Here is half an especially awkward chapter.

Complemented by a photo of Yixing in blinding lighting.

The other half shall be posted sometime soon.

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“…god?” I address the dancing beam of light on the mirror, whose goal in life is to, apparently, blind me for good.

The pointlessly huge window of Suho’s second story bathroom very much deserves the title of ‘a voyeur’s delight’ – clear, see-through glass, complemented by no curtains whatsoever.

Providing there’s a tree outside, it would have been the perfect opportunity for erts like yours truly, to observe the unsuspecting, showering tenants. And by tenants I mean Zhang Yixing and his y, freckly back, given that he uses this particular bathroom.

Seeing as there is no tree, the sun gets free reign over the entire place, and now its rays conjure a holy sort of apparition on the reflective surface above the sink. That and they’re successfully preventing me from ogling the, prominent as ever, reminder of yesterday’s party. Oh how I’ve missed thee – hicky.

I better cherish this one hicky, I decide. It’s probably the last I’m ever getting from Yixing.

“God?” I repeat, aware of sounding like the lunatic I likely am. Then again, it’s not like there is anyone beside me in the bathroom, and talking to yourself – like I’d been doing for the best part of today – is so last year, so why not try the old man? “I know I don’t usually pray, or visit church very often, but… if you love me, like they say you love all of your children, please send a lightning bolt or something, so I could die a quick but painful death.”

I even seal my selfish little plea by Amen – like you’re supposed to when you pray, but nothing happens. Too bad, because right now I’m so ashamed I’d pay to have the ground go on and swallow me alive.

One moment I’m about to ingest my second serving of Yixing’s delicious noodle soup, and the next one, I trip over a goddamned drumstick, managing to spill most of the contents of my bowl all over the floor. As well as my long-suffering t-shirt. Might it be a hint for me to burn this stupid shirt first thing as I return home? It causes me nothing but trouble.

Anyways, don’t ask me how or why a drumstick’s found its way onto the kitchen floor. I’m wildly guessing it’s for the same reason its companion ended up adorning the halls this morning – Park Chanyeol is a walking hazard. Either that or Kyungsoo dropped it while he’d been whispering them nasty things in my ear, such as calling me a , but I’d like to believe I would have noticed it –  if somebody as clueless as him was set on a not-so-secret mission to have me break my neck… so I’m blaming Chanyeol until further evidence.

Having apologized and picked the evil thing out of the slimy soup puddle, Chanyeol was studying the drumstick with a kind of wonder I’d only previously observed in my kid cousin, who’s three, though I don’t know the guy well enough, and so he might have been trying to fool me into believing he’s in no way associated to thereof.

I do admit it was a little funny to have Yixing, Taemin and Kyungsoo – yup, him too – arguing as to which one of them gets to fret over my clumsy , though it would have been even funnier had I not felt like shooting myself at the time.

But wait, why am I using past tense? I still feel pretty suicidal, cause now Yixing is finally aware of the fact my hands grow from the same place a normal person’s legs do – aka my . I was kinda hoping he wouldn’t find out about that, at least not until I’ve asked him to become my boyfriend. Right now I’m no longer sure he would agree to date me, what’s with enough people to babysit as it is.

Before he’d run off to find a mop or something, Suho advised me to go wash my shirt, so that’s what I’m currently in the process of doing – except for how I keep getting distracted by both my hicky and the sunlight.

For the second time today – I find myself shirtless, only now I’m also elbow-deep in water, taking my sweet time to rinse this unfortunate cloth. I contemplate remaining… as in hiding, in here forever, or at least until my shirt dries up. But I know that, sooner or later, Taemin will come looking for me. Wonder if he’ll blame me for fetching up extremely lame excuses, in order to prevent us ever leaving this house.

…

 I’m busy soaking the shirt in even more lavender-scented hand soap, and so I rather hear than see the presence of another person in the bathroom. The door creaking open is followed by a few tentative footsteps, which only sound a little better than someone scraping their nails over a blackboard. I turn around, expecting to see Taemin. Ins