Playlist | Kim Jungeun
Highschool au
Warnings/Tags: loose depictions of anxiety, school life is kinda lame and reader has been slacking on an assignment.
Word count: 2.9k
Life comes at us all in waves, washing against us in slow rocking waves, with the worrying mounting tension of a more violent storm on the horizon.
Too bad you're not much of a swimmer.
Oftentimes you find yourself, at least in recent memory, drowning under all that water.
“You still struggling with Doctor T’s workload nerd?” Her voice yanks you above water with the roughest tug. It’s brief, but long enough for you to ponder the insecurities of English.
After all, there has to be some vague vignette that explains why he feels the need to be called doctor.
Your eyes catch against the hooked arch of her eyebrow, it'll be the strangest people who'll provide you with a modicum of relief.
Kim Jungeun, you’ve never had any real interaction with her, you live too far away from the lavish shores of popularity and talent that flocks to her mere existence.
Instead you crest on the edge of remarkability.
Her gaze holds against yours, chilling with detached, graceful coolness. Perhaps that's what you taste on the edge of your tongue as you peer at her over the ridge of your crossed arms, a defense perimeter around your guarded paper soul.
“...Yeah, something like that,” despite any reluctance that clings to your skin like the slick wet moisture of wet socks, her mere gaze coaxes your voice ashore.
Still, it’s half grumbled, malformed and unpracticed.
She says nothing as she takes a seat in the desk next to you and you’re thankful for the study period far from the cloistered of a regular class and its marked murmurings.
She leans and stretches under the warm drift of sunlight and you can't help but wonder if she's a cat or a dog person.
Still, you can't help but notice the soft trail of old school earphones as she tucks her hair behind an ear.
-
Her presence is habitual, a soft comfort despite the silence.
Perhaps that's what makes it shocking.
“What are you trying to write anyway?” There’s a roughness to the way she speaks, in spite of her detached coolness.
It’s no secret that you get no writing done during your shared period, oftentimes staring at a blank page or worse yet into space.
Your brain bubbles with a retort that never quite boils.
“...well, Dr. T wants me to finish up my creative writing assignment and…” You can't help but feel like you're explaining too much without actually answering the question, a thought that's only exacerbated by the shake of your voice and the sudden dryness of your throat.
Her gaze holds you with a soft precocious touch and you almost feel like the only person in the room (you are in fact the only person in the room).
“It’s about mourning and the process of finding something to cherish in spite of it. But also the wonder of if you deserve it and if you do, if you're willing to open yourself up to the kind of pain.” Somehow your hand finds itself against the back of your neck, clammy as you lay your soul bare. “But I don't know if I can actually deliver on it and, and I’ve lost so much momentum asking myself that questi-”
You’re too lost in your inner monologue, caught against the whipping winds of your doubts that you don’t feel the soft caress of her hand against your wrist plucking it away from your nervousness.
There's the slightest twinkle in her eye, cast against the fluttering warmth of the sun, you swear you catch the mirage of a smile in that sweet sunlight.
Her voice is low and soft as she hushes you, placing your clammy hand against your desk.
“Sounds like you're putting too much pressure on yourself.” There’s a straightforward plainess to her tone, an obviousness.
A laugh hitches against your lips burdens on the edge of a scoff, but you’re not quite that comfortable around her. There’s a weird tang inside of your mouth, the type that begs for more, but you bite it back, held against the rough edge of a forced smile.
“Right,” is all you can manage, your tongue clicking on the edge of viciousness, but maybe that’s because she’s right? The frustration bubbles and simmers underneath it all, like a kettle that doesn’t know how to stop.
How long before it spilled over?
Still, she’s the one who careens closer to you eyes trailing from your book to back to you in the deadliest avalanche. Her eyes hold against yours with that cool, liquid calmness and part of you wonders what it’s like behind the veil.
“What’s it about?” There’s a callousness to the way she slouches against her hand, propped up by her elbow. Despite her sloven almost careless disregard, there’s a grace to her, the kind that belies her genuine interest.
Or maybe you were just looking for an excuse not to drown?
A sigh drags and crawls past your lips like an inverted breath of fresh air.
Take two.
Your hands become your would be actors, well, more like stand ins for expression and ideas.
“Character A and Character B are both friends with C, when C dies under mysterious circumstances, they ask A to look out for their friend B.” She nods along wordlessly, eyes trailing along each and every word, dancing along to every svelte movement of your hands.
It’s easier to put your tongue on her unspoken qualities when you think back to this particular moment.
Detached and cold is far from right, at least below the surface. She’s tranquil and serene, like the slow lapping waves that brush against your toes in the sand.
