drawling out your deliberations, laying them thinly before him, "my dream is to go dinnerware shopping with the love of my life."
jaemin has the gall to laugh, or what comes in the form of a chuckle cut short by a disapproving tilt of your head on your end. he collects himself and in the place of the laugh that barely sounded, jaemin deadpans, "really." and you've never been more diligent in clapping back, "yes really! i can't believe i told you my lifelong dream and you laugh."
he doesn't know what it is with him but that's the exact sentence that sets it off for good, his peals of laughter rippling full and warm in his chest and inciting a similar aftermath in your own disposition. first, it's the curve of a betraying corner of your lips. then, perhaps the other corner felt a little lonely. finally, your smile comes in full bloom. you wish it would stop there but with your smile comes jaemin's laugh and with his laugh comes a certain helplessness that has you laughing alongside him, cut clean of whatever composure had held you back in the first place.
insanity has it so that two people, one very much deranged and the other almost in the likes, squeeze on the steps of their neighboring fire escapes, basking in either the conjoined limbs of their laughter or in the light of the promising sun. and only when the sun begins to cast a shadow across the lines of your face does insanity give way to its own neighbor, love.
nimbly, you fiddle with the hem of your skirt, in wonderment of how that smile refused to make its way off your face as long as jaemin's remained on his. you shake your head at that and leave a thought for him to supply.
"what was all that for?"
and as if it were no wonder, he simply shrugs, "to accompany you."
✧ 04 — THE ENCYCLOPEDIA OF ALL HUMAN GESTURES
soojin hands out dirty looks like it's her job to issue free coupons and it seems that on this fateful day, you're the designated recipient. to add to that, she doesn't bother to keep the hiss out of her voice when she...hisses, "why didn't you tell me you knew him?" to which you shrug, "i didn't think it mattered." her eyebrows must be in pain for how long they've stayed scrunched like that, though yours assume the same position when she takes hold of the cup in your hand, bringing it to her nose for a whiff.
the inner-workings of your mind sincerely wish that she doesn't take a sip; you'd hate for even a smidgen of her cherry red lipstick to stain where you'd be drinking from but to your relief, soojin merely places the cup back in your hand, a disdained glower taking shape as she mutters, "ugh, tea. no wonder he gave it to you." unwelcome, albeit brief, soojin exaggerates her point with a scene of fake gagging, stopping her tracks in bafflement as she watches you take a sip. "wha— why would you drink that?!"
you set it down on the table before she can slap it out of your hands (as you're sure she would). and complacently, you offer, "because it would be rude if i didn't at least make a show of drinking it." soojin nods at that — your complacency with her antics has yet to fail you — and begins to say something along the lines of a, "that's true, don't want to give him the wrong idea when he's sitting right there," when the professor barges in with ragged breaths to be reckoned with at an age like his.
the remnants of the tea have gone cold by the time class is about to come to a close, and past the time it does, there's none left. you glance up to an empty lecture hall, (soojin had ditched immediately after attendance was called), and you revert your eyes back onto your laptop screen, trying to tie up your notes with whatever last thoughts lingered. concentration turned to the max, the pattering of incessant typing masks the sound of steps that come your way and by the time you happen to notice, your laptop has been folded shut and you're in the midst of packing away your belongings.
"how was the tea?"
you almost swing your bag at him in surprise, "oh for fuck's sake jaemin! there's no need to creep up on me." sipping on the last third of his four shot espresso, he swallows whilst shooting you a bashful grin and nothing else. jaemin takes your backpack by its straps before you can even reach for it, the bashful grin waning to reveal more of a kind-eyed smile. "well..." you start, a few steps behind as he heads for the exit, "it was good, just how i like it."
neither of you ask or answer but the dialogue is written in the way he beckons you, one hand on the open door of his car and the other gesturing you inside. it's told soundlessly in the way you slip in with a smile instead of a 'thanks' and it's smeared all over the way he doesn't tell you a thing about where you're off to, if anywhere at all. 'is this a date?' you don't dare to question aloud. 'it's a date,' jaemin doesn't dare to audibly reply.
how else could you classify an outing to the local record shop with snail-shaped cinnamon rolls in hand? one second you're looking over a copy of a 1975 vintage a charlie brown christmas LP with mild interest and the next, it's in jaemin's right hand as the left hand reaches for his pocketed wallet and as his feet carry him towards the register. suddenly he's become deaf to your "no's" and your "i don't really need it's" which soon turn into "thank you's" and "i'll pay you back's." now tell me, how is this not a date?
you're humming along to some pop song the radio's blasting when jaemin pulls over alongside the curb of your shared apartment complex. while you're busying with your belongings, school bag and all, jaemin rushes over to your side of the car and tugs open the door for you, a very standard gentlemanly action on his part. you, contrarily, almost have the audacity to form a scoff, but your audacity falls forth into a deep churn of fondness when the hand of yours he's taken is brought to his lips, his eyes steady on yours. feigning disgust, you retract your hand, only to find it folded into his own not a second after.
shutting the door behind you and double checking the lock, you release the carried tension of your muscles as you slide down the yellow-painted backside, elbow hitting the door knob along the way. your bag, slung from the same elbow, hits the floor first, followed by the rest of your weight and then you're slumped with your legs splaying before you like a doll when forgotten in the shadow of adulthood. shallow breaths even themselves and you begin to collect the little fragments of your mind that sit unprocessed amidst the chest-pounding, blush-inducing, and heart-fluttering you've been subjected to ever since you'd met a certain boy named jaemin.
you hold to your heart your hardened knuckles, lined with the ghost of his lips. and when that isn't enough, you bring them up to your own. there's traces of a sort of longing that you've yet to place a name on; hand to your lips, you find that even when your mind tries to trick yourself into thinking they are his, they ring of a bitterness in the remembrance that it was once his in their place. it's then that you realize you've landed yourself upon your favorite act of adoration, your favorite in the encyclopedia of all human gestures.
the arrival of fall marks the anticipation of fall break, thanksgiving, then the 100 meter sprint to winter break, christmas. tis the season to love and to be loved, for when you'd complained to jaemin on the ride back that buying the LP was for naught since you weren't in possession of a record player in the first place, he'd shaken his head and simply tucked it under an arm, taking it back to his own place as if he hadn't actually bought it for you. tis the season for humming along to far too early christmas music blaring sleazily through the paper-thin wall that rises between you and him. tis the season to live out your inner hallmark christmas movie: suburb girl meets city boy, business major meets psychology major, unit 402 meets 401, bumps into each other at the local mart, flowers that found their way from the hand of one to the other.
so that every time he buys himself a bouquet of flowers he'll think of buying them for you, and every time you brew yourself a fresh cup of tea, you'll think of receiving a cup from him. whatever lines you seem to draw between the two of you only seem to amplify the longing that ensures you maintain eye contact for a second longer and submit to his every gesture of chivalry. he courts you as if you were a maiden from the middle ages and not, in fact, a modern woman. na jaemin is consistent, he is sturdy, sound, secure, and you want to give in to the comfort you've never sought for in anyone else. you want to build a home out of him.
