ar·tic·u·la·tion

The action of putting into words an idea or feeling of a specified type.

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A Few Years Later

I wake up with a start, feeling the queer sensation of anxiety building up within me. I take a look at my surroundings as the morning rays gently flit into this spacious place. A room, whitewashed, is accompanied with several chairs and tables — and not to forget, a long cushion. Catching my rumpled reflection, I smile slightly in recognition. This place is no stranger to me, albeit remaining unfamiliar. This is a room that is currently being rented by Kyung Mi and me for her artistic endeavours.

Perhaps the invisible crowd may ask of this — why in the world would one be renting such a premise? Will not the attic suffice? Pray, I wish I could agree with these indignant and non-existent people, but I have to differ. A few months ago, whilst my bespectacled classmate had invited me to accompany her in this makeshift attic, I fell through one of the floorboards. No, I was not badly hurt, but it was quite a scare. I suppose that the house had no want to welcome me. That is a joke, of course. Apparently some termites were gnawing at the wooden items.

And so, I end up in a situation like this. I will be frank and admit this to be no punishment. This rented room is beautiful, in my opinion — the perfect location for Kyung Mi to spread out her materials. My eyes drift towards the said paintings, noting her improvement over the past few years. Having grown up a little now, Kyung Mi and I only get to escape like this on the weekends. The weekdays are perpetually hectic. Usually, my job is rather simple other than companionship. I am the one who lays down all of the newspapers, help to dry the palettes and that sort of thing. I really don’t mind. It’s Kyung Mi we’re talking about, after all.

Yet my heart never fails to stop for a moment or two when I witness tragedies like this. Whenever I see an unfinished painting, I already know as to how that came to be. Glancing at the clock, it displays eight in the morning. It only means that this girl who ended up sleeping on the couch beside me was up painting again. I can only sigh at times like this.

I don’t see a plausible reason for me to even state this, but I will for the sake of clarification. I do not execute scandalous acts on her even though we stay at this room overnight periodically. I’m not a sicko. Standing up, I allow my feet to draw near to a blanket before draping it over her physique and sitting next to her again. That, truly, is the least I could do.

The nights are still vivid to me, actually. They started mysteriously at first. We would both wake and be puzzled at the anonymous painter, but after some investigation, we discover the brush are exactly the same as Kyung Mi’s. I recall the way she denied painting at such an unscrupulous hour. “Don’t be silly, Sehun, even I need to sleep,” she had said, or something like that. But I know I remained unconvinced during that time.

Unbeknownst to her knowledge, I had tried my best to stay awake, to prove that it was herself who meddled with the large canvases at early hours. I remember nodding off, giving up on the cause, when the subtle rustle of the blanket caught my attention. Tilting my head carefully, I had seen that she had stirred from her resting place. I recall frowning, quite unpleased for her unneeded deceit towards me. “You’re busted,” is what I remember commenting. But she had not even heard me, and my eyes had widened then in a stunning realization.

She was sleepwalking.

I still remember how horrified I felt. It was dreadful. Sleepwalking, after all, is a sleep disorder, and I didn’t have much knowledge about it at all. I had wondered as to what I should do, partly disgusted at myself for wanting Mister Shik’s advice. We are people who get along and detest each other at the same time, I believe. It is a complicated relationship. She made her way to the paints, the palettes and well, the canvas. I don’t understand until now about the wide capability of a sleepwalker. She could even place the canvas on the easel, for crying out loud.

Being absolutely stupid, I remember calling out to her a few times. Perhaps I tried to coax her to go back to sleep. Alright, that sounded really suggestive but that isn’t the point. Finally, I know I approached her whilst she was already carrying out the first few . Tapping her shoulder, I attempted once more. And that was like, the biggest blunder I have ever done towards Kyung Mi. I am hundred and one percent serious about this. This bespectacled girl gave a cry of anger and pinned me down mercilessly on the ground.

I was rendered useless. Her attack materialized without a warning and well, here I was, trapped. Maybe some would be excited at this supposed development, labelling it to be racy or hot, but I did not. How would this come near to some fantasied salacious night when her paintbrush that was suspiciously acting like a knife lingered approximately a centimetre or two from my neck? I was suffocating; smothered. Nonetheless, that didn’t break me. Not her wrathful expression; not her killer-like and mad ways. It was her tears that did. The ones that fell out from her eyes and onto my cheeks. I was indubitably subdued.

