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[dahuism]

first thought, best thought 🌺

@zenivth

[🎵]     he stands for hours.

             to truly appreciate a gallery, time is paramount. it would not do to merely glance at a work of art and walk away as tourists do. greedy, they are. they wish to drink in the sights, acting as though paintings will dissipate before their very eyes if not hoarded in their cameras. yet it is this very act that prevents them from realizing the essence of an artwork. for them, perhaps, it is enough to have merely been in its presence; to be able to say that they’ve seen it in person despite not seeing it at all.

             a woman’s voice effectively serves to ruin his contemplation. he regards her for mere moments, irritation flashing in his eyes before it is quickly dampened. critique before appreciation is far worse than tourists. did critics interrupt his playing to comment on his technique? no. (for he would surely throttle them). hands are shoved into the pockets of his trousers as he attempts to refocus onto the painting before him, but to no avail. a muted sigh, and he turns his head to face her fully.

             “is that so?” he asks in a dull tone. “you would not agree that art is a process, then? your first thought is often rather banal. drafts did not come into existence without a reason.”

First thought, best thought. If she’d bothered on following her own nugget of good-intended advice when it came to brooding-stranger-in-her-exhibition number 17, she would have skipped off into the sunset without looking back the moment he opened his mouth. His voice doesn’t match his face. His dull and uninspired drawl, contrasted rather deeply with the sharp and attentive light behind his eyes, the light that had been studying her work relentlessly. She couldn’t help but ask –– he looked out of place in the midst of other guests, so young, no older than 25 surely, but also so at home in the haven of artistic bits and bobs, that her curiosity got the best of her. Needless to say, it spooks her, the unexpected discrepancy of what she sees and what she gets –– so much so that she can’t hide the flicker of alarm that causes her eyes to widen; it’s written all over her face.

How can she explain how she feels about processes? About art, a freeform, being Demoted to the label of a Process, a repetitive sequence of actions, and losing its magic along the way. Irregardless, all processes that begin with a First Thought produce the best work. Work with a flair. Without said thought, said feeling, the process couldn’t blossom or grow. How could the prettiest flower-bud bloom without the boring brown seed being initially planted, without the original plant dying but leaving enough pieces behind to pick itself back up again and regenerate? A process without an original first thought, without a passion or bright idea... Merde, it could never be art.

"I was wondering about your first thought, on the piece...” Her two cents would never be succinct enough to utter aloud, so in a typical Dahui fashion she ignores his question completely and opts to fiddle with her bracelet aimlessly instead. Her head cocks as she studies the familiar painting, as she remembers how it took seven months to groom that first thought enough to start expressing it. It’s mixed media on canvas, a messy mix of gouache and shredded newspaper forming shade and light in a monochromatic scheme of red. Simultaneously bloody and treacherous but also light and hopeful, different emotions for different people. “How does it make you feel?” 

[dahuism]

fries of the french 🌺

@sepulcres “French fries are not a breakfast food.” It pains me to say that Dahui fundamentally disagrees.

“I––” So many things she could say, so many small issues that arose from such a short sentence within her airy world of daydreams and messy hands, that they overwhelmed her.

Of course the tiny voice of protest at the back of her head screeched with disdain: Consider the small fact that breakfast is a social construct and therefore should be spoken about with a grain of salt. Consider the fact that empty calorific value of french fries does not change, no matter the date nor time. Consider the fact that I am an irresponsible twenty-six year old artist with limited funds who normally opts for a glass of red wine for supper. Please! Leave my dietary habits alone to fester, leave my insides to rot. 

In reality she could only cradle the warm fries to her bosom, like a mother covering her child’s ears and protecting their feelings. Her rounded doe eyes tried to silently communicate that one does not schedule the fries of the french. They screamed that cravings do not get penciled in, they come and go when they please...but with a zipped mouth she only looked guilty. Dahui felt a little guilty too for reasons unbeknownst to her; as an advocate of indulging in every day pleasures, she couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why the words of another person deterred her so easily. 

“I...I like them.” With the conviction of a scolded school child, she stared down at the golden sticks, fresh, crispy, fried to perfection and her fingers moved on their own, hovering over the perfect fry before–– Chomp. Gone. Dahui, you little rebel.  