✧ 05 — YOUR TURN
you don't know how, or why, it is that you always end up here. the metal is a little colder, a trace of early winter perhaps, and it sears a little different than what you're used to, a little more scarring, begging for your attention. fisting and unfisting your hands gives them no warmth; it's the kind of night where the wind drops the temperature with bitter breeze, reluctant to give into the quiet night. yeah, you're at a loss on why you would step out here at all.
perhaps the boy just across from you has a thing or two to say about it. his shirt hangs thin under a thick leather jacket, open nonetheless, and his posture leans slack on the steps, legs outstretched and nonchalant. you, on the other hand, at the precipice of shivering, take it upon yourself to start up the conversation this night, "why don't you just come over? aren't you cold?"
he shakes his head, at which question exactly you're unsure, and you take from that to perceive his disposition as quiet for the night. startled at first, you've long become accustomed to his 'mood swings' that come day by day. it'd be a sunny morning and he'd mask his temperament with curt nods and taciturn speech just like how it's now a starry night and he isn't much different.
there's a few things you've come to know about na jaemin. one: he's picky with his friends. they're either close or they're just not friends which makes it particularly hard to decipher where you fall, if not in between. two: he's rich, to an almost filthy extent. not that he boasts about it but his bmw, which you frequent, and the tiny 'gucci' emblem on his wallet say a lot on their own. you wonder why he's living in a studio apartment instead of a penthouse and you wonder why he even bothers to take the bus at times. other times, you think it's only because you take the bus. he's not exactly keen on hiding his…crush — or whatever sophisticated term college people use — on you and you're not the type to be completely oblivious to how he acts around you and also how he spea— no, flirts with you. which leads you to three: na jaemin is known to be the quintessential campus 'hottie' but also the campus 'playboy.' and though you know enough of him to agree with the former and counter the latter, you can't help but take into account what else you'd heard, albeit from haeun.
records of his past relationships are plentiful but never overlapping. he goes after girls one by one, quite devotedly at that, unfailingly running through the same four pit stops: courting, dating, fucking, nothing. what seems to be the start of a healthy, fulfilling relationship always ends up in a dwindling friends with benefits situation. you'd asked her why and haeun only shrugged, "he likes playing with girls that way. i'm guessing you're his next victim."
you'd squinted your eyes at her in a nonsensical confusion, "victim?" bitterly, haeun threw back another shot of diluted vodka. setting it down, she moved to leave with a sort of soberness you'd never seen in her eyes, not in class, not before parties, not at the twenty-four-hour mcdonald's after parties. leaning in to sail her voice across the blaring speakers up above, you caught the stilted smile she pulled before tonelessly muttering, "you think i like being drunk all the time?" she was two steps away, already out of earshot, before you could call her back to ask.
to ask her if whatever you were getting yourself into was worth it. to ask her if he'd done the same to her, gifting flowers, drinks, rides, smiles, touches, some more touches. she was gone before you could ask if it was normal to still feel this way after knowing.
but looking at him now, you think you could answer that for her.
"jaemin," as if his eyes weren't already on yours, attention trained solely on you, "tell me...tell me about you."
"me?" he has a husky voice, the kind that's only reserved to when he's tired or freshly woken up, the one a.m. kind of voice. he has the kind of voice you wish you weren't attracted to. "yes, you."
"what about me do you want to know?"
you give a moment of decisiveness until you come to this: "i want to know about your first love."
jaemin's countenance remains unfazed at this question you've popped, there's no smile, no nod of acknowledgement, nothing to tell that he may be uncomfortable in answering but his brief answer tells of much anyways. "i was in high school," is about as far as he gets before trailing off and tapering with a, "and it was a pretty bad breakup."
what you're not expecting is for him to revert back to, "what about you?" and you have the gall to look him straight in the eye and say straight to his face, "i've never been in love." he asks you, "why not?" you shrug, "just never felt loved, that's all."
with the silence that's made its appearance right after your statement, you can tell that he's just about ready to call it a night. it's right when you're thinking the thought that jaemin starts out, slow and deliberate in the forming of each word. "if i met you back in high school, maybe even middle school, everything would be so different now, don't you think?"
a tilt of your head, "how so? you didn't know me at sixteen."
he shakes his head, light in humor, but his tone is seeped in conviction, "all those years of— of you wanting to be loved and me loving too much," jaemin swallows, licks his lips, blinks languidly, "i didn't know you at sixteen, but i wish i did."
✧ 06 — SEEING TRIPLE
there's this thing you'll come to know, sooner or later in your life, that while kindergarteners are taught to tell of four seasons — spring, summer, autumn, and winter — you've come to know of a fifth called na jaemin. you live perpetually under the skies of his gazes, the winds of his voice, the rays of his smiles. but the thing is, you've no idea when the seasons even began to change.
well it began in class, a little under a month ago, that in the corner of your eye, you saw the chair angled slightly in your direction as he pulled out the seat to your left; your suspicions told you it was so he could be an inch closer. and then it was a week or so ago with his hand clasped tight in yours, swinging as he pulled you around the mall to find the pair of shoes you'd mentioned in passing a few days back. and then the calendar marks today when he'd stopped you in your tracks just outside your last class, ditching his teasing friends to accompany you home. right up to the moment the pair of you arrive back to your respective residences, the most recent of his laughters still fresh and ringing in your ears.
hand on the wall to keep you steady, you rushedly shuffle off your sneakers, subsequently sprinting across the room in fast steps, tossing your bagful of textbooks and notes onto the bed as you pass. one hand capping the new lipgloss you've just applied to your bottom lip, the far left window is swung open and to your equal parts dismay and delight, the boy you've just parted with is already there, a snarky "beat you" rolling off the tip of his tongue.
you talk to him and you know that he is listening. he tells you of a little something different he's sees on your lips and you remark, "is it that noticeable?" and all he has to say is, "not particularly, i think i just look at you too much." and then a sudden warmth floods your cheeks and then he smiles a little more and then you exchange glances after avoiding each others gazes for the past four seconds and then and then and then...
then you'll drift off to sleep later in the night, window open, with the same thoughts of the same boy plaguing whatever it was you'd studied the hour before, you don't remember what exactly. and it's then that your nightly paracosms are dreamt and dreamt and dreamt until they can no longer be contained by mere imagination but have been forced into reality. for when you awaken and his loving smile is the first thing that comes to mind, you know for certain that all you want, all you desire is more and more and more.
suddenly the words that come out of your mouth are no longer english when talking to him, and what he hears is this language that only he understands. what you knew of love languages falls short when neither of yours can be confined to simply 'physical touch' or 'acts of service' because the language you speak encompasses much more than just a mutual feeling. it becomes a mentality by which every little thing is perceived, an umwelt of sorts that only you and him are privy to.
