sometimes, jongin does not open his eyes right away upon waking up. lids closed, he postpones reality for a few more minutes. it's game over once he opens his eyes. his day would begin. books would have to be read, questions would have to be answered in good form, and people would take from him again. they would take his time, his patience, his attention. it's all so exhausting. he wishes he could just keep sleeping forever. this is practice for death. life really does . 

something to look forward to in an hour: hot chocolate down his throat.

something to look forward to today: the release of his favorite writer’s new book.

he opens his eyes to get his day started.

//

not all writers want recognition. a few of them are regular people with extra demons to capture in written word. to some, this might seem like a difficult feat and that is why the world rewards people for it with terms like bestseller, award-winning, and what not. it’s not as grand as it’s cracked up to be. words are words. feelings are feelings. find a formula to make people feel through your work and everyone will consider you great.

it all began when he was in high school.

one of korea’s most promising writers today started as a collector. he would devour hundreds and hundreds of books, underline the lines that hit home, compile them in a thickening book and pore over them as if they were stardust. to his adolescent self, they were magic. they had spells that shielded him from the harsh reality of his parent’s divorce, schoolmates that always found him odd, and relatives that pitied him.

read, underline, take it all in.

to him, words have a life of their own, waiting for him to inhale its pages.

“poor kid, he’s the most affected one. hye kyo had always been selfish,” they would whisper.

“just what kind of mother would leave her family like that? what kind of monstrosity!” aunts would exclaim.

the young writer was nine years old then, but his mother kept telling him he was an old soul. “old soul, my dear, you are someone who knows more of this world than most people your age. this is the term they would use for humans who understand the world differently. they could see into the heart of things. you, my dear, have this special kind of power.”

she always called him her dear. she would always talk to him as if he was her own age. she would always be open to him. this is why he can never, ever, bring himself to detest the mother who abandoned them to be with the person who made her see color for the first time in her life, because he knew. she always told him.

while changing curtains and bedsheets, she would singsong around the house and describe different shades of red. maroon. scarlet. crimson. warm. tingly. fiery. sunlight filtering through open windows, she would compare colors to her emotions. it became impossible for him to detest someone who was so filled with life. “when i saw him, the world didn’t reroute on a new axis but the stars seemed to glimmer a little more than I remembered them doing the night before. from the moment our hands brushed, something in me shivered, some part of my heart shook, a form of a yes. a yes, he belongs in my life, a yes, he is meant to matter.”

the young writer recalls being so enthralled with that line he later on used it in his first best seller. she had always been poetic, but sometimes poetic people aren’t ones to stay.

she left on a rainy november day without a note. she already said all that she wanted to say. there was no need to keep sorry promises in paper. she wanted to chase after her happiness and that was that.

years later, when thick scars had formed on skin torn by her departure, his father could only say, “i let her go because i had grown to love her too much, to the point where i couldn’t stomach making her a prison in my black and white world.”

“don’t you hate her?”

“why would i hate someone who has given me such a wonderful kid? she’s given me a walking encyclopedia, my own little trainer in all stuff related to technology. kid, she blessed me with you and fifteen years I would like the call the most magical time of my life. she was my fairy.”

he liked to to think this was one of the reasons why stories spill out of his fingertips easily: both of his parents had a way with words. he just isn’t sure which ones are true.   

///

it isn’t that science had always fascinated do kyungsoo. in fact, when he was younger, he used to be easily bored with intricacies of formulas and what not. it was just that somewhere along the way, something went wrong. there had been a glitch, a random event he couldn’t remember, and suddenly he’s chasing falling meteorites and calculating trajectories in his adulthood.

this isn’t a fascination.

this is an obsession.

no, no, this is not right, do kyungsoo thinks. he gets up from his rotating chair and felt a deep pressure on his lower back, reminding him how long he’d been glued to his desk. at that moment, the alarm he previously set on his phone went off and he snoozed it. dinner time.

call him odd, but kyungsoo really needed those time checks. there had been an instance when he was so occupied on his project that he completely forgot to eat and drink for a day and a half, only to wake up in a hospital room. park chanyeol could really come in handy most of the time. had chanyeol been a little less noisy, then he would be the ideal side kick for the great do kyungsoo.  

the walls echoed his footsteps as he made his way downstairs. shiny wood floors, freshly painted white walls, sleek, Scandinavian countertop and top-of-the-line appliances. this is the castle kyungsoo built for himself. a home away from home.

he prepares his meal, and while waiting for his vegetables to soften, kyungsoo gets on his phone to check his online profile on this website exclusive for writers and their readers. he doesn’t and he will never admit it to himself but there’s a user he’s always looking out for. it’s weird, really, but there goes his heart, making a tiny jump after refreshing his page and seeing a new comment.

it was from the one he had been looking out for in over seven years.

his comment was three paragraphs long and it ended with the signature phrase, “thank you for showing us a glimpse of your soul. it’s lovely.”do kyungsoo—the great—could die then and there.

the white walls bear witness to the giant grin on kyungsoo's face as he finished cooking and devoured his meal in silence. 

//

Notes:

hi! i don't know what i'm doing and where i'm going with this. it's been years since i wrote and i kind of want to get back to it again. at the end of the day, i just want to relearn how to tell stories. :)