“you know what i don’t miss about new york? the moma. i’m done with making mandatory visits to that place, abstract art can suck my dick. oh, and how could i forget– stepping on dead rats on the streets and smelling sun-baked urine by the subway stations.”
aiden tries hard to justify things whenever his romanticized nostalgia kicks at his chest. it tells him to just book that damn flight back to nyc and call this whole freenlancing-and-starving-in-seoul thing off. but something has him lingering and hesitating, and for god knows what? aiden deems that’s for himself to find out and not anyone else, but he’s at least certain that elijah’s presence will pull him down whenever he’d float up to this stratosphere of uncertainty. perhaps because elijah’s been with him since their pre-adult days back in the states, snot-nosed and angsty about life for little to no reason.
or, well. that last trait of his actually still stays quite rigid and unyielding. but the difference is: he doesn’t take himself so seriously anymore. maybe not at all at this point, even (yikes,) but who says that’s not for the better?
with the bohem cigar in between his finger, he watches it reduce to ashes just a centimeter past its halfway point before taking it out. elijah seems unmindful but not exactly inattentive. maybe that’s what helps aiden feel more uncomfortable about everything, sentiments were always too stupidly complex.
“korean cigarettes also suck,” he pauses, his elbows now resting on top of his knees. they almost look like jobless hoodlums in front of the convenience store’s porch, but the irony is that the concept’s not so far-fetched from them at the moment. “or maybe because it’s placebo. shit, everything back in new york seems better to me right now than here.”