to the left of your ears, soojin cups her hand as if she were to whisper but speaks rather loudly anyways. "i assume you guys have been fucking around." and to that you give her a sheepish smile paired with no audible answer, reluctant to flat out lie to her face. it's then that jaemin chooses to direct a glance towards you, the corner of his lip lifting when your eyes meet. soojin recaptures your attention as she muses on, "lucky you."
and indeed, lucky is how you feel when you are still the object of his attention even when you have looked away. when he comes to a stop right by your side as soon as the lecture ends, your side and no one else's, special is what he makes of you. to be the girl that jaemin chooses to spend his mornings, afternoons, and nights with is what makes you stand apart from the crowd. and of all the new faces he came back to see this year, jaemin wanted to admire yours, he wanted to hold your hand, and it's you that he reaches out to steady when the turbulent bus jostles you all around.
in a way, it's jaemin that hushes and feeds your deep-rooted thirst for attention. mitigating it yet simultaneously making you addicted to his presence, so much so that if he were to leave you alone for even a fraction of a day, you'd ache in places you've never known. and indeed, you might never know seeing as how day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute you are already so preoccupied with his eyes, and then his lips, and the heights of his cheekbones, and his long lashes. you can imagine how hard it'd be to see past it all. because na jaemin fills you so completely, silencing your needs and replacing them with himself, so that the only thing you find yourself returning to at the beginning and end of everyday is him. again, and again, and again.
✧ 07 — THE END OF THE BEGINNING
na jaemin is about as blunt as it gets. he's the type of person who says things just as he feels and thus, always has something to say. but with that being said, na jaemin is also having a inexplicably hard time replying to this one text.
in short, it reads: coming? but if jaemin were to expatiate further, he'd start by commenting on the picture accompanying the single-worded question. objectively, he doesn't mind it. you look nice in that dress, the sweetheart neckline and the thin black fabric teetering on the skimpy side. he has no problem with that, nor does he have a problem with the shot glass in your hand. what he does have a problem with is the fact that it was sent by someone you don't even know, nor is he close with. his phone screen auto locks after staring for too long and upon turning it back on, he's met with the time. —11:32 PM
jaemin's apartment is dark when he thrusts open the front door, the stopper hitting the wall behind with such force that has it shaking. whereas he was only mildly irritated before, his frustration is now strung high with how he'd forgotten his car keys in his initial rush to get out the house, as if taking the bus would be a viable option with how tight he is on time. jaemin utters a single, "fuck," because again in his rush, he'd forgotten to switch on the lights. the darkness is making it hard to distinguish what exactly he's grabbing at, seeing as he's now fumbling with the contents of the top drawer. brow knitting, regrets pile onto each other.
double checking his pockets this time, jaemin takes a second to make sure that he has his wallet and phone before shutting the car door. it's been a while since he last drove — frequenting the bus a lot more with no reason other than you — and the feeling of cold leather beneath his fingers evokes an awoken familiarity. pulling out, the same fingers part from the wheel to key in the address. at this time of year, this day of the week, this time of the day, the streets are congested to no avail. jaemin finds his eyes transfixed on the perpetually stationary car in front of him. cold leather to warm, his fingers have tapped their way into a halt as the same car pulls up a good seven feet before settling again. following in suit, jaemin wonders that if driving isn't the most efficient, perhaps running would be a better candidate against time. —11:48 PM
he gets there just fine, seated in his car, for penthouse parties are never too far if you live in the heart of the city. it's only now that he runs the length from his parked car to the lobby elevator, ignoring the stares of bewildered loiterers. between his heavy pants, jaemin registers the ding before the elevator doors open in sequence and when he hurries out, he finds himself caught in a horde of college students, all dressed to the nines and all heavily intoxicated. heart pounding, he claws his way through the cacophony of clinking glasses, loud laughter and shuffling feet, only to find that though the foyer, living room, and kitchen are all preoccupied to the max, you're nowhere to be seen.
ten. jaemin gives a tight smile to some girl from his anatomy class, prying off her fingers that had roped their way around his wrist. nine. jaemin ducks the spray of champagne from his left, brushing off any residue that might've made its way onto the shoulders of his leather jacket. eight. jaemin approaches a girl with a similar silhouette, tapping her on the shoulder and apologizing promptly when met with an unfamiliar face. seven. jaemin thinks he almost got himself laid at the hands of that woman, whoever she was, who had disregarded his apology and pulled him (a little too) close. six. jaemin can still feel her threatening stare on his back as he squirms his way between a canoodling couple, another mistake of his for now there are three pairs of eyes trailing him. five. jaemin begins to doubt his chances, thinking of maybe even accepting the poorly poured glass of champagne (one-fifth champagne, four-fifths fizz) being offered to him. four. jaemin declines, rerouting to a hall he has yet to venture down; somewhere, there's a cupid nodding frantically in encouragement. three. jaemin happens upon a set of glass doors that opens up to an outdoor terrace. it's there that he finds the precise silhouette that his mind has been obsessing over all night long. two. for the first time in his life, the cupid finds that he has no use for his bow and arrow.
"jaemin? what the fuck are you do —"
one.
your mind is lost to his touch, his smell, his eyes on yours, confecting and amalgamating in the pits of your stomach, reanimating the wings of butterflies that fell limp long ago. his touch sears the lines of your back, traces the curves of your elbows, the serrations of your chapped lips, messily nudging the rise and fall of your philtrums. one moment it's elusive, the ability to part and proclaim a mistake palpable yet untouched, for the next, it's voracious, feeding a hunger that has withstood the ensnarements of time; a kiss like water to parched lips.
and it's between those moments that jaemin feels it so upfront. his fortitude surrendering before his eyes to reveal every thread of his sentiments towards you, each delicate and negligible in itself but monumental at whole. he only parts from you when the need to breathe becomes greater than the need for your lips to be on his. and even then, the distance is barely discernible, a mere exchange of heavy breaths. jaemin kisses you again, short and sweet, before drawing back to peer into your shaded eyes. he notes with a keen shrewdness that though the scent of alcohol, a sort of wine, had lingered on your breath, your eyes bled sober. he kisses you again.
and again, and again, and again until he knows for certain that you're just as drunk as he is. the kind of drunk that couldn't amount from any kind of booze. the kind that comes from staring at someone for too long and the kind that comes from seeing that same someone take the seat you've been saving for them. it comes from hearty 'good mornings' and slurred 'goodnights' shared over the cityscape and under an upstair neighbor's fire escape. it's the kind of drunk that can't help but surface when a boy leaves his second thoughts behind as he rushes like there's no tomorrow to find this girl that now has her forehead pressed against his, and her lips brushing against his as they form a, "happy new year, jaemin," with unsaid 'i love you's' ringing in his ears. —12:02 AM
✧ 08 — THE BEGINNING OF THE END
you don't remember when the words 'coronavirus' and 'quarantine' started to become part of your everyday lingo but you can imagine that the moment they did, things were never the same.
