Fictionette
FICTIONETTE;; PG
Knees pulled to her chin, arms crossed round her legs, protected.
She might have been at the brink of maturity - almost 18, but vulnerability pulled her at the core.
If you don’t want to Soojung- I understand-
It’s just work, oppa.
Never had choices really though, not when they were young, under someone else’s commands, still itching for the glorification of others.
Flashes went off in the distance, her eyes glazed over and then she remembered they weren’t supposed to, weren’t supposed to know, weren’t supposed to see.
The coffee cup felt good in her grasp, warm and distracting, made a sore at the tip of her tongue when she tried to guzzle it down too fast, anxious.
Hands cradled her chin up, fingertips brazen and soft against her skin.
Are you okay?
Yeah, Minho oppa.
Stick out your tongue so I can see you didn’t burn yourself.
Genuine or scripted?
The mango sorbet he traded her with after leaves a tingling sensation on the minute sliver of tongue affected, but she drank it all.
Hats were pulled low, black and blue ones.
Incognito.
She went home with his sweater; it was oversized and manly - he gave it to her by his car, a large and boisterous SUV that he helped her get into by the start of the walkway.
Arms still felt tight and held when she got into bed, alone - she almost savored the moment before remembering it was all fiction.
Japan was a godsend, no questions to fumble over the answers for.
Minho texted her once,
I wish you were here.
he was the one who had to endure the press - as he should.
She practiced her Japanese in between recordings, slow and not to be mistaken with her deteriorating English, Ko-ni-chi-wa.
Eyes saw a lot it shouldn’t, eyes saw a lot it didn’t want to.
She giggled admiringly into a long lens, fluttered her eyelashes bashfully just right to lure in the audience, and the cameraman loved it - basking her in adulation when the red light faded and the screen went dark.
The perfect practiced coy look, to say, I don’t know if we’re dating or not, but I consider oppa a good friend of mine and those pictures that made headlines don’t mean anything or maybe they do - giggle, giggle, giggle.
Krystal Jung was a good actress.
She had been preparing to be one since she was five, used to steal her mother’s lipstick to scrawl illegible autographs.
Closed doors, frumpled clothes, the remnants of long lasting red marks on display at the neck, unashamed glance at Krystal when she walked down the hall as if she wasn’t supposed to acknowledge it because that was what she signed up for.
Minho was not a good actor.
Minho oppa is just a good sunbae.
Minho oppa takes care of me like a brother.
Our relationship is that of a oppa-dongsaeng.
Memorization was key when it came to giving interviews.
Dreams of Kwon Yuri infiltrated her sleep for a while - her lazy smile, manipulative curves, that eagerness to become weak whenever Minho was around.
Krystal buried herself into her pillow, hoping that she would suddenly wake up: glowy tan, seductive lines, ample breasts.
Sexpot.
You could do better.
I don’t like him.
Then stop biting your lips and moping.
I’m not.
Kai’s arms found her sometimes, enveloping her in the dark with comfort - even after the hurdle of insults first.
She looked up at Kai (bit her lips again) and kissed him, tender with her eyes wide open.
She didn’t have to say it but he already knew what she was thinking.
‘Am I worthless?’
He undid her shoelaces and took off her socks, gingerly, one by one as if her feet were precious, meaningful things.
Bedtime always felt nicer with someone there to tuck her in.
Taemin tells me you’re dating Kai.
No.
Eyes flamed, directed at her?
Someone yelled action from afar, and Minho grabbed the back of her head, hair caught between his hold passionately.
Their second date.
Sand dug between her toes, she felt the grains passing between her crevices, so ticklish and sharp yet smooth, and her feet sunk when the water poured in.
Minho kissed her, tilting heads and demanding, puckered lips begging to be received equally but Krystal zoned out, waited until the photographers signaled what to do next, groaned enough at not following the script with precision before giving Minho needy affection back.
Bad acting.
Her toes froze when the tide surfaced and became cooler with the sundown.
They finally wrapped up by the rocks, cuddled beneath a blanket.
Hot breath poured down her neck, his normally soft arms a bit possessive under the red and orange patterns she counted as the cameras still rolled - from an unnoticeable but aware distance.
It was those flaming eyes and stare again.
Are you jealous, Minho oppa?
Hesitation.
Krystal was a good actor because she could always knock people off their feet when they least expected it.
No. Why? Are you upset that me and Yuri are dating?
No. It’s just work, remember?
Headlines read, “A tearful break-up,” “SM’s shortlived young romance no more.”
Ironically pictures used in between filming of the romantic shots; real candids of Minho and Krystal talking, distancing, sorting, avoiding.
Reality, not fiction.
Krystal wondered what happened to the good shots, the one where her hair caught the wind majestically, the ones where she angled her head to a calculated degree to catch Minho’s eyes and look up, the ones where she had slid her hands up his abdomen under his shirt where it was nice and cozy and couldn’t catch the sea breeze, huddled underneath his hold, his sweet singing lulling her to sleep under the guise of the welcoming night water.
They broke up you know. Taemin told me.
I don’t care.
And she really didn’t. Not when her eyes were closed and she was getting tucked in and she dreamt about her own sexpot lips in delight as Kai crawled above her to kiss her goodnight.
Minho was thinking about this moment on his own, somewhere far away in livid jealousy.
Reality. Candid. Autobiographical. Truth. Non-fiction.