You swear you catch the smallest twitch of a smile.
“A and B are totally different types of people, A is a delinquent by nature with an older sibling who is suggested to be a loan shark, while B is more meek, sweet by nature and oftentimes trodden on, they’re also the child of the local preacher.”
She finally pipes up, lifting her head from its resting place. “I suppose there’s more to it?”
Your throat catches, but you can’t help the smile that finds its place.
It’s weird to be seen–correction, it's weird to be perceived and not feel unsightly, like a cryptid trying to mind their business. It’s easy to feel wrong, as if you’re breathing wrong, thinking wrong or just existing wrong.
But despite her restrained, balanced expression, you feel that pulse. It’s not romantic in nature, far from it–though you wouldn’t deny she’s pretty.
It’s the pulse of life, of fun, the excitement of two creatives and the energy it provides.
Or as some of your peers would say, someone matching your freak.
Her lips barely crease beyond the slightest curve as she catches your excitement or maybe you’re just imagining it.
“Well, I mean there’s supposed to be a whole mystery plot about what happened to C, it’s supposed to put strain on-”
She puts two fingers to your lips,”Shush, I don’t want spoilers.”
-
That evening had been the exception rather than the rule. Still, the empty classroom had become something of a respite between the crashing waves of life.
You find yourself with an extra moment of respite, you're thankful for the many inadequacies that public schooling affords (not that you even know what private school is like). Still, you don't think the school nurse would suggest you skive off somewhere quiet to avoid triggering your totally real headache.
Jungeun had been as aloof as ever in your shared classes, barely acknowledging your existence unless it was mandated by the teacher and even then it left you wanting.
Maybe hanging out with you during study period was her form of community service?
You crack open a soda, crisp and cool as you imbibe in its fresh fizz. You’d heard her popularity and her overall talent at sports had afforded her some leeway with the authorities thanks to the school's intervention.
Still you didn’t actually know how true that actually was.
Your footsteps echo through the forgotten school block, remnants of a forgotten era left to stand as the school's refurbishment dried, at least until next year.
But you'll be long gone by then, assuming Doctor T doesn't fail you. Still, you don't think you’d want to be around when they demolish this, home to your vending machine, the only place on campus where you can get your favorite soda and a dear secret of yours.
Your fingers trace and trail over stored walls, old posters and notices worn into old cork boards and as your eyes linger on the old, you hear something new.
You hear the soft saunter of music, plucked with what you can only assume are an angel's fingers.
It calls to you, or at the very least your curiosity, beckoning you to your other nestled treasure in the old block, the abandoned classroom.
That's when you catch her, caught against the foggy bloom of the effervescent sun, fingers dancing along a deep red guitar, her voice lost against your hallowed halls but your eyes still gleam the most forbidden treasure.
Her twisted shut as she smiles with all heart, piercing and radiant. There's an unspoken decadence to watching her just have fun, living in the few speckled moments of uncambered joy.
You can't help but smile, choosing to let her have her own moment of peace.
-
She’s there when you finally make another appearance in the break of a week between crashing waves. The dying embers of summer pervade through the cracks of an open window, her hands grip tight against a notepad.
It’s weird to be the late one out of the two of you, as if you can even be late to slacking off.
She writes words you can't quite make out as her eyes trail against the hallowed warmth of the sun.
Part of you wants to disturb her reverie, to pluck her off the distant cliffs of wanderlust.
But you know better, choosing to find your seat. Yet even as you settle into a familiar groove, you can't help the stray glances that linger on her.
You trace over her familiar earphones, always by her side or plugged into her ears. There's something inherently interesting about them, a hallmark of a different time.
You don't know too much about music, outside of vague remarks or locutions shared by a friend. Something about wired being better than wireless because of latency?
She turns towards you, as if feeling your gaze, as her notepad covers half of her face. You catch the edge of an almost teasing smile caught in the edges of her eyes as she glances back at you.
It all fades aways as she closes her notepad and tucks away her phone before slowly walking to your desk, choosing to set on the corner.
It’s easy to feel small as she peers down at you, her features caught against that ridge of detached coolness everyone had come to know.
In spite of the intimidation of it all, she looks beautiful, cast in a halo of warm dewy sunlight as her hand tucks loose strands of her hair behind her ear.
You catch the slightest hitch of a smile, a small crack as her lips part, eyes fluttering down at your book before snapping to you.
“You know I was starting to think I scared you off nerd.” There’s a certain callous grace in her tone, that chews and bites at you.
Perhaps that’s why you catch the flare of white curving into the barest smile before it crinkles away.
