fnxseokjin - Tumblr blog

[fnxseokjin]

t e t h e r。solo

what is a soulmate? 

how many individuals have grappled with the idea, philosophers attempting to answer such a question, but never seem to reach a consensus. the entire concept is vague, abstract at most, yet we are forever drawn to the idea that there is a perfect half out there waiting for us. perhaps it is the magical quality (that strikes at our romantic bone) that makes up the bulk of this attraction, this hankering. 

once upon a time, i would have said its a remnant of the past, an interaction from the past life left hanging and destined to be completed in this one. if not completed, at least drawn to one another again and again, life after life. most likely, it stemmed from my yearning to reconcile with thamyris and ask why? so many questions left unanswered and a life that drastically altered after he vanished. 

perhaps i am wrong, perhaps everyone else is right. 

aristophanes once proposed that soulmates were the same entity before being split and punished with separation and longing until they found each other again. the unity when one finds their other half would be great joy. others believe that they are reflections of ourselves and others suggest acceptance and knowing you more than you know yourself. 

i like the idea spare for the implication that we are born in misery. sometimes it certainly feels like it but the optimist in me would declare otherwise. we have the potential for happiness, with or without another human being by our side. we are not born empty, missing something tragically important, missing half of ourselves - at least i'd rather not believe it to be true. 

especially when it is framed in the terms of exclusivity nor does it have to be romantic. it regards people you come across that understands and that you connect with. it is those individuals you don't want to let go of. the ones that resonate so deeply you think they've left permanent markings on your soul. the chances are, they have. 

it is not coincidence or chance. this is fate, this is destiny. 

it is a connection between the spirits. if you've felt it, you'd know... at least i hope you do.

[fnxseokjin]

An internal clock wired to recognize routine doesn't stop when it hits Saturday or Sunday. Behavioural patterns are imprinted into neural pathways and Seokjin wakes up with the sense of emptiness. The alarm clock is set for two hours later but circadian rhythm dictates otherwise, disregarding late night movies and conversations spilling into the ungodly hours of night. A toss and a turn does nothing to help the process so he concedes. 

Breakfast doesn't make itself, he excuses; floors don't clean themselves, he defends and drags his body around the apartment. The world narrows down to menial tasks and the quiet protest of his stomach where muscle memory gives time for the mind to rouse from the last vestiges of slumber.

The mind gets caught in a reverie of collecting limbs from the bed and wonders if it'll stay supple or would the unannounced action disturb the other's dreams? Temptation stills busy hands and beckons him back under the covers to fake sleep until the sharp buzz marks the end of rest - nothing more than an excuse to experience the radioactive byproduct that a slumbering boy can give off. He's warm and it is cold outside, Seokjin rationalizes.

But on the way back to his bed room he sees Jimin perched on the couch and Seokjin begins to muse as to whether or not his head is too far in the clouds to miss details like this. He thinks it is. Yet gravity centers when he meets the other's eyes, like they usually do. A sigh escapes as his shoulders relax from some unknown source of tension. It reminds him of the bustle found in airports and how his fingers clutch at his passport as he searches the sea of humans frantically for a familiar face. When he does, there's a collective sigh and warmth spreads out from his thoracic cavity and-

"It is." Lethargy seeps back into his bones as he settles himself beside the boy, grateful for the invitation and for everything else. Seokjin gives, weight and all, to the couch, deliberating the day it is given to the boy. (Maybe he already has) Seokjin fits into his awkward body in these moments, at home with his bent fingers and broad shoulders, where Jimin is close enough to embrace his imperfections and all. 

Of Rust And Honey

Scientifically at least, he’s aware that there are no hard facts that could elucidate the way subtle relief trickles down his spine when Seokjin is in arms reach. The part of the couch he’s been uncomfortably perching on, sinks under subtle repositioning and he’s composed entirely of the awakening lethargy that morning conceives, sighs threading into vacancy, warmth permeating absence, creaking bones and popping joints. He takes a moment to reacquaint himself with contentment as eyes meet like they usually do, in their slow appreciative connection, then simply pats the seat next to him. “Too early to do anything,” he remarks, seemingly asserting his statement by the grain in his tone. And of course he excludes the part where he clarifies that the opposite of anything wouldn’t be the absence of, but maybe just staying still for an hour or so in a place where time is gracing irrelevance just enough to be believable.