at first, you marked his passivity as simple tediousness. he looked tired, that's all. you figured his mood swings and their fickle nature were taking their time of day to roll through. one early lecture, he'd duck your glances and the next he'd play footsies with you under the table. monday afternoon and he'd let you tag along on his routine outing to the mart, then friday night and he'd bid you farewell as soon as you'd stepped upon the fire escape.
classes moved online and it was sometime then that his mood swings lengthened until the most you could get out of him were clipped greetings and facial expressions that could never be read with a mask covering half his face and a hoodie pulled down over the other half. the way you saw it, jaemin's held you at arm's distance ever since the new year's began, far enough so he could keep to himself but within reach for whenever he needed you close.
it was eight p.m. on a tuesday night and you were drinking alone, the sun long gone but you'd forgotten or neglected to turn on the lights anyways. and in the dark and quiet resounded two knocks from the wall that separated you and your troubles. from then, it was two seconds before you were out of bed, fixing your hair, pulling a hoodie over a low-cut tank. two minutes before you were out the door and a step away from the one adjacent, slipping in as soon as access had been granted like a routine that'd been practiced days, weeks, and months over.
how unsurprised you were to see, and feel, and understand how you'd played along so willingly. in truth, jaemin never asked for much; he didn't have to when you gave your all so easily. there was no satisfaction of 'i knew it' and no anger of 'how could you do this to me.' you knew that jaemin loved you, but he loved you no more than how he'd loved everyone else. in the room, in this bed, on these sheets, there was once a haeun, a mina, and a dozen names of girls you've never met and would never know. though somehow, you know exactly how they felt in this very moment.
relinquishing your hand from his chest, you opt to lay on your back instead. jaemin doesn't stir from beside you, soft snores indicating he's out for the night. and for the night, you're left to observe the outlines of his unlit room from your spot on his bed, as you're sure you've done a number of times beforehand. you make out shadows of furniture and silhouettes of belongings, all within the same layout as your own little studio. but whether it's the doing of the blatant darkness or whatever fate your relationship with him has succumbed to in such a fleeting amount of time, his place feels unbearably cold and you feel equally as unwelcome.
you can see exactly where you stand on the progression of courting, dating, fucking, nothing. and in one thought, you reasoned with why you had to be the puppet to the puppeteer and came short of nothing more logical than what you already knew. you fell in love with jaemin, the kind of love that burned like the sun that rises day in and retires day out, perpetually. whereas his love for you was born of a match, instantaneous and short-lived. and whilst you've always been ready, eager almost, to receive the adoration he once willingly showered upon you, you and him both know that he didn't have it in him to pursue anything more than that.
you didn't need him to show you the way out.
for the first time, jaemin wakes up to an empty bed. and when he logs onto his chinese culture i class 40 minutes into the lecture, the little image of you on his screen looks as unbothered as ever. he swallows thickly, wondering how long he can keep you at arm's distance, far enough to quell his unease but within reach to satiate his greed.
there's a bad taste in his mouth and as he swallows and swallows through the day; it begins to knot in his stomach, weighing him down like pebbles and later boulders of regret, confusion, and anxiety, to say the least. his last string snaps at three in the morning when he's sure you're awake — the sound of your shower had stopped only few minutes ago — but you've yet to make your appearance at his door even after his desperate four knocks on the wall above his bed.
at some point around five or six in the morning, he's given up on trying to sleep his worries away. they're not going anywhere, not when they've rooted themselves so deeply within him, and especially not when they're grown from the seeds he'd planted oh-so long ago, only now sprouting their leaves.
if there's one thing that na jaemin has always been good at, it's loving and giving and caring with all he has, until he has nothing. and if there's one thing that na jaemin has fervently avoided for the greater part of the last four years, it's loving and giving and caring with all he has, until he has nothing. and so he loves, and gives, and cares just enough so that he can protect himself with what's left, move on, and then repeat. because once upon a time, he learned a lesson that told him that loving someone with all your might doesn't mean they love you any more or any less. na jaemin was sixteen when he thought he'd moved on, when really it was then that he began running from his past.
na jaemin was twenty when he first met you, a brief lock of eyes amidst your fumbling of keys, suitcase in the other hand. he thinks that it was perhaps that exact moment, or the exchange of smiles afterwards, that got his mind working towards a new agenda. new because even though most everything he'd experienced with you was nothing short of new on paper, every glance felt stolen and every touch felt forbidden. he loved the way you loved him, unrestrained and generous, but in hindsight he knows that that was only because you'd awoken a part of him that had forgotten what that kind of love felt like.
warm. it felt warm like the sun on his bare back. your hands were always warm and your eyes were always warm, and on days where the wind would pick up a little more than usual, he'd feel the urge to wrap you around him like a warm blanket, or hold you in the palm of his hands like a cup of warm tea.
fondly, he'd come to understand that what he saw in you was liberating, yes, but it was also reflective of the teenage boy he'd scampered away from, the one that never dared to confront his feelings and capped them the moment they proved the teensiest bit overwhelming. and in that, he first recognized the difference between you and them and them and you. it was in that, that he came across the fine line that made you the outlier in all the girls he'd ever spent a night with.
to like is skin-deep, wading in shallow waters and on the precipice of being overrun with a wave. but to love is bone-deep, interminably submerged and continually in search of each other's hands amidst the bleak and unforgiving ocean floor.
and now swept within your currents, jaemin finds himself drowning.
✧ 09 — AS HE WOULD AN ORANGE
lately, it feels as if the walls of your little home were more and more akin to the metal bars of a cage. with the world closing up, city by city, you feel yourself becoming increasingly suffocated by your own presence, sick of the same air you've been breathing, the same cereal you've been eating, the same day repeating itself over and over again. picking at the undersides of your overgrown nails, you huff a sigh and decide it's worth the risk, anything is at this point.
yet the moment you step out onto the metal grate of your fire escape, the pair of eyes that widen upon your emergence makes the hairs on your skin stand erect, wary and above all, regretful. with half your body already out the exit, you think that perhaps not even your escape plan could fall through, let alone plan B (play it cool), or plan C (flat out ignore him). and so you position yourself across him, as you've done countless times, and purse your lips in expectancy for him to start a conversation. after all, he couldn't fuck you from all the way over there (plus social distancing says it's illegal now).
the first words that leave his mouth have your eyes narrowed and guard drawn high. "you've been avoiding me, haven't you?" and though his voice almost fairs disheartened in tone, you still grimace as you reply cautiously, "yeah, yeah i have."
no matter how terribly your words milk the blood from his heart, jaemin has to hold off from excusing himself because he doubts he'd get to see you elsewhere, if not here and now. but the thick wall of tension that sits between the two of you doesn't waver, doesn't budge, and only seems to multiply a tenfold as the seconds trudge onwards. words go unsaid in this moment, and unlike before they hold no secret admiration, no pent-up desires. rather they pulsate with cues of unanswered questions and forlorn what-if's.
you look briefly up at him, eyes flickering back to your fiddling thumbs in the silence that only seems awkward from an outsider's perspective. after clearing your throat, you fix your gaze back up at him, eyes lined with a resolute determination to get over with the next uncomfortable minutes. plan B, it is, you think, some small talk will have to do.
