A/N: Impending content!

~*~

The doorbell rings, and it’s followed up with a few knocks. I’m there, almost instantly. Spraying sweet-smelling perfume at my pulse points just before I open the door. Junsu stands and he’s smiling breezily, contagiously. Hair gelled back, spiky-ish, masculine. There’s no point denying it, that damn guy is handsome.

“Hi Oppa,” I smile back, “Just in time~ ”

“Hello Taeyeon,” He says, in the trademark deep voice of his, “And how have you been?”

“Lonely without you,” I pout, jutting my lower lip out. “You don’t visit me as frequently anymore.”

“Ah,” He sighs, eyes twinkling mischievously, “Then how can I be certain you’ll miss me?”

I have no answer to that, so I bring him in for a kiss, moulding my lips to Junsu’s. His recently shaven chin chafing slightly over my own. My hands rest upon his shoulders, and the muscles flex beneath the thin cotton of his T shirt, the warmth fading through the fabric. He’s been working out, and I can tell by his bulkier build, by the harder texture that distinctly indicates developed muscle mass. My palms drift lower down, tracing behind him, to his firm backside, knowing that my payment sits in his back jean pocket; I take it out, as he intends, and throw the wrapped package in the corner of the room. Whilst doing so, he pushes his tongue past my lips, hips crashing against mine, and I can feel his hardness pressing against me.

As with every other client, I bring him back to my room, lightly massaging him as we kiss, stripping as we meander. I throw his shirt over the chair, his torn jeans somewhere in that vicinity, too and worship the revealed expanse of skin with my fingers and tongue, on skin until its dark, purple. I know he’s aching by the time we begin; he’s ‘quick’, a plus I guess.

I can see his substantial length, shaking, forcing against the constraints of his boxers. I smile, but it’s a forced one, sidle my digits past the band and wrap my fingers around his heat; before giving it a few gentle tugs with the twist of my wrist. He pulls the entire of his underwear down and off his legs, before I rapidly return to my previous activity, only this time I punctiliously rub my thumb against the underside, beneath the purple, veiny head – the simplest technique to get a guy going. A single grunt of desire, slips out, just as a single drop of pre- is summoned to the top. With the zenith of my index finger, I bring the drop to my lips, readily wrap my tongue around it, as if to savour his taste.

“Mm~” I even go so far as to proffer.

He seems pleased by that, and I crouch down before him, onto my knees, executing a few more careful before taking his entire length into my mouth, until the thick tip hits the back of my throat. But I don’t retch, suppress the reflex quickly. Swirling my tongue and my cheeks inwards as I pull backwards, scraping my teeth gently against the shaft. My fingers wander back, cupping his balls, squeezing them, playing with them as if they were my ‘special toy’, in a concurrent fashion, I lavish attention upon his girth, faster and faster. And, at one moment, I flick both my gaze to meet his unadulterated blazing eyes.

‘How do you like that, oppa?’ I ask silently.

‘Give me more.’ His eyes say.

So I continue, and his breathing becomes more swift, quicker; eventually he clenches his eyes shut, feel his hands thread into my hair, pulling harshly on it (but it’s not like he can help it), bringing me closer, instigating for me to speed up to a more frenetic pace. I do as I’m told, feeling his balls tense in my zephyr-like clutch; a minute pulsation commencing there, until he releases, erupting forcefully with sticky globules as I circle his with my tongue, one final time.

I swallow every bit of his without a word of complaint.

When I rise from my knees once more, I flash him a delicate smile, semi-aware of the lingering sapour upon my tongue.

“Always the expert,” He comments, sweat droplets speckling his forehead. “I’d be devastated if you’re ever out of business,”

“Then you should come more frequently,” I say, and for the nth time in life, I feel mildly disgusted at myself for saying this things, “You know… keep me in business,”

“Sure, sure.” Junsu both smirks and laughs at that, leaving a gentle kiss atop my head. “Failing that, I’d just marry you.”

“Ah,” I say, knowing his words are false. Who’d want a contaminated little package like me as a wife? I know the truth so vehemently, it no longer burns icy or heated anymore. “Well, if.”

He chuckles and begins to dress himself. “I’d just hire you for as long as you allow, Taeyeon-ah. You know I value your services.”

“Of course,” I nod, glance at the clock, but don’t mention that I have a schedule with Hyoyeon.

He leaves, eventually, praising me on my skills, but I already know I have them. I don’t need more praise, it’s not like it was a simple innate talent. I’d failed many times in the beginning, and was punished with a despotic slam across my jaw by the head of the brothel (he was a terrifying man, tattoos marring both face and body, and battle scars colouring what little available skin that remained to be seen; all the other feared him as much as I), at the time. Proceeding that I’d had to give these ing s with a busted jaw, the pain was inexorably intolerable.

