uneven breathing - seulkai - canoncleonsykFebruary 6 2016, 15:20:25 UTC
She's been told she's pretty. Dozens of times.
By different people, by reason of her occupation as an idol, her hair dyed and blown into all sorts of waves and colors, her body utilized to wear the latest trend. Sometimes she thanks every god in all heaven and hell she's debuted into a group of equally talented girls (topping charts is no easy a), and in a quite demanding agency. It gets her mind off of things she's scared to substantiate into anything other than bad salad over dinner.
But the bad salad is back in the form of tousled bed hair, mismatched eyes and a white shirt twice his size (or has he grown emaciated over the months of dead long tours around half the globe?).
The way he stumbles into the practice room makes her tense, still and quiet, as he rubs his eyes and yawns, the morning light slipping through the glass window. He holds up his thumb with another finger and a half as a greeting and there is no telling how long she's waited for him to acknowledge her once more - there were no severed ties, she vaguely recalls, but she does remember that after he debuted, talking to him has become close to impossible.
They were nothing, Seulgi lets it sink in, deep, deep into her bones, but an opposing beat in her chest always demanded otherwise.
And really, she can't blame him for it. Maybe it's silly, Seulgi thinks, that she feels the need to avoid him at every corner they blatantly bump into each other. She reminds herself it's not her fault, and neither is it his, that their friendship, and whatever boundaries blurred before, are gone with the wind now, poof, totally gone.
She knows she's thinking too hard and putting up that face again, brows knitted together, a frown, eyes attempting not to make an eye roll at his sudden presence because then, Jongin returns the confused expression and scratches the back of his head.
"Morning," he says, unsure.
He drops his bag to the corner near the aircon, again creating distance in between them, Seulgi notes. Eight, nine, ten floorboards away. Always been counting floorboards of how far he has gotten and it aches to know she's never let go of the mere expectancy he'll decrease the said number.
She hums a response, but it seems the boy interprets it as a condescending dismissal of him initiating contact. Seulgi turns and picks up her bag, swings the face towel over her shoulder and stares long and hard one last time at her reflection in the mirror, tightening her pony tail. It is an unspoken rule between co-workers in this company that when, during unscheduled vacancies, one decides to use the practice room, the previous user shall permit him after the former renders their own hours of training. Seulgi has spent it all night, so she heads for the door.
Her arm however is pulled unnecessarily by a force to reckon with, literally, and she twists back to see Jongin looking not less pained than she is. Silence ensues, like a trite in those sad operas, and she gulps but refrains from making any movement.
"I'm sorry."
A sigh escapes her mouth. "Jongin, get a brush, you look stupid."
She's been told she's pretty. Dozens of times. Most of them from the person in front of her, still gripping her wrist, but at the same time, cracking a smile at her anticlimactic response to what could've been a remedy to the ache they've been carrying around for years.
She's been told she's pretty. And it's sad how she's wanted to be more than that to him.
By different people, by reason of her occupation as an idol, her hair dyed and blown into all sorts of waves and colors, her body utilized to wear the latest trend. Sometimes she thanks every god in all heaven and hell she's debuted into a group of equally talented girls (topping charts is no easy a), and in a quite demanding agency. It gets her mind off of things she's scared to substantiate into anything other than bad salad over dinner.
But the bad salad is back in the form of tousled bed hair, mismatched eyes and a white shirt twice his size (or has he grown emaciated over the months of dead long tours around half the globe?).
The way he stumbles into the practice room makes her tense, still and quiet, as he rubs his eyes and yawns, the morning light slipping through the glass window. He holds up his thumb with another finger and a half as a greeting and there is no telling how long she's waited for him to acknowledge her once more - there were no severed ties, she vaguely recalls, but she does remember that after he debuted, talking to him has become close to impossible.
They were nothing, Seulgi lets it sink in, deep, deep into her bones, but an opposing beat in her chest always demanded otherwise.
And really, she can't blame him for it. Maybe it's silly, Seulgi thinks, that she feels the need to avoid him at every corner they blatantly bump into each other. She reminds herself it's not her fault, and neither is it his, that their friendship, and whatever boundaries blurred before, are gone with the wind now, poof, totally gone.
She knows she's thinking too hard and putting up that face again, brows knitted together, a frown, eyes attempting not to make an eye roll at his sudden presence because then, Jongin returns the confused expression and scratches the back of his head.
"Morning," he says, unsure.
He drops his bag to the corner near the aircon, again creating distance in between them, Seulgi notes. Eight, nine, ten floorboards away. Always been counting floorboards of how far he has gotten and it aches to know she's never let go of the mere expectancy he'll decrease the said number.
She hums a response, but it seems the boy interprets it as a condescending dismissal of him initiating contact. Seulgi turns and picks up her bag, swings the face towel over her shoulder and stares long and hard one last time at her reflection in the mirror, tightening her pony tail. It is an unspoken rule between co-workers in this company that when, during unscheduled vacancies, one decides to use the practice room, the previous user shall permit him after the former renders their own hours of training. Seulgi has spent it all night, so she heads for the door.
Her arm however is pulled unnecessarily by a force to reckon with, literally, and she twists back to see Jongin looking not less pained than she is. Silence ensues, like a trite in those sad operas, and she gulps but refrains from making any movement.
"I'm sorry."
A sigh escapes her mouth. "Jongin, get a brush, you look stupid."
She's been told she's pretty. Dozens of times. Most of them from the person in front of her, still gripping her wrist, but at the same time, cracking a smile at her anticlimactic response to what could've been a remedy to the ache they've been carrying around for years.
She's been told she's pretty. And it's sad how she's wanted to be more than that to him.
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