[dahuism]

the little death 🌺

@consilian “What’s death like?” Son Kihyun, you pose an interesting question.

Weak-kneed and faint-hearted, she happily seeks moment of repose from the orderly court proceedings, a second of silence that isn’t pointed and harsh, outside the wooden barricades and quick fire legal jargon of bold-faced lawyers. Court isn’t like the cinematic re-enactments of popular cases that she’s watched on tired video and that in itself doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. The stealthy and gradually tiring nature of day-in day-out, the creepy way that the weight on her shoulders is always directly proportionate to her strength, trapping her in a perpetual state of fatigue, that she doesn’t expect. Part of her hoped the break from a classroom would rejuvenate her but in hindsight that was a very privileged and naive view of jury service. Citizenship was a responsibility first and foremost, and Dahui would never truly embrace the adult charm of responsibility in any of its forms.

Her hair, scraped into what she called a ‘smart-bun’, bobbed from side to side as she considered, releasing a handful of fly-aways from the confines of her hair tie. The question, although heavy, was abstract and vague enough not to send her spiralling down a road of anxiety. As a teacher, her first port of call was always answering any inquiries that came her way, even when she had to muster up the courage to reply with a simple ‘I don’t know’. She leant into the corridor bench, relaxing against its sturdy hold with a small sigh. A French phrase meaning orgasm, directly translated as ‘The Little Death’, came to mind. It nicely summed up her feelings on the matter, she understood the sentiment. Release –– soft, vivid, passionate, whether a delicate tremor or grandiose scream, depending on who, on where, on why. Her emotional intelligence chided her for her rather romantic view on death, beseeched her not to say it aloud in an institution built for persecution. Ah Dahui, you little feather, your thoughts are designed for paint on canvas.

“Mmm... Death itself? I suppose it’s exactly like a last breath. Varying. Sometimes violent, sometimes easy. I.. I don’t know really, hm. I don’t know.” She studies him, mouth pursed as though prepared to say something teetering on profound. “I guess you don’t know until it happens. And when it does I... Dare I say, you don’t really care anymore.” 

[dahuism]

alphaville 🌺

@kindvongift you again? Dahui wasn’t born stubborn, but you’re really teaching her how to master the art.

It took an old neighbour moving out, and pawning off her tried and true belongings, for Dahui to finally see the error of her old-fashioned ways. After declining a scruffy leather sofa and moth eaten curtains, she gracefully accepted the gift of an old box television and its corresponding rusty panasonic video player purely because it seemed the least offensively imposing of all the random bits and bobs on offer. For weeks it sat, a foreign object among the wild-hearted organics in her homey studio, until she impulsively brought a rented title back on a Saturday evening and penciled in a couple of hours to wine and dine herself. Do it once and it’s an exception, twice and it’s an indulgence, thrice and, by George, you’ve got yourself a routine. When she found herself absently dusting the gadget fondly, she knew deep in her heart that it was there to stay. A new hobby, how exciting.

On the way to her local video hire shop she’d let her mind roam and trust it would produce a good title before she touched base. Sometimes she’d only have a vague recollection of the name and have to timidly inquire with the shop owner, sometimes it was a nostalgic blast from the past that popped in her head to suit her mood. Sometimes she wasn’t so lucky and had to wander through the foreign section, pick a random French title and pray for the best. Sometimes she’d run into a familiar infuriating stranger, whose alarmingly good film taste was cancelled out, stricken down into the dust, because of his sheer rudeness. 

Why they picked the same films, time after time, she’d never know. He wasn’t always there, waiting in the wings and scaring her, but they’d had a few altercations and bad run-ins that ended with huffs of disapproval and pointed stares. Dahui, the least confrontational soul on the planet, timid and shy, felt her fists ball up whenever his mouth opened. Satisfied (wrongly so) that it was a quiet late afternoon, that she could take the only copy of Alphaville in peace, she slid an old favourite case out of its slot on the shelf and hummed happily. 