"Kyung Mi." I know I breathed those words painfully. I really thought I was going to be unintentionally murdered by her sleepwalking self. That notion strikes me as hilarious now, honestly. Before I really had to black out due to my unfortunate situation, she had abruptly stood up and inadvertently freed me. I remember gasping for precious air, and descrying her lonesome figure at the canvas again, I did not bother to interrupt this time. I was overpowered by one like her. She was too much for me, one too insensate. Maybe.

In that morning when I quietly waited for her to wake, Kyung Mi returned to her normal self, actually. She was genuinely astonished at the seemingly appearing out of nowhere design on the canvas. I know I blinked in immense bleakness that nearly crossed the emotion of being upset. “Look here,” was probably what I mumbled when I pointed to my painted neck. Such irony permitted the colour to be red and black, too. Truth be told, I had forgotten to wash it off after the deadly encounter. At least, however, I had absolutely proof now. And she easily gave in to the conclusion.

I still see it clearly now, the manner in which she adopted to ask me of the paints used for her subconscious designs. This spirited girl was trying her best to paint based on her own accord, hoping to develop an instinctive sense of the colours without me assisting her. It is a wondrous goal, but I know I had been unfairly angry at Mister Shik for being the cause once again. Her sleepwalking proved to have started from her struggling feelings for the said person, someone she is trying to let go. I wish I could call the person dense and inconsiderate like that Christmas Eve so long ago, but that claim is no longer valid. Ever since that day, they really have no secrets between each other. It is both a good and a bad thing, I guess.

For instance, Mister Shik is aware that he is causing these restless nights for the girl. I think they really are best friends in the end, having gone through both thick and thin. The first few times, Kyung Mi would honestly weep in front of her taken crush, and he would hug her with much emotion. I think he sincerely never wanted to instigate such an unjust pain. I happened to be there sometimes, and I couldn’t help but to stare and wonder. What if he never fell in love with Miss Han? Would they have fallen for each other in time? It would have been logical to assume so. Later, nevertheless, the girl refused his hugs. Absolutely. She would recoil at his gentle touch, and he would actually understand. He would take two steps back from her in silence with a wavering smile. Surely he has been considerably affected by this quandary from time to time.

I believe it is plain obvious that if someone like Mister Shik can’t stay close to her, someone like me would be unthinkable. I mean, I did try to lead her back to sleep the other time — then look what happened. I nearly died. Seriously. It is so uncalled for. So I must say that draping a blanket over Kyung Mi is already a respectable feat.

Speaking of which, her best friend is currently studying for a degree in medicine, relating to his sempiternal goal to treat her achromatopsia. I have heard that he is determinedly doing some detailed research about it during his spare time. Miss Han, too, is studying well in a neighbouring university, so it is no wonder that this couple often meet whenever possible. From what I have seen, their relationship is going strong. I do ponder on the possibility of their marriage in a year or two. It is a rather difficult subject. Mister Shik is definitely one of those precarious topics too. Sometimes I feel like he has everything even though I know he does not. It just seems like it after a while. He gets to be Kyung Mi’s childhood friend and earn himself a wondrous girlfriend like Miss Han and then probably get tied into Kyung Mi’s family. How vexing.

Perhaps you would wonder if I am jealous. As if. I am not holding onto such petty things. Wait — who am I referring as the apparent you anyway? Even so, I will answer truthfully to the empty air which only exists in my mind. I am undeniably jealous. I really am.

I have a subtle notion that is mildly trying to prod me in a certain direction when it concerns Kyung Mi, but I will not yield too effortlessly unless there is a considerable reason. Yet I will not refrain from expressing how much this bespectacled girl means to me. To me, she is like a glowing fire, and with the wisps of warmth that draws me closer without my own knowledge. She piques my utmost interest, ever since the day I discover her continuous selfless act of gifting me items, the way she takes joy in the simplest of things like merely painting, the manner in which she displays so freely. I think it is indubitably heartbreaking when someone can mean so much to you and never know it. So I do elucidate my feelings.

I speak of how she changed me on the night of her eighteenth birthday, I find myself standing up for her sake, and I end up being there for her when I need not do so. It is far too often that I find my eyes distracted in a poor attempt to find her. And more frequently than not, I do. I will spot her brilliant self with those specially-made tinted spectacles that makes her more unique than ever. A part of me, I guess, is holding back the more intense stuff — whatever my strange brain is trying to assume this intense stuff to be — because I have no want to burden her with anything unnecessary. Just not yet, that is. I am certain that this precious friend of mine is a star, and she’s going to be the artist she has always aspired to be.