[fnxseokjin]

fnxhoseok​:

[12:02 am; Seokkie] Is that anyway to wish anyone a happy birthday? By dumping soup on their head? [12:03 am; Seokkie] Thank you though. =3 But why ten minutes? [12:13 am; Seokkie] Is it okay to open it now? Or should I wait longer? 

[ 12:04 am ; Hobi ] correction: [ 12:04 am ; Hobi ] i'm pretty sure i typed ass [ 12:05 am ; Hobi ] also do i look like i can teleport? 

Seokjin attempts to sound as annoyed as he can possibly be, hoping Hoseok imagines huffing on his end like the ways he slips into a more nurturing side of himself despite the amusement on his lips as he sends the text. Tongue still stinging from how he had too eagerly taste-tested the soup and in a hurry had burnt himself (stupidly jointed fingers) as if the bandages on his index and thumb weren't tale-tell signs of a tragedy. He stuffs the phone in his pocket and grabs the plastic bag with seaweed soup and bottles of soju for good measure. Birthdays require early celebrations after all. 

He's maybe two minutes away from Hoseok's apartment when his phone vibrates angrily in his pocket and blinks at the message.

[ 12:14 am ; Hobi ] impatient much? he taunts.

[ 12:16 am ; Hobi ] here !!

[fnxseokjin]

Sometimes Seokjin wonders if it is luck or the three ladies at the spinning wheel that threads were woven tightly that the original divergence seems like an eternity past. He certainly does count his stars but he likes to pretend it is a little more than mere luck or pure coincidence that he's seated here and balancing soup in his hands. Most likely wishful thinking on his part.

"There, there," he says as condescending as he can manage, patting the other's knee upon hearing the request because Seokjin's heart is soft and malleable and he knows it. Hoseok probably wouldn't cry (who would, really?) but Seokjin enjoys the sentiment. 

So he gives in. It's not hard when there's no resistance and does as he's instructed. Spoon after spoon, filled to the edges with soup, with the only goal of getting better. Or, in all honesty, draining the bowl as soon as possible because desires sometime align in odd ways - and this is one of them. With each mouthful, Seokjin prays that it warms the other a little bit. There's no scientific evidence that it can help but he has faith in natural defences and the placebo effect. 

When all things are said and done, soup utensil rejected and bowl collected to the bedside, cleanup an afterthought to be dealt with in the far future, he finds himself tangled in the soft cage of limbs. Yet feverish skin burns warmer than it should. Seokjin tolerates it all the same, out of the abstract concept they call loyalty and friendship. 

(It hinges upon a third but you can't conjure up the word, the radioactive by product toying with the mind.)

Fingers fumble and drag blankets to cover inches of skin Seokjin can't hold. The body can only embrace so much and he tries his best to envelope the other. If an arm falls prey to numbness then so be it. 

Body angled in a way he can study the other's soon slumbering face, he utters, barely audible: "I'll stay. As long as you want me to, I'll stay" even if it hinges on forever.

Fever Dream | Hoseok and Seokjin

Hoseok reached out with what energy he had left only to nudge at Seokjin’s hand, with a raised brow. He sat there quietly and ate as many spoonfuls as he could until his stomach stopped complaining loudly and until he felt as though he could be rolled down the hallway. When he was done, he reached out and pushed the spoon away from his mouth gently shaking his head. Taking the bowl out of Seokjin’s grasp, he set it on his bedside table and then wrapped his arms around his best friend’s shoulder before tugging him down into the large and cold bed. “I’m cold and you’re so warm.” He whined out as he wrapped his limbs around Seokjin’s lanky form before burying his nose in the space behind the other’s ear.

[fnxseokjin]

The boy constructed of petals, thinly held together by dabs of glue, prefers days where gold spills onto tiles when Helios is prepared to bring his steeds home. Skies as grey and dark as today reminds him of athena's stormy eyes they love to depict in stories. Storms remind him of turmoil and irreparable damage, of tears and the funeral dirge, and of fear and claps of thunder. Rain confines him to indoor spaces where feet drags against carpet and he wishes for warmth to return. Days like these promise delayed schedules and a heavy heart. 

Seokjin returns to the work at hand. The broom is still gripped tightly in his hand as he cleans up the last traces of humanity from floor (not that it matters because more dampened boots will come through those doors and leave muddy footprints again). He gives up soon after, grateful for the small dose of rain rather than a downpour, and tries to coax life back to his fingers in warm water and soap. 

