fic: 002.
apologetic silences.
(super junior) 757 wds. pg-13.
- kibum/donghae.
he hates the sound of you walking away.
a. pureuda.
s. and donghae is stubborn; and donghae runs away; and donghae is himself (and kibum may or may not love that).
n. rpf, rps. old (written january 07, 2008). second person p.o.v.
d. lee donghae, kim kibum - sm entertainment.
i.
“It’s pretentious,” he says to you one day with his voice hard and brittle and you know that you are wrong, wrong, wrong (How can I fix it? you wonder, but the answer is I can’t; I can’t). “This is pretentious,” he goes on to say, ignoring your hardest attempts to try and tell him, I really don’t think so.
You stand up.
(He pushes you down harder than he usually would-He’s mad, you think to yourself with a set mouth and set lips and you think: he’s mad, and in more ways than one-and you land in the sofa, breathing hard, looking over his shoulder at nothing because you’re mad, too. You’re madder than he is. You just want to be alone and there he is, being a burden; he wants to be your burden.)
“You’re crazy,” you say, still looking out into space (space) like he really does not matter; that you care more about the state of the world than you do with him.
“I’ll stop if you stop.”
When you walk away this time, he doesn’t try to stop you (even though deep inside, that’s all you want him to do-you want him to grab your hand and tell you that it’s okay, it’ll be fine in the morning).
On your way out, you close the door.
-
ii.
(Forty-seven hours later.)
“Kibum?” Your voice is barely a whisper as you lean heavily on the glass windows of the phone booth-it was not because you were tired and had not slept for two days straight; It was not, you tell yourself, because I’m tired; because I miss my home; because I miss him-(and you can see that it used to be a cheery red thing, repainted black for sophistication)-you hold your (the) phone (you grip it like there was no tomorrow).
“Kibum?” you softy say again.
“Donghae.” And his tone is scratchy-no Yoboseyo?-and his tone had a hidden edge to it (he was mad)-and his tone was softer than you had last seen him-
(Forty-seven hours ago.)
-and so you (angrily) wonder if he had been sorry (, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry) that you left and you (bitterly) wonder if his heart had been breaking (, breaking, breaking, breaking, breaking) and you (are-are-) breaking; the phone is breaking.
“I’m sorry.”
So sorry-
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for not listening to you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for running away from you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for taking your bike and not telling you.”
“I know.”
“I need a ride home.”
“You have a damn bike.”
“I need to think.”
“Do you need money?”
“I need to sleep.”
“It’s late out.”
“I need someone to talk to.”
“Go home, Donghae.”
“I wasn’t afraid at all-”
“My God, go home.”
No one speaks after that-you don’t even think; you don’t even breathe; all that matters to you is that he was telling you to go home (you start to choke on your ragged breathing; you seem to be surprised).
When you hear the beeping noise of Kibum hanging the phone, you hang your (the) phone, too; you slowly open the glass doors like you were, all of a sudden, more tired than you were ten minutes ago; more tired than you were than you could have imagined.
(Imagine what would happen if all the lights were on you, he once said in the nighttime life, leading you on with silly words and phrases and hopes and dreams; you would be nervous, wouldn’t you?
How nervous are you, really?)
He must hate the sound of you walking away.
He must really hate the sound of you walking away; you begin to think that maybe he is quiet and doesn’t speak often because of what you might think. He won’t speak his mind. He won’t wear his heart on his sleeve.
It’s useless; it’s useless (I can’t; I can’t).
One last look, you promise yourself. One last look back; there the phone booth was; there the world was, still left unchanged and untouched and whole.
Wave your hand.
Take your (his) bicycle with you.
Turn around.
(And somehow; somehow; you manage to convince yourself that you are ready for the world; you know exactly where you’re going; he won’t miss you; he doesn’t love you; he doesn’t even care about you; you could care less about him; you’ll be gone tomorrow morning and the morning after that morning and the morning after that morning.)