Knees pulled to her chin, arms crossed round her legs, protected.
She might have been at the brink of maturity - almost 18, but vulnerability pulled her at the core.
If you don’t want to Soojung- I understand-
It’s just work, oppa.
Never had choices really though, not when they were young, under someone else’s commands, still itching for the glorification of others.
Flashes went off in the distance, her eyes glazed over and then she remembered they weren’t supposed to, weren’t supposed to know, weren’t supposed to see.
The coffee cup felt good in her grasp, warm and distracting, made a sore at the tip of her tongue when she tried to guzzle it down too fast, anxious.
Hands cradled her chin up, fingertips brazen and soft against her skin.
Are you okay?
Yeah, Minho oppa.
Stick out your tongue so I can see you didn’t burn yourself.
Genuine or scripted?
The mango sorbet he traded her with after leaves a tingling sensation on the minute sliver of tongue affected, but she drank it all.
Hats were pulled low, black and blue ones.
Incognito.
She went home with his sweater; it was oversized and manly - he gave it to her by his car, a large and boisterous SUV that he helped her get into by the start of the walkway.
Arms still felt tight and held when she got into bed, alone - she almost savored the moment before remembering it was all fiction.
Japan was a godsend, no questions to fumble over the answers for.
Minho texted her once,
I wish you were here.
he was the one who had to endure the press - as he should.
She practiced her Japanese in between recordings, slow and not to be mistaken with her deteriorating English, Ko-ni-chi-wa.
Eyes saw a lot it shouldn’t, eyes saw a lot it didn’t want to.
She giggled admiringly into a long lens, fluttered her eyelashes bashfully just right to lure in the audience, and the cameraman loved it - basking her in adulation when the red light faded and the screen went dark.
The perfect practiced coy look, to say, I don’t know if we’re dating or not, but I consider oppa a good friend of mine and those pictures that made headlines don’t mean anything or maybe they do - giggle, giggle, giggle.
Krystal Jung was a good actress.
She had been preparing to be one since she was five, used to steal her mother’s lipstick to scrawl illegible autographs.
Closed doors, frumpled clothes, the remnants of long lasting red marks on display at the neck, unashamed glance at Krystal when she walked down the hall as if she wasn’t supposed to acknowledge it because that was what she signed up for.
Minho was not a good actor.
Minho oppa is just a good sunbae.
Minho oppa takes care of me like a brother.
Our relationship is that of a oppa-dongsaeng.
Memorization was key when it came to giving interviews.
Dreams of Kwon Yuri infiltrated her sleep for a while - her lazy smile, manipulative curves, that eagerness to become weak whenever Minho was around.
Krystal buried herself into her pillow, hoping that she would suddenly wake up: glowy tan, seductive lines, ample breasts.
Sexpot.
You could do better.
I don’t like him.
Then stop biting your lips and moping.
I’m not.
Kai’s arms found her sometimes, enveloping her in the dark with comfort - even after the hurdle of insults first.
She looked up at Kai (bit her lips again) and kissed him, tender with her eyes wide open.
She didn’t have to say it but he already knew what she was thinking.
‘Am I worthless?’
He undid her shoelaces and took off her socks, gingerly, one by one as if her feet were precious, meaningful things.
Bedtime always felt nicer with someone there to tuck her in.
Taemin tells me you’re dating Kai.
No.
Eyes flamed, directed at her?
Someone yelled action from afar, and Minho grabbed the back of her head, hair caught between his hold passionately.
Their second date.
Sand dug between her toes, she felt the grains passing between her crevices, so ticklish and sharp yet smooth, and her feet sunk when the water poured in.
Minho kissed her, tilting heads and demanding, puckered lips begging to be received equally but Krystal zoned out, waited until the photographers signaled what to do next, groaned enough at not following the script with precision before giving Minho needy affection back.
Bad acting.
Her toes froze when the tide surfaced and became cooler with the sundown.
They finally wrapped up by the rocks, cuddled beneath a blanket.
Hot breath poured down her neck, his normally soft arms a bit possessive under the red and orange patterns she counted as the cameras still rolled - from an unnoticeable but aware distance.
It was those flaming eyes and stare again.
Are you jealous, Minho oppa?
Hesitation.
Krystal was a good actor because she could always knock people off their feet when they least expected it.
No. Why? Are you upset that me and Yuri are dating?
No. It’s just work, remember?
Headlines read, “A tearful break-up,” “SM’s shortlived young romance no more.”
Ironically pictures used in between filming of the romantic shots; real candids of Minho and Krystal talking, distancing, sorting, avoiding.
Reality, not fiction.
Krystal wondered what happened to the good shots, the one where her hair caught the wind majestically, the ones where she angled her head to a calculated degree to catch Minho’s eyes and look up, the ones where she had slid her hands up his abdomen under his shirt where it was nice and cozy and couldn’t catch the sea breeze, huddled underneath his hold, his sweet singing lulling her to sleep under the guise of the welcoming night water.
They broke up you know. Taemin told me.
I don’t care.
And she really didn’t. Not when her eyes were closed and she was getting tucked in and she dreamt about her own sexpot lips in delight as Kai crawled above her to kiss her goodnight.
Minho was thinking about this moment on his own, somewhere far away in livid jealousy.
Reality. Candid. Autobiographical. Truth. Non-fiction.