[dahuism]

ida baked a cake 🌺

@jongdaewrites “Oh, man, how am I gonna do this? I couldn’t even get my Easy Bake oven to work.” Nic! Keep your chin up, Dahui doesn’t have a plan either.

The primary differences between the works of an artist and an artisan are functionality and purpose: although the eager strokes of an experienced painter can warm up the walls of a bland reception, the characteristic cuts of a carpenter birth sturdy devices, beautiful objects that people find easy to readily deem useful. Dahui has never been an artisan, her crystal ball of personal agency agrees that her immediate future holds no business thinking about practicality first and foremost. Their baked goods are destined to look beautiful, no matter the weather, absolutely stunning once she gets the hang of piping icing but...whether they're edible or not? That’s not a given. It doesn’t matter too much to her per se but how does one express that without sounding completely careless, reckless and/or pitiful? In a foreign language nonetheless. 

Anything that requires more than a microwave, a steady hand and a precarious amount of time is completely out of her league and she doesn’t have the heart to care. Life is too short, c’est la vie!

Poor English comprehension on her part aside, Dahui knows exactly what Nic means –– blind confusion mixed with the temptation to Call-It-A-Day is written all over his face. She claps her hands together and beams at him as though their project isn’t doomed from the get go, like her bare feet actually belong on the cold tiled floor of a kitchen. People recreationally bake all the time, they find joy in it, who’s to say that the odd pair cooped up in a baker’s paradise can’t be exact the same. 

"Facile! Ahh... Easy!” Possessed by a deceptively optimistic energy, she grabs the nearest sack of flour and empties roughly half of it into a bright red mixing bowl without thinking. Instinctively feeling her way through the world works in any and every situation, surely. 

[dahuism]

rpfunstuff:

“Can I keep you?”

“Don’t come near me, you spiteful spook, or I’ll knock you into the next world.”

“Don’t worry.You always look cute.”

“French fries are not a breakfast food.”

“Hmm? Guess ‘cause when you’re a ghost, life doesn’t matter that much anymore.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from you, it’s: Always kick ‘em when they’re down. And, baby, you’re six feet under.”

“I have-a quite a bit of experience. Not, you know, like, exactly doin’ it. But I’ve studied it, and I’ve talked to people who have done it.”

“I thought we almost lost each other for a minute there.”

“I told you I was a good dancer.”

“It’s my party and I’ll die if I want to.”

“Listen! Cut the crap, okay? If you don’t show yourself, I’m gonna have you arrested for trespassing!”

“Not bad for my first party, huh?”

“Not so fast, little man. The bitch is back.”

“Oh, man, how am I gonna do this? I couldn’t even get my Easy Bake oven to work.”

“Oh, that felt like the strangest dream.”

“Please. Do not think I’m as crazy as I thought you were”

“Please don’t scream! I promise I won’t hurt you!”

“Scream or sugar?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. We’re through.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“We’re gonna booze it until we lose it.”

“What do I usually do when something stands in my way?”

“What were you like when you were alive?”

“What’s it like to die?”

“You don’t have to be scared of death anymore.”

“You know on a scale of one to ten- ten being fun, and one being you.”

Casper Sentence Meme

[dahuism]

When you’re a child, free-spirited and able-bodied, the grown ups with their budding wrinkles and middle-aged crises will tell you that time waits for no man. In the rare moments of stillness you will find as an adult, even when trapped in metal cages designed to intimidate, you’ll reflect, like Dahui, and marvel at the inaccuracies those sad souls tricked you into believing for their own personal gain. Time waits for no man? No, time is both a prankster and an old friend, willing to serve whenever truly needed. Quite simply, time will wait for any man who is bold enough to ask.

Delayed, and suspiciously content at the fact, Dahui rises to find a subway map and re-evaluate her situation. It’s a wonder that her soft absent smile fails to stick out like a sore thumb in the midst of irritated frowns, but no-one spares her a second glance as she drifts further down the fairly empty train cart. Last thing she’s expecting is to see a former neighbour on her escapade but hey, life is funny like that.

Perpetually unsure, she lingers, holds up a shy hand and waves it into Saebyeol’s line of vision. Two hours is long enough to catch up, learn something new and apologise profusely for losing her phone yet again.

faulty train.

