@wychaeyeong
Fingers are nervously picking at the fabric of his black coat from where they are wrapped around his own body. He has a habit of trying to make himself small -- to exist less than other people. It’s both a conscious decision and something he simply can’t help doing; if someone were to tell him to try and let loose, he wouldn’t be able to. If they were to try to convince him it’s okay for him to be there, to be a presence, he would still curl up into himself and try to hide.
It’s an understatement to say he doesn’t want to be here; so why is he? Why has he pushed himself to wander through the entrance of the bakery when he wants to just waste away in the loneliness safety of his room?
Hoseok’s bottom lip is a little sore from how much he’s been biting into it, cold sweat clinging to his body despite the low temperatures outside. It’s all anxiety and he knows it -- is hyper-aware of it, in fact. Which really doesn’t do anything to lessen the nervousness; his eyes anxiously flitting around the shop. His hands are clammy and he can feel the tightness in his throat, which really doesn’t bode well.
And then he’s standing at the counter, cheeks burning with embarrassment, even though he can’t bring himself to make eye contact with anyone -- instead letting his gaze roam over the many choices behind the glass. But it’s almost impossible to focus on the different pastries when the rapid pounding of his heart makes him feel dizzy; forces him to blink against the black spots that dance before his eyes.
Is it too late to turn around and run right back out that door? It really is, isn’t it? He’ll only make more of a fool of himself by doing that. So instead he swallows thickly, too aware of the fact he still hasn’t said anything, but he doesn’t know if he can.
The pressure to speak is rising and the brunet stumbles slightly in his boots as another wave of dizziness washes over him. It’s too quiet -- he is too quiet. God, it’s humiliating and it’s all his own fault. His fingertips briefly touch the glass as he contemplates just trying to point something out, but he retreats his hand instantly as he worries about leaving greasy fingerprints. “I-- I’m sorry,” He doesn’t know if his voice is even loud enough to be audible, but he cringes at the sound of it nonetheless.
“Ah, I-- Um...” The boy nervously shifts on his legs and he’s aware that people might start to question if maybe he needs to use the bathroom. “I’m-- I’m looking for... for a cake...” His blush intensifies. “For-- For my mother’s birthday...” The words are strained; all but choked out, but at least he’s managed something.