(super junior) 757 wds. pg-13.
- kibum/donghae.
he hates the sound of you walking away.
a. pureuda.
s. and donghae is stubborn; and donghae runs away; and donghae is himself (and kibum may or may not love that).
n. rpf, rps. old (written january 07, 2008). second person p.o.v.
d. lee donghae, kim kibum - sm entertainment.
i.
“It’s pretentious,” he says to you one day with his voice hard and brittle and you know that you are wrong, wrong, wrong (How can I fix it? you wonder, but the answer is I can’t; I can’t). “This is pretentious,” he goes on to say, ignoring your hardest attempts to try and tell him, I really don’t think so.
You stand up.
(He pushes you down harder than he usually would-He’s mad, you think to yourself with a set mouth and set lips and you think: he’s mad, and in more ways than one-and you land in the sofa, breathing hard, looking over his shoulder at nothing because you’re mad, too. You’re madder than he is. You just want to be alone and there he is, being a burden; he wants to be your burden.)
“You’re crazy,” you say, still looking out into space (space) like he really does not matter; that you care more about the state of the world than you do with him.
“I’ll stop if you stop.”
When you walk away this time, he doesn’t try to stop you (even though deep inside, that’s all you want him to do-you want him to grab your hand and tell you that it’s okay, it’ll be fine in the morning).
On your way out, you close the door.
-
ii.
(Forty-seven hours later.)
“Kibum?” Your voice is barely a whisper as you lean heavily on the glass windows of the phone booth-it was not because you were tired and had not slept for two days straight; It was not, you tell yourself, because I’m tired; because I miss my home; because I miss him-(and you can see that it used to be a cheery red thing, repainted black for sophistication)-you hold your (the) phone (you grip it like there was no tomorrow).
“Kibum?” you softy say again.
“Donghae.” And his tone is scratchy-no Yoboseyo?-and his tone had a hidden edge to it (he was mad)-and his tone was softer than you had last seen him-
(Forty-seven hours ago.)
-and so you (angrily) wonder if he had been sorry (, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry) that you left and you (bitterly) wonder if his heart had been breaking (, breaking, breaking, breaking, breaking) and you (are-are-) breaking; the phone is breaking.
“I’m sorry.”
So sorry-
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for not listening to you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for running away from you.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry for taking your bike and not telling you.”
“I know.”
“I need a ride home.”
“You have a damn bike.”
“I need to think.”
“Do you need money?”
“I need to sleep.”
“It’s late out.”
“I need someone to talk to.”
“Go home, Donghae.”
“I wasn’t afraid at all-”
“My God, go home.”
No one speaks after that-you don’t even think; you don’t even breathe; all that matters to you is that he was telling you to go home (you start to choke on your ragged breathing; you seem to be surprised).
When you hear the beeping noise of Kibum hanging the phone, you hang your (the) phone, too; you slowly open the glass doors like you were, all of a sudden, more tired than you were ten minutes ago; more tired than you were than you could have imagined.
(Imagine what would happen if all the lights were on you, he once said in the nighttime life, leading you on with silly words and phrases and hopes and dreams; you would be nervous, wouldn’t you?
How nervous are you, really?)
He must hate the sound of you walking away.
He must really hate the sound of you walking away; you begin to think that maybe he is quiet and doesn’t speak often because of what you might think. He won’t speak his mind. He won’t wear his heart on his sleeve.
It’s useless; it’s useless (I can’t; I can’t).
One last look, you promise yourself. One last look back; there the phone booth was; there the world was, still left unchanged and untouched and whole.
Wave your hand.
Take your (his) bicycle with you.
Turn around.
(And somehow; somehow; you manage to convince yourself that you are ready for the world; you know exactly where you’re going; he won’t miss you; he doesn’t love you; he doesn’t even care about you; you could care less about him; you’ll be gone tomorrow morning and the morning after that morning and the morning after that morning.)