The female sighed as she sat on the seat of an empty train. She hadn’t got enough sleep and here she is, on a rainy day, going to work.

Usually, Myeongdong is only a few stations away and she would get there in about half an hour. But today, Myeongdong needs about 2 hours. “Train is delayed due to technical train fault, we urge every passengers to stay calm” The few commuters sighed irritably while glancing at their watches. 

The train albeit filled with little people, they were mostly middle-aged people. The only person who looks as young as saebyeol was the only person sitting beside her. Not that it was a problem anyways. 

Saebyeol pulled her phone out from her bag and texted her boss about it then blasts some music through her earphones. Since it’s going to long, she might as take a nap. 

[dahuism]

Striking a curious balance between over-prepared and alarmingly unready, Dahui drifts by an assortment of snacks on standby, a radio softly crooning Clazziquai (interrupted by crackling static ever so often) and an open bottle of wine on her dining area table (it’s barely gone past lunch, really), to get to the door. After scrambling to tie her hair up in a presentable manner and failing miserably, locks of hair cling to her nape and fly aways gave her a clumsy halo of panic, she opens the door with a wide smile. The contrast of Taeri’s uniformed brilliance and Dahui’s jeans and oversized knitted sweater is real. The budding artist looks thrown on, far from put together, but Dahui is so excited to see Taeri, to have one-to-one girl time, that she completely disregards her own appearance –– how ironic, since she’s having her nails done. 

“Hi! Hey, come in.” Taeri, as the object of Kwanju’s affection, is mildly interesting. Taeri, as a walking talking breathing multi-faceted person, is infinitely intriguing. There’s always a tangible gap between how a lover describes their significant other and how their beau actually is. Getting acquainted with that gap is the fun part, discovering a person, who you’ve only ever seen through the eyes of someone else, for yourself is beyond fascinating. Truthfully, Dahui didn’t view their private soirée as a professional appointment, just as a means to socialise and gather informally, to giggle a little perhaps. She moves away from the door and gestures for Taeri to come hither, into her private bubble. “Do you want a drink?”

⋆ MANiCURED

— @dahuimg​

It doesn’t matter if the client was like her next door neighbour or if they lived three buses away, Taeri would always dress up in her personal uniform for the appointment, with her hair tied up into a ponytail and all before packing her tools in a baby blue suitcase.

Dahui’s place was a two-seconds walk but she likes to be professional even when doing her friends and close ones’ nails, so this new client would be no different.

Taeri is quite nervous for N reasons. She knows Dahui is beautiful and (prettier than her) nice to Kwanju but something about this makes the sweetness inside Taeri go all sour.  

Yet, she has a pretty smile when she knocks on the door. 

[dahuism]

“Ice-cream beats oranges.” A mischievous tongue wiggle corroborated her nonchalant comeback as well as a quiet snort. Dahui marvelled at Luke's inhuman smoothness, when he whisked her up into his arms. He knew. Somehow he’d detected that he was making her weak at the knees and offered her the extra help in order to compensate. She took it gracefully, initial soft yelp of surprise aside, and held on as he took her to the feast she’d wished into existence. She also giggled at the good natured teasing because while Luke’s mouth protested, his arms didn’t fail at steadily transporting them to his chosen destination. While he lowered them both, she instinctively pushed back the strands of hair that had flopped into his eyes on the way down –– she’d gotten so comfortable that she touched him without thinking. Still in his lap, she extended her slender legs over his crossed ones and fixed her knee length skirt in an effort to retain a level of demure.

“Oranges for three? Kill you? No.” On par with his mock seriousness, she finished straightening out a wrinkle in her work appropriate attire and turned to scrutinise him carefully. Their position had her half-resting against him, back to back, she could almost feel his heartbeat steadily beating against her. Food was distracting –– she didn’t have time to be flustered, her energy was focused on the best possible course (pun intended) of action to get her food from point A to point B. She knew he was joking but her stomach was not completely sure so grumbled loudly to express discontent (just in case). A quick glance at Snow and Max, as though they’d give her inspiration for the appropriate punishment, if Luke is not joking Woe unto him so help him God, gave her nothing –– the tired dogs rested on the fringe of the blanket together and blinked at her with unchanging eyes. She took her time considering. “Hmmm... But you’re still on probation. Tangerines for dinner would definitely take you back down a notch."

the smell of spring

“but we’re not in rome.” he teased, knowing perfectly well what she’d meant but wanting to get a reaction out of her nevertheless. He chuckled, eyes gazing down at hers, still slightly in disbelief that this was happening – that she hadn’t pushed him away and rejected him once more, but was resting comfortably within his arms. She was so cute, apple-red cheeks crimson against her pearly white skin as she bashfully shrugged – so beautiful. 