"did you hear about the party later tonight?"
"yeah, at the meadow's huh?" and you nod, following up, "it's supposed to be the last one jangho's hosting before lockdown, or at least publicly." then it's his turn to nod.
you weren't close with jangho, by any means, but he was that one senior in your major with all the connections and all the girls. at this point, you weren't sure if it was the connections that got him the girls or the other way around. one thing was for sure though: his parties weren't something you wanted to miss.
tentatively, you give, "...i'm thinking of going with soojin and the girls."
perhaps it's that very line that threw everything amiss.
it starts with a quiet, "oh." and then a feeble protest, "i'm not sure if that's a good idea," to which you feebly counter, "well, i'll be safe about it and most of the people going probably aren't even infected." now jaemin questions with a little more bite in his tone, "and how do you know?"
uncomfortably, you shift in your spot, "i don't, i just— i don't know, it should be fine—"
"y/n, you need to take these things more seriously."
his interruption, his clipped tone, his stern eyes. something gets to you and you don't skip a beat when you blurt, "are you telling me not to go?" voice tainted in disbelief. and to even more of your disbelief, he does anything but relent. "i can't tell you to do anything but honestly, it's a really fucking dumb idea—"
your tone drops in warning, "jaemin, stop—"
"i'm not kidding, y/n. that party is literally asking to get people killed, don't just go throwing yourse—"
"—just stop. stop it, jaem. stop trying to fucking control me—"
"i'm not trying to control you, i'm jus—"
"what? looking out for me? is that what you're gonna say?"
catching your breath, you feel your frustrations boiling within you until you can't take it anymore. the slightest indication of tears begin to spill over and with it comes the rain, in broken and sharp-edged words.
"if you were really trying to look out for me, then maybe you should let me make my own decisions. i'm a fucking adu—"
"you and that 'i'm an adult' and 'i'm all independent' front that you put on all the time. be honest with yourself, please. why do you even hang out with people like them? or is it because of that— because you're lonely?"
he knows that he's struck a chord within you when you begin to choke up your sobs, hiccupping over your words, "shut up, jaemin, you...you don't know what you're talking about." and then you're gasping for air, unafraid of what he may think of you because you have never in your life, felt so powerless. to you, his mere presence is penetrating, his trained attention hollows out your insides, and though you still find yourself breathless under his stare, more than anything, you feel starkly vulnerable, unabashedly naked.
nevertheless, jaemin continues to pick apart your raw, exposed skin because in this moment, all he wants is to unearth the depths of you. he wants to peel you open, casually as he would an orange, and in the process drawing out the worst, the most vile, and the truest parts you have to offer. "is it?" he presses on.
jaemin is fueled by the idea of getting you to hate him. at any rate, that's the way it should be after he's led you on, toyed with your feelings, played pretend. but really, it's not the guilt that drives him. in the heat, he's convinced that he'll push your buttons until the very moment he's rid of you. because only then, only then does he believe he'll be absolved of his sins. only when you've forced him out of your life. just the way it should be.
"is it because you think you have to be one of them to fit in?"
and just the way it should be, your resolve snaps in two.
"okay yes. maybe i want to fit in. maybe all i want is a reputation. maybe— maybe i crave everyone's attention an- and validation. so what if that makes me a bitch? people like me, jaemin."
"y/n, people don't like you. people like when you go to parties with them and all your upperclassmen friends like that they have a freshie to corrupt when no one's looking and boys like that you let them throw themselves all over y—"
"are you saying that i'm a pushover now?!"
"yes, you're a fucking pushover. what else would you be?! all you do is say yes to everything they ask of you and let them drag you around when you know it's not worth it, and what's even worse is that you like it."
when the tears clear out of your eyes, jaemin comes to see that all that's left in them is fear. what he isn't quite sure of is whether you're more scared of him or rather yourself. now with that pang in your eyes and the hurt splayed across your face, jaemin must admit that he doesn't feel any more absolved than mere minutes ago. the floodgates open and it's only now that he's swamped in his own guilt because in the midst of everything, he'd neglected your feelings in place of his own. only he would feel relieved if he were to be cut from your life, but it would be the same as twisting a knife he'd planted in your side. only he would rest easy knowing that his past had not caught up to him, but in turn he would've carved out a past for you to run from. there is no immediate, nor eventual relief that comes from cutting you wide open.
there you sit, right across from him, gathering the littered pieces of your esteem and hoping and wishing that maybe a little later you could stitch them back together by hand, or by some drinks, or by a loud and noisy social gathering. and there you stand, one hand anchoring you to the rail and the other fumbling with the window latch, countenance steeled and voice guarded when you next speak, "well then i guess you must know i only ever wasted my time with you so i could tell everyone that we're fucking."
your last glance at him isn't wistful, nor is it solemn in any way. rather it's steeped and invigorated in spite, because in reality, not a word of the argument had arisen from his concerns of your safety, nor were you displeased at his attempts to keep you from going. all you know is that your throat is freshly hoarse from yelling lie after lie, your head is spinning from being stumped at every turn, your body is swaying from having to hold your weight upright. and to the boy at the center of all your love, your happiness, your troubles, and your world, all you had to say was, "goodnight, jaemin."
✧ 10 — YOU FUCKING BITCH! GIVE ME BACK MY HAIR!
the world came to a decisive standstill mid-march and with it passed the paling seasons of your first love. it's hard to say that you'd seen this coming. though in hindsight, you wondered why you were always late to the party.
"y/n, over here!" soojin holds up a half-empty glass of chugged beer and sets it atop the bar where you've come to sit. tucking your fake id into the left slip of your bra, you wave off her saliva-infused beer offering to call for something a little heavier. but before you could get out the first syllable of the jungle in jungle juice, a hand snakes its way around your waist, breath not far behind to breach the skin of your neck. fully sober, you're a thought away from swatting at the curious thumb of his that was currently fussing with the hem of your skirt, but you digress. you were here to have a little fun, not keep to yourself.
the night passes in flurries of drinks and boys who'd swap in and out as soon as they'd realize you weren't going home with them; it was too early in the night anyways. if you weren't held down at the bar by some frat boy, you were at the floor flitting between tables, flirting with any guy that sported a middle part and a decent jawline, and flinging yourself dramatically at their poorly timed jokes. the drinks made it so that the 'little fun' you were having became the time of your life, and the boys, boys, boys that you so loved to smother with your lips one second and trash the next were in fact, the highlight of your day. oh how low your standards had sunk.
you think that they might've plummeted even further the second you realized that the guy whose build you've been backed up into for the last two minutes actually had a name, and that his name was jangho. leaning down to mumble in your ear, his low voice comes out a bare whisper under the blasting music, "looks like you're having a lot of fun tonight, aren't you?" you turn in his grip, gaze lifting to meet his sharp features and playful smile. he's coy, you’ll give him that, but on this special night, how different could you be?