These thoughts, once finished, no longer consume me, and I watch a pile of nearby papers blankly before another thought surfaces. Oh, right. I did forget to mention something else pertaining to myself. How doltish of me. Kyung Mi had mentioned that I should consider being a writer a few years ago. Well, I did attempt it and it turns out that I have a knack for it. I have several works coming to life in the form of poetry and some short stories, mostly done during my university classes. I remember how she teased me once, even, speaking of how they appear to relate to her very existence. “First you write a poem about the importance of a family whilst disregarding blood ties, and then now there’s a story about the salmonberry being akin to a raspberry,” she had pointed out with an owlish gaze, paired with a smile. “Are you going to write about pretty fields with flowers next?” I recall giving her a really bad sulk, because the image of a field with flowers is never going to be pretty to me after the Christmas Eve incident.

It is true though, that my pieces seem to interweave with her life. Perhaps I, having not the intention to get involved, have already tangled myself in this seemingly simple mess. I think I must be dangerously trapped. Girls. They are evil and cunning beings in disguise. Wait. Maybe just Kyung Mi. My thoughts are collapsing because now I even recall that one time that Mister Shik told me about what Kyung Mi thought about me. Something about me being rather becoming? I am left to die in my own inadequate understanding. Even so, I know that while I take enough time to sort out my own awkward life, I will eventually pen them down in the form of words so that I will no longer be a stranger to myself. And it is nice, actually, to know your own self. I think it is the closest thing to magic. These words will serve as a reminder and an anchor, and I find myself exceedingly indebted to one and only Han Kyung Mi. Who else, really?

The gentle stirring beside me captures my full attention immediately. “Hmm, Kyung Mi?” I murmur questionably. “Are you awake?” The nearly childish tug on her blanket which accidentally got stuck under my leg indicates it to be a no. I smile, finding this side of her extremely endearing. Well, this girl can sleep if she wants, but I definitely have things to do. I am, in fact, impatient to write down a new idea into words. I even have its title. Chatoyancy is what I will name this piece when I get that wretched piece of draft paper. That ginormous term refers to the reflection of the cat’s eye, allowing witnesses to find different type of shades in it. Sometimes it will be bright, and sometimes it will be dark. I think it is really analogous to the life of a human being. Example-wise being one’s advantages or flaws. But in all sincerity, I believe that Han Kyung Mi will never be less than amazing.

I feel my movements restrict significantly when I reach out for the aforementioned piece of paper and pen, my eyes dilating afterwards. Had I articulated that last thought unintentionally? Well, it’s not like I mind too badly since it is the truth but if that awakens the sleep-deprived girl I will definitely go mad— I look hesitantly towards her direction, and I find her right hand to have a strong grip on my shirt’s hemline. I chuckle nervously then. This girl, what did she honestly have in mind? I slowly sit myself back on the couch beside her, observing her with much bewilderment. Her eyes remain shut, unmoving. “Han Kyung Mi, are you awake?” I repeat subconsciously then, rather curious indeed.

Yet no salient response greets my ears. It is quite the puzzle. I decide then and there to tease; breaking my personal moral code that I spoke of earlier. “Kyung Mi,” I coo deliberately. “Guess who?” I daringly lean in closer to her face, but it is to my utmost surprise that she actually turns away almost instantaneously. With a quick check, however, it is obvious that she is really asleep because her hand is still tugging on my shirt. How strange. “Silly girl, am I supposed to feel rejected or what?” I joke, knowing that no one would be there to listen. “You…” I pause, aware that there is no purpose in continuing my fabricated act. This time, with much effort, I manage to retrieve my trusty pen and paper, jotting down the title. I write the term Chatoyancy with much feeling. I smile then, knowing the first sentence to this beautiful piece already. My pen embeds these heartfelt words in a gentle whisper as I begin the start of an ending.

I know of a girl who sees in monochrome, but dreams in colour.

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So... That's the end of Chatoyancy, fellow readers. I've been foolishly in love with this story for a long time now, so the greatest compliment would be if you are, too.

Of course, that is no requirement. Regardless of your reaction, thank you very much for reading this piece of considerable length.

Pursue your dreams, you! ^-^

Fun fact: This whole story stemmed from Kelly Clarkson's Dark Side. Let's see if anyone can guess how it affects this story. c:

Thanks once again, and bye bye for now.