“we’re squishing the flowers.” he whispered, lips brushing against her ears before dipping down to peck softly at her neck, chuckling slightly so that his brims vibrated against her soft skin. He knew that by now, he probably should’ve let her go. Should stop the plethora of kisses he wanted to shower her with – after all they were in public, and at her place of work. But he couldn’t seem to get his body to follow his conscious thoughts. As if, it simply refused to move. Perfectly content with sticking to her for the rest of his life. 

A grin arose on his lips as she looped her arms around his neck, a soft kiss on his chin while asking about food. Of course it was about food. He couldn’t help but chuckle – much like belle, he knew Dahui was a sucker for food. It was a good thing that he could cook, having practiced on belle for more than ten years to feed her starving monster of a belly. “yep. food for three.” he sang softly, before abruptly bending his knees and reaching down so that he was now carrying her bridal style, a soft laugh leaving his lips as he pretended she was the heaviest thing on earth with a grunt. “oouf. don’t tell me you’ve been digging into ice-cream cartons for the past month.” he joked as he walked to short distance to the set-up-picnic area. The bowls were already placed out, a picnic basket resting in the middle as he sat down in a criss-cross-apple sauce position, dahui still in his arms. “would you kill me if I brought a basketful of tangerines?” he questioned, feigning mock-seriousness – in reality, he’d prepared both western and korean cuisines, from an assortment of side-dishes, Kimbap, sandwiches, salad, fried spicy pork, to tubber-ware packed fruit bowls. His kitchen, currently, was a mess – thank god he’d called the maid the moment he left. 

[dahuism]

sadness is sweet 🌺

flashback time! @mgsonam remember that friends who cry together, stick together.

Sixteen wasn’t always so sweet, Dahui had come to terms with it. High schoolers were childish and voluntarily stepping out of the hierarchy landed you a prime spot on the map of insignificancy. She’d never begged for attention, probably never would do in her lifetime, but she couldn’t help but feel lonely. Dahui loved being alone, but being ignored, insignificant, scorned? Feeling helpless? Being overtly influenced by others? Subject to another’s evaluation when it came to determining her worth? No. She didn’t like that at all. When a sub-clique of ‘popular’ kids decided that it was her turn to be antagonised, and took over the art room at lunchtimes for a rocky month, all she could do was float aimlessly, find another haven. Adaptability was her forte. Art was in her heart. But she didn’t like it.

She told her mom not to worry when she came home with nettle stings on her forearms, acquired from spending her breaks camping out with nature. She hid out anywhere and everywhere at school, fooled herself into thinking that she liked the unexpected challenge of disappearing for an hour or so every day. The toilets, the changing rooms, the rooftop, anywhere where it was quiet. Tears could be thoughts, why not? People went to the ends of the earth to feel something: she was lucky. Lucky that she could sit on the rooftop with a sketchbook in her hands and feel something overwhelming enough to bring her to tears. Lucky that she could muster up the strength to draw it on paper.

In the middle of convincing herself that she was privileged, she heard faint footsteps.

[dahuism]

Learning to let go should be learned before learning to get. Life should be touched, not strangled. You’ve got to relax, let it happen at times, and let others move forward with it.

Ray Bradbury (via quotemadness)

[dahuism]

“Thank you so much,” she sighed gratefully and handed over half of her load in an instant, after reciprocating the respectful bow of course. Dahui floated through life, from one task to the next, and she was used to wholeheartedly accepting, but never solely relying on, the genuine kindness of strangers. It didn’t take her long to accept the help of a man in a work tie and glasses –– call her reckless and/or someone who judged primarily based on appearances, but the truth of the matter was he looked harmless. And she... She was tired. She smiled appreciatively and thanked her lucky stars for help that had just appeared from the blue before she had time to excessively question the situation. 