“Haven’t been feeling well lately,” you muster, cautious that she doesn't catch your words for what they really are. You bide your time as it floats through the air, tracing the arc of her raised eyebrow.
She doesn't say anything.
Instead choosing to place the back of her hand against your forehead. You can feel the slightest brush of her breath as she lingers closer.
Yet, as quickly as it happens she pulls back.
If she has anything to say, she doesn't.
Her eyes return to your book, “how's the writing?”
“It’s been?” A dead crawl and overall monument to your talents (or lack thereof?) “Something?”
Her head tilts to the side, “something?”
You sigh under her lingering gaze, like the slow release of a pressure valve. “It’s not been happening at all in the slightest.”
It’s hard not to crumple underneath it all. Everyone tells you have this potential and you're just squandering it, as if each second not spent playing catch up doesn't multiply the guilty burden.
A finger traces the edge of your jaw, beckoning your sunken gaze upward away from that sinking feeling.
Her fingers dance across your skin with a frail softness, you can feel the worn callouses of her finger as her gaze lingers, as if inspecting each speckle, sparkle and refraction.
A gemologist by any other name.
You can feel the graze of her breathy smile, barely held back despite the glitter in her eyes. Your skin tingles as she leans closer, fingers trailing closer to your ear.
The moment shatters like a pane of glass, the shriek of the fire alarm, a visceral sledgehammer.
-
Your head slams against your desk, a tired dribble of a yawn limps past your lips. Penance for an all nighter.
Anxiety is a hell beast and your lack of sleep does nothing to mollify it.
It burdens your chest, drags like an anchor against a cesspit of stress.
Presentations tend to do that, let alone writing assignments, there’s something unequivocally foreboding about laying your soul bare.
Dr T, calls your name and harkens the toll of a bell. Your fingers grip tight against the weathered surface of your desk, threatening to carve grooves into the old wood.
Yet, before you can drag yourself away from your desk, you hear the shuffle of a chair not your own as your heart thumps loudly in your ears. Still, you pull yourself up, trying your best to fight back the crushing waves of your own mind with a dry gulp.
Your anxious grip threatens to rip your book apart as you take a deep shaky breath, it does nothing to dull the deep thud of your heart as it races. It pulses with a sickening quickness as you feel your classmates eyes bore into you with a searing heat. Your hands run clammy under the attention of numerous eyes, as your heart echoes louder and louder.
You swear everyone can hear it too as their eyes threaten to peel back your skin and-then suddenly it’s gone, replaced with the soft gentle caress of calloused hands as she slots her earphones into your ears.
Her dulcet voice floods your ears, blooming with a tranquil softness like an ice bath on a particularly hot day.
Your brain melts away as she coaxes you to sit down, you don’t quite catch a glimpse of her expression, too caught up in the low murmuring of your class. Still there's a firmness in her touch, that reassures you.
You're only able to lip read, unable to hear anything over the soft swell of music.
There's a pang of annoyance that lingers on your teacher's face, held taut by Jungeun's aloof expression, you catch the way her words bite and gnaw as your teacher relents caught on the hook of their own words.
Something about Jungeun being allowed to do a book report on any piece of writing given her engagements to various extracurricular activities at the school's behest.
Wait.
-
It doesn't quite click until it’s over, her fingers plucking the ear bud from your right ear. Your ears burn thinking about the way she talked, lingering on every small detail in your work.
The sound of the school bell washes over you both like a crashing wave.
There's a decadence in the soft swell of her smile, hand gripping her phone that had come to rest in your palm.
You stand up, leveling your eyes at her. There's a twinkle in her eye as she shows you her phone. It’s incandescent the way it threatens to burn a beautiful.
She shows a playlist just for you. You can barely hear her over all clammer and murmurings of your classmates as they gossip, slowly spilling into the hallway through the bustle of it all.
But you can feel her excitement as it threatens to crack through her facade, still there is an enamouring confidence that you don’t think you could quite manage.
The slight hitch of a smile revealing the briefest peak at her teeth makes your chest flutter.
Yet before you can manage even a word, you watch the slightest quiver echo across her features as her smile drops. You feel the firm tug of one of your friends against your shoulder.
The sad look on her face freezes in your mind, you doubt anyone is used to seeing her so… Vulnerable.
“Let’s go, school's over.”
Her eyes dart between you and your oblivious friend. Questions quiver on the tip of your tongue locked under her gaze.
Your friend's hand shakes you once again, growing impatient. It’s enough for you to break from your enrapture, at least long enough for you to attempt to tell them to give you a minute.
But it’s too late.
Your head is caught in a spin, as you feel her usually soft, calloused touch, scrunch your shirt pulling you with an almost violent tug as she kisses you.