giggling and throwing your head back, the sparkle that catches in your eyes is a magnet for some lovin' and he yields with a few kisses pressed to your lips, then your jaw, and down to your neck. shutting eye, you relish in your drunken stupor of the pair of lips that felt so harsh, hurried, lustful, and different. all your senses were tuned in to this heated moment, and this moment only, no trace of past worries, lingering feelings, or hard-to-place affections. jangho parts for only a second and his eyes that fair unbelievably dark in the already dim light speak of things you already know, things you nod to, and things that have you following in tow as he leads the way out.
but before the two of you could make a break for fresh air, a hand clasps at the wrist that's not being grasped by jangho and jerks you around until you're facing them in full.
and with the same wrist, soojin yanks you right until you are face to face, nose an inch from her own. rancid breaths emit from the same mouth that utters with such vehemence that sends a series of chills down each vertebrae of your spine. "where the fuck do you think you're going?"
you knit your brows, "what does that have to do with you?" and tug twice at her knuckle-white grip until she drops your hand. jangho's released your wrist as well, the scene unfolding much more entertaining when acclimated with the growing crowd. soojin huffs, cocks her jaw and mutters just loud enough for the eavesdropping audience to hear, "you must have a thing for all the big fish, huh?"
and when all you have to offer is the thinning of your lips and an extra crease between your brows, she takes her liberties in adding on, with each word coated in a thick layer of tension, "first jaemin and then jangho, makes me wonder what the fuck you're up to." then, she brings a finger under your chin, jutting it upwards to match her eye level. her volume drops as she spits out her next words for only you to hear, "you're trying to gatekeep aren't you, fucking whore."
you know she has a fair amount of booze in her system, you know she's not particularly fond of you, you know she's been using you to get to jaemin. but then again, you're a good deal drunk as well, you've hated her since day one, and for all she knows, you're the one that's fucking jaemin and a possible jangho. so why is it that you're the one standing here, speechless, and having to soak in all her pissy, green-faced remarks? because you're younger than her? because she's the one who invited you? because her reputation would be ruined otherwise? bullshit.
slapping away her hand is a first, grabbing at her wrist comes second, and just before she could slip some snarky counter right under your nose, you beat her to it. "what about it? are you jealous?"
her free hand pulls back, forms a perfect pitcher's arc, and then comes sailing towards your right cheek. the slap procures a clear, clean-cut sound and from it is birthed a moment of silence, perhaps three or four seconds, of glaring and gaping and utter befuddlement, before all hell breaks loose.
your fist comes into contact with her nose as you wrench her wrist in the most unnatural direction it could go. her shrieks echo and bounce off the walls while all she can do is kick at your legs with her own, the stick of her stiletto scraping at the bare skin of your legs. and soon enough, you supplement her shrieks with curses and grunts of your own, manhandling her by the neck so that you could bring her into a measly chokehold. by some stroke of luck, she'd freed her wrist from your hold, the same wrist that now flies towards your face, long acrylics threatening to carve out your eyes. her other hand has taken purchase of your right ear, pulling and pulling until you swear your eardrums begin to bleed.
heavily inebriated, your drunken insults and spineless slander slur and string together as your hand grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls and pulls, just as she'd done, until you're sure her scalp has sprouted red. and seeing as how her hold on your ear and her scratchy nails on your face have yet to find their way back home, you round up as many brain cells together to formulate your ultimate one hit K.O., your last ditch effort to be rid of this skanky, two-faced excuse of a friend.
reeling your neck back as far as her grip would allow, you release your whole weight into your head, flinging it without half a thought as to how dumb this whole night had been, how annoying everyone in this room was, and how shitty your life had become. in that split second, the only thing that mattered was her red, botched-up nose: the target.
right as you strike the bullseye, fireworks eject on the backside of your eyelids, shooting stars rejoice, and when you reopen your eyes a smidgen to admire the masterpiece you've made out of her nose, your vision begins to spot black.
the last thing you recall before falling captive to the ground is the one and only, iconic phrase sums up your first, and hopefully last, full-blown and drunken cat fight. "YOU FUCKING BITCH! GIVE ME BACK MY HAIR!"
✧ 11 — IN SPITE OF EVERYTHING, THANK YOU.
you're sixteen again and your mom has hid your phone in the medicine cabinet after she found a pack of four condoms behind your laundry basket. you're sixteen and the sun is just barely rising when that boy from your calculus class finally takes his leave; you pray to god his foot doesn't catch the windowsill on his way out. you're sixteen again and your best friend forever gives you a worried look, "that's the best you could do?" and you shake your head, roll your eyes, keeping your insecurities from bubbling over as she retracts her pointed finger from that boy sitting two seats down. you duck your head before your calculus teacher catches your little chit-chatting, and when he turns back to the board, you turn back in her direction. "i told him no but he didn't listen," is what comes out of your mouth, you're lucky she's never had a knack for tracing lies.
you're sixteen when you get home later that day, your mom's got her hands on a little something she found in the trash can of your room. your mind tells you that you couldn't care less about what type of slut or street whore she saw you as but your heart cries out anyways. she still drives you to school the next day where you're met with whispers trailing down the hallways of how you'd been raped. it's then that you saw for the first time that the worried front she always put on looked a little more condescending than normal. or was it always like that?
you cried again, but not because you'd been "raped," but because you hadn't been, at all. nineteen-year-old you wants to tell you that you should be more concerned about having to set the record straight with the police, rather than the fact that that boy from your calculus class probably hates you now. what a shame that sixteen-year-old you has only ever thought of failure in being seen as less than what you advertised yourself to be.
you're nineteen when you wake up in the hospital. vision blurry, you catch sight of your mother tugging the far end of the curtain closed around your cot. vision clearing, she approaches you upon noting your consciousness. her face is drawn pleasantly, almost sneeringly so, and when she places a hand atop yours it feels anything but warm, anything but welcoming, anything but safe. it feels threatening. she gets to the point because she did not come to babysit her daughter, to accompany her, or even to make sure she was okay. you're lucky you don't take after her worst traits.
you're nineteen, right? the legal age is eighteen, you're an adult now. why am i still being notified whenever you get yourself into trouble? cross me off as your legal guardian before this happens again. everything you knew she had to say, everything she didn't have to say for you to know.
really, your mother came to give you an ultimatum. drop out and get a job at your father's business. financial support provided as long as you keep your head low. or, cut ties.
shifting your hand in hers, you give it a squeeze, "thank you for everything." your mother's eyes glint blank under the dingy light. she retracts her cold, distant hand. she retrieves her belongings from the cabinet beside your cot. she gives the incoming nurse a stiff nod. and she extracts herself from your life.