His gaze wanders back to his normal post where the aroma of coffee mingles with the warm scent of pastries. Fingers drag themselves down the length of his apron, leaving elongated imprints of hands but he was never one to be so attentive to his own appearance. Besides, customers don't see past the waist. As long as his smile is professional enough, eyes shouldn't wander too much, right? As he continues his action, absentmindedly, he finally realizes the boy at his station. A flush of shame courses through his system as he quietly wonders how he has managed to keep this job. 

Head dipping into a nod as lips contort to perform his usual smile, and lips are about to utter his default phrase of how can I help you when his manager's words are recalled. He could be wrong. This could just be a customer eager for his daily dose of coffee. Lips part as he attempts to ask but words are still swirling. 

You must be-- no. Are you-- not the right one either. Deep breath. "Hello," a plain enough beginning before he follows it up with: "are you, by any chance, the newbie?" Seokjin then attempts to bridge the awkwardness with an offered hand. "Kim Seokjin," he presents before inspecting the boy and creating a mental check list for an apron and maybe an ironed shirt (surely Seokjin has an extra one in the closet).

❝ Sollicitus ❞

Turning to view his reflection in the shine of the glass that kept the treats warm, he looked exhausted but that was his life. Fixing his composure as his attention goes back to the slowly approaching face, his face lights up all the same as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries to contain the excitement that threatens to burst out.

[fnxseokjin]

You care and it’s all over the place.

Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters (via larmoyante)

[fnxseokjin]

*quiet jin voice* no~

[fnxseokjin]

Silver spoon halted in mid air as Seokjin contemplated playing the game one does with children - the airplane that lands with a whoosh at the tip of the tongue - when Hoseok interrupts his train of thought.

"Then I suppose it is fortunate that your bed is big enough for two," Seokjin jokes, surveying his friend's face and wondering why the other didn't trust him more. That yes, there is a risk for the spread of disease but a minor cold is worth it no? And there are some people, the boy thinks he's fortunate enough, to run every risk for.

He wonders to what extent can he torment Hoseok before he is thrown out of the apartment when Seokjin decides to retry feeding the other. "Open wide~" the tone is playful as a smirk draws across his face. He wonders if he'd get sued for being a 'bad friend' for his terrible feeding skills (not including the forceful feeding of soup) resulting in escaped droplets to the side. Thankfully, the sheets remain disaster free (for the time being).

A napkin in hand, Seokjin dabs at the corner of his friend's lips, grinning and tempted to comment about why Hoseok should get a girlfriend to do things like this for him. But he doubts much would get through at this state. At least, personally, a sickened Seokjin cannot comprehend the world spare for ow everything hurts and the bed is my one true love. 

Yet he recalls the irritation and the sensitivity to loud noises and obnoxious humans and the rising crankiness and wonders if he has got it all wrong. Maybe he should have left his friend alone... Seokjin is being inconsiderate and suddenly overwhelmed by an onslaught of guilt. It is a bit late but, "I can leave if you want," he offers; smile perhaps as sheepish as the day Hermes was confronted by Apollo about cattle.

Fever Dream | Hoseok and Seokjin

Opening his eyes he was welcomed by the sight of his good friend, the one who infallibly seemed to know even Hoseok even better than he knew himself sometimes. Sighing, his eyes fluttered a few times before he pushed himself into a sitting position. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Hoseok leaned back against his headboard as he surveyed his room and the sight of Seokjin sitting beside him. He was holding a bowl in his hands and he would bet almost all of his money that there was some kind of soup or stew in that bowl. “I told you not to come over. You’re going to get sick.” He winced at the sound of his own hoarse voice and fought back the urge to cough erratically. He wasn’t trying to be mean with his words but rather was too concerned about the others health. 

[fnxseokjin]

Mercy is never granted.

At some point he supposes, when arms are interlocked and he has nowhere to run, that this will be fine. Yes. Of course it will be. Just a few minutes with the wind tousling hair and trying to claw at the face without nails… Yes. Everything will be all right.

At some point Seokjin is convinced his knees will give out.

The pats of reassurance hardly covers the anxiety coiling in his stomach. Although for a few brief moments he takes comfort in the touch and places faith in the promises uttered of fun. But breath is stolen again when eyes trace the path that winds through air and it takes all of his willpower to not cling to the young boy.