“It’s a little bit of a walk. 10 minutes or so.” Theoretically, with the excessive weight removed from her grasp, she could walk faster...but in practice, it didn’t seem appropriate to initiate a speed walking contest by rapidly striding off into the horizon. They didn’t have to talk much, just walk in happy silence and enjoy the warm and breezy weather, but Dahui knew the merits of showing gratitude. “Thank you again, I was really struggling.” 

gross...eries 🌺

Even if you insisted on asking, Dongho would forever deny his thing  for convenient stores and supermarkets but he had a thing for places like this, whit a lot of space and shelves, corridors where you could walk through a couple and times, with the excuse of verifying prices and calories out of the packages or pretend you forgot something somewhere to walk a little more.

Privacy or space to wander and wonder was a luxury Dongho didn’t have at home or at work. He is always surrounded by people, phones ringing and loud TV shows lines echoing on his cubicles’ walls. That’s why sometimes he’d stop for ramen or something, treating himself with a bottle of beer after a long day. He likes to take these moments to look closer the life around him, to remind himself to be nice to people, that the whole world didn’t spin around him or his problems and issues, and sometimes nothing really catch his attention but sometimes it does. 

He had had his instant dinner and his drink and was walking home when he sees her, her bags and the struggle.   

Dongho is not like a vigilante superhero to the rescue, no! But he likes to be gentle to those who might need a little help and this lady obviously could use some.He puts his suit jacket hanging on his bag and runs to where she is to politely say hi with a bow while fixing his glasses. “Can I help you with that, miss?“

[dahuism]

Well, when your mind has had a month to wonder... To imagine what you feel like, taste like, to romanticize your deep laugh and floppy black hair, to get caught up in feelings. Kissing him was easy, it was something she was meant to do, something she derived simple pleasure from doing. She smiled at his teasing, her cheeks couldn’t get more flushed if they tried, and cleared her throat with a bashful shrug. "I guess... When in Rome, do as the Romans do?”

Every time he moved, or she moved, the motion caused the flowers around them to disperse a unique but unified fresh scent into the air –– it smelled like her, like him, like them. It was so beautiful that she could cry, all over again. Brought back recollections from her childhood and the time when her mother told her that memories weren’t just pictures that faded over time, those were photographs, memories had particular smells and emotions interwoven into the scenery. Memories had enough senses involved to make one reminisce in the long run. 

They had a lot to talk about eventually, things that she couldn’t brush under the carpet. Although it was a nice surprise to see him again, work place visits would have to be kept at the bare minimum to keep her bad case of Manic-Panic-Hit-the-Ground-Running Syndrome at bay –– she was happy now but if he used any more public declarations as a basis for future visits she would get real edgy, real fast. She needed her space to breathe, he needed his. They needed to figure out something open that wouldn’t make her feel trapped or him feel bored. An organic arrangement that freely transformed to accommodate their needs in the moment. They had to talk about it, not necessarily establish rules but she had to tell him things that made her uncomfortable, get him to see where she was coming from so they could effectively make it up as they went along. And she wanted to set the agenda next time, she wanted to do the wow-ing. 

But! For the time being, all her pre-dinner time crying had made her more hungry than usual. On a regular day after school it only took her 20 minutes max and she’d be kicking off her shoes at home, turning off her rice cooker and placing a few sides on her living room table to satisfy her hunger. Food solved a hell of a lot. She looped her hands around his neck and kissed the tip of his chin. “Did someone say something about food? Dinner? I dropped the tangerines, so uh, that starter is out of the window.”

the smell of spring

The moment she gave in, truly gave in, was the moment he felt at ease. As if all the stress and burdens he carried for the month of not seeing her had all washed away. Her small figure seemed to fit perfectly within his arms. Her soft fingers seemed to soothe him with just their touch, leaving soft electric sparks in its wake. As she reciprocated his kiss – it was as if he’d relapsed, the sweet taste of her lips a drug that could very well be the death of him one day. But frankly, in the moment, he didn’t care. Mind blank, a simple thought on repeat, because God she tasted so sweet. 