✧ 12 — IT ALL STARTS FROM HOME
unspoken, the tales of your first love are handwritten into the grated iron of those two fire escapes. how foreign it feels to lock the window on one.
suitcase tugged tight to your back, there's no need to beeline for the exit when nothing's in your way. no blue ottoman, no haphazard legs of a dresser, no faux fur rug. it troubles you how all the meager appliances you had gotten so used to in the placement of your room, your familiarity, support, has all dispelled into numbers back in your parent's bank account. how disappointing is the reality that the pillars that held you up when you let yourself fall can end up so spendable, so easily disposable.
you grimace when soojin opens the door to you, nose bandaged over. she's barely wearing anything and the rustling that comes from what you assume to be her room tells of much you wished you weren't prompted to think of. you think more of it when a man stumbles from the door down the hall with his t-shirt donned backwards and a calloused hand held up in a wave. she shows you to the couch, littered with her clothes and emptied chip bags shoved into its corners and you thank her with the smile you've always given. it's cheery and it's gracious and it's everything you wish you could feel genuinely in the moment.
the bin in the corner of the room is empty (at least there even is a bin) and it receives all the trash you had the energy to tidy up while the armchair beside the couch receives all the discarded clothing, most of which you're sure doesn't even belong to soojin. you haven't stumbled across any of her roommates and she herself had left long ago; it's a friday night and you suppose that with her and company alike, that trumps even lockdown. she'd even asked if you wanted to go with her, half-heartedly, eyes held to the floor with a flick of her fingernails. you declined but was surprised that she had enough propriety to ask such a thing in the first place. you're sure she's surprised that you had the gall to ask if you could stay at her place, rent-free, after a measly one-paragraph text for an apology.
it's ten in the night and then it's twelve and one turns to two and doubles into four but your eyes have been numbed to the ceiling and you're body can't seem to move past the draperies of seclusion you've hung about the couch claimed as yours. your little island in the sea of a messy room that isn't yours, a messy world in which you've left, a messy past that clings to you even after you've moved on.
you've always wondered what it would feel like to hit rock bottom. soul crushing, perhaps? maybe it'd feel like the end of the world, you thought. but it's now that you fully understand the roots of the idea of having nothing to lose. it's strangely quiet down here, and you move quietly through the days, stuffing tea bags into bottled waters and getting by on pre-packaged salads bought with a scanty wallet.
you dutifully attend your online lectures, and study hard for upcoming exams, while waiting for the day the school calls to let you know that your tuition is no longer being paid, please unenroll from your classes and return your textbooks. in the last two weeks, you watched your fulfilling love life succumb to your insecurities, your friends and family relinquish their support, and your livelihood be sucked from your living soul. having nothing to lose feels a little like that. it's quiet, it's undemanding, and it's eerily as unnerving.
in a week or two to come, soojin kicks you out because she isn't very nice; there's no need to elaborate on that except to say that she was hosting a party at her apartment. and that you didn't need to think twice before realizing that more than a construct of entertainment, it was simply devised to chase you out.
you're thrust upon the streets before you have any idea of where to turn to. no money to call for a cab back to the unwelcome doorstep of your parents' house, three hours outside the city center. no hotel, motel, hostel, b&b that could fit your modest budget. no friends to call up, to fall back on. no significant other, significant anything, a specific someone whose place you could crash out of the blue, without precursory notice.
what you're left with is perhaps the most eerie revelation you've ever happened upon. some cold saturday night under the light of a park bench, you're sat with your sole trace of identity and belonging — your suitcase — propped upon the ground before you. fingers fiddling with the cracked case of your phone, you swallow thickly the thought that two months ago you were content. four months ago, you were adjusting. six months ago, you were unrecognizable. now, you feel as if an imposter has since taken over your eyes, your ears, your mouth, your nose. now, you're faced with the inescapable passions of how you want to feel loved more than you've ever wanted to be alive.
perhaps— no, not even perhaps. for certain, it's that same revelation that has you digging through the suitcase. it never occurred to you that you didn't have his number, or that you didn't know any of his friends' either. hell, you don't even know what classes he takes other than the one you share. and even if you sought to stumble upon him in somewhat of a more organic setting, you'd still round about the same conclusion that the one indisputable fact you knew of his was simply his address, a knock on his door.
you give a weak smile before pulling out his blue-wash denim jacket from beneath your arm, and out with it comes the flimsy guise under which you've decided to reappear upon.
"i came to return this."
your eyes are half-lidded in a relenting haze, like you've given up, resorted, or sought refuge within the person in front of you. jaemin's eyes are half-lidded as well, though fresh from sleep and not from fatigue. his eyes, if someone could see them right now, they would think that he's looking at the most beautiful woman in the world. and they wouldn't be far from the truth for jaemin thinks just that: you are the most beautiful woman in the world.
in truth, sitting under the light of a park bench on some saturday night with nowhere to go and no one to call, you were the most surprised to note that somehow, the predicaments of your situation didn't bother you half as much as the gnawing leakage of your otherness. it felt as if the only thing more disappointing than lacking the funds to get food on the table, much less a roof over your head, was the fact that the most comfort you received in the night was a pitiful glance from a passerby.
at the tip of your tongue, you recall it like stripping wealth only to find greed, clawing past nights of passion only to stumble upon lust, or putting up with a friend who only ever saw you as competition. and though you've realized it, known it, and admitted it for however long, you've never felt it so upfront until everything you thought you had was suddenly out of reach, as if all your efforts to move on, to transcend yourself, had been fed to the gnawing butterflies in your stomach that so wished to be fondled and played with.
jaemin found you at his doorstep on some sunday morning. around 4, was it? he opened his arms wide because he knew you weren't there because you were dirt poor. he knew you weren't there because you needed a place to sleep. and he knew you weren't there because you had no one else who would support you. and true, he'd make up for all of those insufficiencies anyways but more than anything, jaemin knew that you were here because you were lonely.
so utterly and plainly lonely that one look into his eyes, one graze of his fingers along your wrist had your lips on his in such a fashion that one would have thought you were starved of his touch, parched of his lips, wilted from his love. "but you tried your best, didn't you?" and you nod into his neck, nestle into his chest, cry into his warmth. "then that's all that really matters, love."
door closed behind you, you'd come to realize through the holy hours of sunday morning that long gone was the cute guy next door turned fuck buddy. truly, na jaemin is the butter to your bread, the cup to your tea, the curtain to your window, and the breath to your heart.