Fingers dig into the safety and eyes snap shut before scenery unfolds. Heart held somewhere in the esophagus, ready to be handed out to the world below. Stomach drops and there is nothing to catch it’s fall.

It feels like an eternity and Seokjin is convinced that this contraption was invented in the pits of Tartarus. And when he’s finally seated on something attached to solid earth (thank the gods), he wonders if this is what it feels like to not have knees at all. Absorbed in his fears and once again observing how humans can possibly call an instrument of torture fun, he fails to realize that his companion has departed.

It takes a stick of fluff to bring him back to earth. One glance and he grows weak at the knees, his stomach still threatens to fold upon himself, and his heart attempts to leap out of his chest. Timid are the fingers that reach out for the reward (or at least he believes it to be), grazing Taehyung’s before his lips try at a smile.

"Thank you."

Tension seeps out of his shoulders and it’s likely that he has it all wrong. Its the suspension bridge effect, he muses before sugar melts on his tongue. “Maybe,” Seokjin attempts after a shaky exhale, “we should shoot some things or ride the Ferris wheel for a change.” Please. He doesn’t want to be a lame companion on a rare day off but consecutive rides might very well be condemning him to the fields of punishment.

escape velocity。ft. taehyung

“So what’s his name?” he asks once again, parted lips spreading into a face-splitting grin.

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[fnxseokjin]

Jin - THE STAR making.

[fnxseokjin]

Dispersed are thoughts and attention span too fleeting when it comes to the mundane work at hand. The aroma of coffee beans already a staple in daily routine and does nothing for a man who prefers tea to caffeinated beverages. He remembers the first time, between mindless whistling and inspecting the grime tainting floors, he paused and nearly had to stuff his fist into his mouth to prevent the squeals from becoming audible. He recalls, with perfection, what the customer was wearing down the the exact drink he had ordered — because balanced in his lap was the beautiful Nintendo DS (dark blue to make matters worse).

Seokjin can also count the number of times they had to call him back behind the counter; baffled by his sudden interest in sweeping the floors.

And if first impressions are anything to go by as predictors for a relationship, then this was a start of a glorious one. (He once used to insist that he could feel it in his bones and perhaps still does.)

It's only solidified in time, through similar interests and levels of comfortability. Most importantly there's the unexpected: limbs sprawled against sheets, appendages that are not his own. The idea of sharing space with those without blood relations, one so private, is a foreign concept. He realizes he doesn't mind and perhaps enjoys it more than he lets on.

It's a birthday gift and one he has yet to use, courtesy of his elder brother. A simple polaroid camera sent in conjunction with a photo album. For memories, it explains in his mother's elegant script. Seokjin finds himself a seat besides the younger boy, a hand across the shoulders before voicing "smile", and documents the moment for all of eternity.

Park Jimin is a boy of firsts. It's only proper that the first picture be of him as well.

Eyes flicker over to the boy and he swears it's the exact same outfit like the first time he stumbled upon Jimin. And maybe he's grinning and maybe he can't put a finger as to why but it doesn't matter. Not really anyways. He hides the curve of lips in the task of wiping down pots and waits till the hands of the clock align so fingers can tug at the strings that imprison him to his apron.

There's freedom in the way he slides into his coat, a little cold from neglect, and matches his pace to that of Jimin's. Then he's distracted again, boreas' wind relentless in the way they ruffle the boy's hair and he fights to keep hands to himself. Creeping daylight casts shadows and he's imprinting the contours of he other's face into his memories and—

Palms of hands beckon him and Seokjin can't resist. Probably never will be. Fingers timid for a second before he grasps it tightly, "I'll pay," he assures. "Pick a place and I'll pay." It's dangerous, the amount of trust you place into hands younger than your own. There's probably a million reasons why he shouldn't but he can't come up with one. So instead he squeezes lightly and smiles before allowing his mind to wonder if wine and candles are appropriate.

Avril 14th

"Let’s go eat somewhere fancy like those businessmen do when they’re talking about well—business and stuff." He suggests while already on the move in a particular direction because he’s too eager for his own good, one hand outstretched with his palm towards the sky in invitation to take it even though it’s not much of an invitation at all if he expects there to be no possible chance for rejection.

[fnxseokjin]

childhood constructs。solo

i.

you’re six when you play giants and harass ants that scurry to save their lives. cruelty is a vague concept and often sacrificed for the sake of play. the laughter that escapes your lips is all it takes for a mother’s forgiveness. the chiding gentle as a hand rests upon her hips and the other waggles in front of your face.

this is what love is.

ii.

you’re young and maybe bold when your heart are in your hands in the form of milk chocolate. yes, the one you slaved over last night.