The moment was all that he’d imagined and more. Because, frankly, he’d been anticipating quite possibly a quiet rage – for all the attention he’d drawn on his affections towards her. For becoming a hinderance give the spectacle he’d put up at her place of work. Heck, maybe for not coming earlier. Yet, in that very moment, he knew that their hearts were beating at the same time – quick, fast, alive. That perhaps they wanted the same thing: an unburdened, unrestrained love that wasn’t meant to be contained. That, she too, had missed him, as much as he’d missed her. 

Pulling back, both arms wrapped around her as a goofy grin adorned his lips to help shoo away her students. Though, a chuckle couldn’t help but escape as he noticed the apparent shyness of the other as she hid her blushing cheeks within the crook of his neck. It was cute, endearing. Using eyes and silent words he urged the kids to leave and give them some privacy, promising to take them out for whatever they wanted on another date as his chin rested against her cheeks. 

A laugh lept from his brims as quick lips dipped down to steal another soft peck. “would you even believe me if I said it wasn’t nice to see you?” he queried lightly, eyes upturning into smiling crescents as he tucked back her long raven locks to see her in all her glory once the coast was clear. “for someone who doesn’t want to be kissed, you sure were enjoying it.” he teased. 

[dahuism]

the minimalist aesthetic 🌺

@mgchaewon please tell me you understand where Dahui’s coming from, ‘cause you’re the only one...

As an artist, the temptation was there to mark it all her own and leave her personal imprint on everything her nimble hands came into contact with, go go haywire and create something to inspire rather than aspire to. As ‘the help’, she needed to take her client’s wishes into account and put as much of Chaewon’s personality as humanely possible into the new setup, she needed to know Chaewon better than Chaewon knew Chaewon. As she was playing with interiors, she had to consider functionality, lighting, furniture, harmony. As a friend, she wanted to do the best that she could with what she had. 

It was a big job, but she was up to the challenge –– the school term was coming to a rapid close and she needed a part-time project to keep her wandering worn soles satisfied. Something unique to slide in between the photos of paintings in her portfolio never hurt either. But Dahui... Was not the best person when it came to communicating. She struggled to find the words and bring her vision to life without dropping gross spoilers in the process. Plan Extreme Makeover, Apartment Edition, sounded dubious but she needed to say something so Chaewon would trust her with a key.

“So it’ll be kinda simple but also kinda complex with, you know, a warm depth but a cool shallowness kinda... A simple, complex, warm, cool aesthetic. You get it? Super universal but unique. To you.” 

[dahuism]

“Nope. I just like reading. I’m an artist. Mostly gouache paints, sometimes acrylic, I know my way around clay too.” There’s an audible smile in her answer –– it’s fascinating to watch him get as absorbed by the words on the pages as she does, without any hesitation. Dahui knows how it feels to have her head so deep in a book she starts conversing with it. They’re going to be great friends, she feels it.

She only has two mugs but two are more than enough, she’s down to her last bit of milk but it suffices, and the cocoa powder is dwindling but she makes his warm drink with nothing but love and a couple of spoons of sugar. Sure she didn’t know what she was eating tomorrow, but she’d be fine, she was always fine. “Whatta ‘bout you? Are you a writer?”

a single tear 🌺

As fate would have, Kwanju picked exactly one of those books. It’s understandable why people would feel shocked not only by the contents of the book itself but by the fact that Dahui owned them, but since that was literally the first time they saw each other Kwanju didn’t have enough data to feel shocked. He tries his best not to judge people by the looks. 

He calmly reads one paragraph and his eyebrows jump from behind the book. Suddenly he is inspired with lots of nifty ideas to try on later. It’s like they say, who has the knowledge has the power. “Yes, very nice people…” He is now sitting on the floor, still concentrated on reading. Back then clothes sounded way too complicated and Kwanju feels bad for hating on skinny jeans now. He laughs, talking to the book. “Oh been there, done that” – good times – “So hey noona are you like a… Writer or something?”