✧ 13 — HOW IT ALL SHOULD HAVE STARTED
your back is against the door when the bell declares a new customer. stepping down to the last rung of the ladder after propping the last of the new lily shipments atop the shelf, the automated response is already making its way out of your mouth before you even know it. "hello, welcome to florist gump. what may i help you with today?"
busying with the fold-out ladder, you fail to take into account the identity of the incoming customer until he sounds aloud, "hi, i'd like to have something arranged for my girlfriend." back straightening, you turn towards the voice to see a kind-eyed jaemin and decide to play along, "may i ask if there is any occasion?" to which he only shakes his head and saunters close, taking the ladder from your hands and raising an eyebrow in question as to where he was to set it aside.
you point to the nook in the back of the register and follow suit as he makes his way over, wary of the security cameras for it was only a week ago where you'd been chewed out by your manager for letting an "unauthorized loiterer" into the back of the shop. not to worry, however, for jaemin returns back in authorized territory the passing moment afterwards, already engrossed in today's selection of florals and herbs alike. "then do you know if there's anything she likes in particular?"
jaemin chews down on his bottom lip, "hmm, unfortunately i don't," and then looks over at you in your pale yellow apron, hair clipped back from your face, "have any suggestions?"
a smile begins to form at the corner of your lips, not that the face mask you're wearing gives away anything, but you align yourself before browsing the shelves of the small shop yourself and stopping at the one nearest the window. with jaemin shadowing just above your shoulder — as any customer would act — you gesture towards a bundle of white daisies and accompany it with, "i'm sure she would love those."
and so those are the ones he buys, with nothing else to add to the bouquet, and while you wrap the arrangement with rough twine encircling newspaper scrappings, jaemin takes one of the boxes of chocolate near the register and passes it along your way, "and add these in too."
you look up at him, tugging the twine into a final bow, and offer a shy, thankful smile — a crease of your eyes. punching the numbers into the cash register, you receive his money, return his change, and give yet another smile (though this time it's a product of embarrassment) as he holds out both the flowers and the chocolates in your direction.
accepting them, you're a second away from telling him to drop the act when he speaks of possibly the exact opposite, "i think you're kinda cute, may i get your number?"
you fight the urge to laugh at him, that is until you realize that he's dead serious, sliding his phone across the counter, a new contact draft pulled up and everything. scoffing, you give him a pointed look matched with a disbelieving shake of your head, taking his phone in hand and thumbing in your number. it's not like he has it anyways.
in any case, what use could he have for it when you live on the left side of his bed? and in his itty-bitty four-hundred square foot studio, you're never very far out of reach. he'd be in class and you'd have a day off, arriving beside his desk just shy of the camera frame to hand him his freshly steeped black tea. and on days where his attendance was only required in the morning lectures, jaemin would stop by the shop and keep you company while you studied the origins and meanings behind a genera of flowers, sometimes doing nothing besides staring and taking up space.
he thinks that the language of flora suits you far better than any finance course could ever dare. and frankly, you think so too. you've since limited your circle of friends to your manager, a 60-year-old nifty granny and your most frequent customer, her toddler-aged grandson, the baker that makes jaemin's favorite focaccia bread at the bodega, and most recently, seo injae, your new neighbor. being the only one of your miscellaneous group of friends that's the same age as you, you think of injae as like your insider. she'll keep you in the loop on all the latest trends and for sleepovers only, you get a taste of what late night college boy-talk feels like, something you used to trade in for house parties and social minglings.
you lived your life loudly, in your own quiet way. things like sincerity that were once hard to come by are now principles with which you lead your life. your pursuits are fueled by intrinsic passions rather than the expectations of others and the way you love has stayed impeccably true. jaemin grounds you, not to the earth, but to yourself. and in doing so, he's helped you meet a version of yourself that you didn't think existed.
your mother will eventually call to ask how you've been doing, soojin will one day apologize for the scar she left on your right leg, and although you will never get the money back from your one and a half semesters of college, you think that just for now, you can rest easy knowing that the daises have found their way into a vase, proudly exhibiting an emblem of new beginnings.
✧ 14 — AND FROM THAT DAY ON, THE SEASONS NEVER CHANGED.
to say the least, baking a full-fledged cake in a tiny kitchen made up of just a sink, a stove, and a fridge with absolutely no counter space in between, is wholly and unmistakably unideal. that paired with your unorthodox method of baking — foregoing a recipe of any sort — is a recipe in itself for disaster. and when you hear the jangle of keys from just outside the door, you voice aloud the one intelligible string of words that your mind can come up with in this moment, " oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck…"
the door opens and you're forced to give your best smile, hoping it'll overshadow the mess you've made behind you. and it seems that it works, to an extent, for when jaemin nears in attempt at a hug, the entire wreckage you've kept hidden behind your back is exposed. retracting from the embrace, jaemin only chuckles as you perk up in hopes to deal with the damage, "i hope you're not too tired to help me clean."
oh, but you're almost sure that he's tired but you play your chances that a night out with his friends, for a birthday celebration of all things, gets him just drunk enough to say, "no, i'll help you with it." your signature cheeky smile makes its appearance as he sets down the plastic bag you didn't notice he was holding to get to the dirty dishes. "what'd you buy?" and he shrugs, "just a little something for you."
you look up from the contents of the bag to the time on the clock above the bed — 12:24 AM it reads — and then from the clock to your boyfriend at the sink. "well you're a speedy one aren't you? twenty-four minutes into your twenty-first year and you've already got your hands on some legal alcohol." and not only that, it's your favorite. the one your crazy cool aunt always brings to family gatherings, the modern times fruitlands canned beer.
jaemin finishes up cleaning after your mess as you busy yourself with setting the table, or rather dragging out the wide stool that you and him have been using to create your makeshift dining room on the floor of your kitchen. he settles down a little after you've finished and the two of you pop open your own cans of beer, clinking before drinking. whereas jaemin was only slightly buzzed before, this second round has him a giggly emotional fit within the first ten sips.
before you know it, he's on his back, tracing imaginary shapes into the ceiling with the tip of his index finger and you bet your ass you're right beside him, doing your best to guess whatever it is that he's currently drawing. this time, it's a beluga whale and the next, it's the mug that you frequent and every time he surprises you with something completely spontaneous and unpredictable. he's just like that when he's intoxicated; jaemin's a happy drunk.
and by the time his arm has exhausted itself and has fallen back to his side, you reach over to clasp his hand in yours, squeezing lightly. he'll be asleep within the next two minutes, maybe even less but before then, you ask him, "so what do you want for your birthday?"
jaemin steals a glance at you, in all his drunken glory, and out spills word by word, "i wanna go dinnerware shopping with the love of my life."
✧ [ FIN. ] copyright © 2021 rouiyan all rights reserved.
✧ author’s note — as none of you may know, 'blue world' was posted as a 400 follower special — a milestone that i hit over five months ago — but i digress because it is particularly special to me and most likely not to you. for the first time in awhile, i sat down and wrote a story that i wanted to tell my readers. i don't know you, i don't know what you've been through, are going through, or have yet to go through. i don't know what keeps you up at night and i can't tell you that everything is going to be okay. what i know is that quarantine has affected each and every one of us in its own unique way, and all i want is for this story to accompany you whenever you feel that your best isn't enough. 400 hundred followers is a lot to me, and only in the sense that i haven't enough fingers to count it on. every note that i've received feels like an affirmation that i'm doing well, that i'm doing okay, that i am enough and quite plainly for that, thank you. to the silent readers, to those who scream in the replies and to those who simply leave a like, thank you. the world is a little brighter, a little lovelier with you around. i'm sure of it.
☆ baby taglist — @wonciel-main (send in an ask to be added to my general!)