( you’ve heard your seniors speaking about love and how it’s butterflies in your stomach and a heart threatening to leap out your chest — surely the diarrhea a side effect — whenever the girl walks by. hence curiosity has spurred you to confess. )

despite her expression of confusion and the clear no, you feel nothing. no disappointment nor remorse.

they are all wrong about love. but hey, at least you got some chocolates out of it.

iii.

"seokjin…" and pink are the soft lips uttering your name and it takes almost everything to resist the urge to taste them.

"you’re nice and all but you’re not who i thought you would be."

and there it is, the one word that hints at yet another failure.

"i feel kind of disappointed by your personality."

how many times have you heard the same words?

apparently letting someone win at mario kart isn’t an act of love (actually, the act of playing any video games isn’t an act of love at all). your heart either does nothing or she begins to find faults with you. at some point you wonder if the love you’ve heard about so long ago was nothing more than a myth of old.

iv.

between the soju bottles on the floor and your foot nudged against hoseok’s knee, you say: “if i wasn’t straight i would kiss you,” like a trial of sorts, as if saying it out loud would make it come true. you don’t search his face for an answer but rather trace the patterns of the floor with your eyes, still savoring the words and testing their legitimacy.

it’s not until much later do you wonder if it’s necessary, if orientation really matters. they say love is forged between a man and a woman. yet if they are wrong, like they so often are, wouldn’t this too be only a portion of the truth?

you will make your own definition, thank you very much.

v.

"do you even know if he loves you?" there’s the sway of the wind and your brother’s doubt that has you halted. you still rock back and forth, onto your toes and off, all molecules of your body yearning to be by his side.

"i don’t." and that’s the truth. you say it with a smile on your face as brother’s brows furrow. it diminishes his handsomeness, you wish to point out but refrain because there are other places to be. maybe the wind decided to sweep your long locks into your face and you tuck them behind your ear.

"but i love him," you say (maybe sing) then pause for a moment before confessing, "at least i think this is love." hesitance in the way you tug at the hem of your chiton.

"isn’t that all that matters?" you question before you run off, giving him time to contemplate.

it should be.

[fnxseokjin]

Hello Jin ~

[fnxseokjin]

The alarm is silent yet again when Seokjin rouses to a lazy sun filtering through the drapes. The clock indicates just minutes before when it should have gone off and perhaps he should stop setting it... perhaps. But it acts as a fail safe of sorts and Seokjin can't find it in himself to cease.

Instead of finding an excuse to laze around in bed for a few more minutes, like he used to insist, he gets up. Foot flexes against the tiles too cold for bare feet and he regrets not slipping on socks the night before. The preparation for the day begins like this.

Morning rituals are somehow sacred from setting the kettle on the stove to shaving his face to perfection yet it gets shattered by the ringtone saved for texts. Not that he minds, especially not when he reads the contents. It may be him reading too much into it to suspect anything other than what was provided.

Sometimes he places too much faith in himself.

[ txt → hobi ] got it ~

Something simple, something neutral. Seokjin then begins to debate between porridge or broth.

.

.

He could very well be wrong but it doesn't hurt to try. The worst possible outcome to be some extra soup on his hands, he muses as he invites himself into Hoseok's home. For once, he doesn't announce his presence or anything else but rather just looks around.

Seokjin finds Hoseok curled up in bed, lips curled into a smile of fondness and hand resting upon hips in exasperation. Morning lectures can wait, he decides as he transfers his kongnamulguk into a porcelain bowl.

"Hoseok," he calls because it is second nature, almost like the way he slides into the other's bed without further thought, balancing the bean sprout soup in one hand and the spoon in the other. "Have some soup before you keep resting," and maybe there's some guilt for disobeying the text and for disturbing the other from sleep but it gets clouded by the concern for his friend's health amongst other things.

Fever Dream | Hoseok and Seokjin

The wake up process for Hoseok generally started with his alarm going off at a decent time, followed by at least 20 minutes spent just lazing in bed as he struggled to wake up. But this morning, no this morning was completely different than that. His alarm dutifully went off at 8 am, breaking the silence in the room with a loud piercing shrill. Groaning, he reached out gingerly to turn the damn alarm off; once again allowing the room to fall back into darkness and silence. Rolling over and pulling the covers down from over his head, Hoseok struggled to breathe as he realized that not only was he completely stuffed up but that his throat was sore as well. The room was ice cold but he was burning up and that little cough had morphed overnight into a full on cold with fever. Scooting to the edge of the bed, he shot off a text to his daytime manager letting him know that there was no way that Hoseok was coming in, not unless Between the Pages was going to burn down. He was the owner and as owner he should be allowed little days like this one.

Before turning the phone off and curling back up, he shot one more text off to Seokjin letting him know not to come by like he generally did on most mornings. He would rather Seokjin not catch whatever it was that he had, knowing that the other would push himself too hard even if he was sick. But at the same time, he knew if he told the other he was sick that Seokjin would be at his doorstep in a matter of minutes.

[to Jinnie] Hey, I’m heading into work early. So don’t bother coming by. 

[to Jinnie] Not unless you want to cook for an empty apartment

Sending the text, he curled back up into the covers and headed back to sleep. 

[fnxseokjin]

sweet like cinnamon。ft. taehyung

[`0745 : to »» seokjin] surprise??

[`0745 : to »» seokjin] i’m expecting a lot from you hyung (ㄱ◡ㄱ)

[`0745 : to »» seokjin] by the great holy power invested in me, you are hereby forgiven.

[`0746 : to »» seokjin] but you still have to reflect.

[`0748 : to »» seokjin] perhaps by giving me a hint of what this surprise is c;

text alerts are lost in the burn of a tongue and the taste of seaweed as he adds yet another teaspoon of sesame oil. the undying love for the ingredient is troublesome but he forgets how it's an acquired taste. the love for food and the love for sharing food is ingrained in the way he slaves over something as simple as a birthday tradition, aiming for perfection — the way he likes it. it's better than it used to be: countless phone calls home, rousing his mother from slumber, asking for guidance each step of the way.

a little over an hour is all it takes as he begins packing it up, still worrying over the fact he may have gone overboard. probably really should have just settled for cake (but it's not handmade and that makes all the difference). the worst case scenario would be hoseok forced to have this vat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

[ 8:07 ; taehyung ] ... ㅠㅠ taehyung-ah..

it nearly slips from his grasps just seconds after he presses send. knuckles rap against the door at a rapid rate that seems to mimic his heart. it'll take a while before it can be controlled but at least the face can be composed.

"surprise!" he (almost) sings, smile hopefully as wide as his arms as he opens the door. "we are going cake shopping."

[fnxseokjin]

[fnxseokjin]

to have & (maybe) to hold。ft. seohyun

Lips curl as the bitter taste melds into the familiar aftertaste that warms it’s way up his throat and fingers trace the side of the now empty shot glass. He’s lost track between the rotation of bartenders and the muted tracks in the background ; glasses are whisked away before he can count or refilled before he can refuse.

Seokjin wouldn’t.

See, here’s the thing, there are only a handful of things that he can clearly label as belonging solely to this life not some half forgotten memory dredged up from a place too painful to recall. So this is what he does despite recoiling in disgust as ethanol slides down his esophagus yet again.

It is a pattern on repeat, a habit hard to break.

is pathetic. There’s a disparity between mortals and immortals — this isn’t what he minds — but the uselessness he embodies, the fear he may end up like his incarnation is what keeps him up at night.

Kim Seokjin (like Hyacinth) is just another pretty boy.

Nothing more and nothing less. He’s only remembered for being a male lover to a god and coveted by another.

Do fates follow the same trajectory? he questions as another glass makes it’s way down.

He’s useless. Fists don’t connect with enough force to make a statement or force someone to back off. Seokjin can only threaten and work with the aftermath of lending a shoulder to cry on or a hand to hold through the night. He puts up a front and dries tears. He’s nothing but a failure, forever falling short of what he wants to be.

Finger scrolls through the directory of names and phone numbers because there’s something lacking that he can’t quite place a finger on. Whether it is the lack of company or a friend he doesn’t know.

[ txt → 公主 SEOB ] i miss you

Regrets are meant to accumulate and he presses send before he can reconsider. The mind is unaware of who it gets to and perhaps he doesn’t care anymore. Apathy is the first and most comfortable emotion to dwell in.

Sometimes he wonders if it is better to remain ignorant, to remain unaware of his past and the truth of the inhabitants occupying this city.