I leave with Junsu, and we diverge at the traffic light.

“Goodbye oppa,” I wave.

“See you next time,” He shoots back, casually saluting me with two fingers as the traffic light signals that it’s safe to cross the road.

“So there’ll be a next time after all?” I throw the question, teasingly; hand on the slipping strap of my shoulder bag, tugging it back into place.

“Aish because it’d be lonely without you, after all,” He slyly repeats my earlier sentiments.

“Ah oppa,” I cry out, but he doesn’t hear me. And I care not to reiterate it louder.

~*~

. . .

“Omma~” I exclaimed, hands reaching out as I entered the room, smiling, so pleased, at my success. I attempted to show her the doll Sooyoung had given me that day, but mother barely acknowledged me. In that little dank room, her focused eyes remained on her shaking hands as she poured out a thin line of pale dust. I don’t know what it is at the time, only know that it sent her reeling into herself when she snorted it into her nostrils.

And then ensued the hyperactivity, the huge, huge eyes. Sometimes she’d get so violent she’d take out her anger on me. Throw a few punches into my stomach, tear out my hair. I hated that the most, when she tore at my hair. It hurt a lot.

“Why are you even here?” She demanded, one time, eyes scorching like hell incarnate. “…. And who the hell are you?”

“Omma…” My voice was but a whimper, I’m scared, I’m so scared but father doesn’t give a either. She’s had this problem since ‘forever’ it’s routine but it doesn’t mean I liked it in any degree. What child likes to be beaten up? What child wants to grow up in a family devoid of warmth? I had comparison, but that drama comparison made me cry. Made me feel bitter. So I stopped watching them after a while. I should be happy that my omma and appa still lived.

“Who is this omma, you speak of?” Mother said coldly, and the most lacerating thing was… that she really meant it. She could not recognise me at that moment, not at all, or in the slightest.

“Om--,” I tried to say, but a hard collision slammed across my face, I tasted blood, sharp and coppery. I don’t say anything, suppressed a bubbling whimper when mother repeated the punch; more blood, my face ached with the dull but shrieking pain.

…Why couldn’t mother love … me?

. . .

“Taeyeon,” Then louder, “Taeyeon-ah,”

My phone…

“Huh,” I manage, voice probably sounding gravelly down the line, as I blink from my sudden interference of the day version of a nightmare. My throat feels nauseatingly heavy, thick, “Yes?”

“… I was wondering if you wanted to meet up?” Soonkyu’s voice is lighter than she normal, she’s tentative.

“I err…” I start, bite the inner flesh of my lip before bringing my freehand to my forehead, “… I’m feeling a bit ill lately,”

“… Have you got yourself checked out?” She asks, after a moment’s silence. When she’s had enough time to assimilate and diagnose my ‘issue’.

“What do you think I am?” I say, “I get checked up regularly.” I mean STDs, but I don’t know what she means. I don’t inquire to clarify, what’s the point? It’s only going to generate more perplexity.

“Then…” Soonkyu’s voice sounds fainter and fainter, and I can’t tell if that’s my fault, or not. I can’t discern if I’d been too cold, and I hope to whatever-ing-deity up there that I haven’t just screwed things up with her.

From the beeping, infuriatingly so, I realise I have an incoming issue, so I murmur quickly to Soonkyu, “Hey, I think my next client is here,”

“I…”

“I’ll phone you back later, okay?”

“…Okay, see you.”

“Mm.”

When I open the door, it’s not my client, not Hyoyeon, not Seohyun, not Jaejoong either.

It’s her.

Im Yoona, in the living flesh. Hair fixed into a flowing chestnut ponytail; she’s smiling brightly, hugging a large folder and she looks like a high school student. But, instead of finding her clean appearance accompanied with the delicate arrangement of her comportment cute, like others would, I want to close door on her, can already see her startled expression as it slams in her face. It brings me a sense of sardonic amusement. I don’t know why, but I just really want to damage her, break her. I despise her from her smile to the very chestnut colour of her iris. And I realise I’ve decided. I’m going to tear her to pieces. If she’s so desperate to fix me, I’m going to drag her down into the pits of my heart, a decrepit place a tenfold darker than hell, a rift that burns chasms into all those who venture too close. I’m going to do worse than that, though; since I’m doing this willingly, I’m going to watch her scream until she’s reduced to a whimpering chaotic disarray, until I’ve wrenched, every, drop, of, joy, from her soul. So I’ll teach her the other facet of the world. Where every day consists of life and death decisions; where there’s no hope, and no mother or father to catch your fall.

Come on Miss Im… Are you ready to suffer a fate worse than death?

“Please, come in,” I say, simultaneously realising at that moment one of the several previous diagnoses were correct: I really am a psychopath.

But then, I think, everyone is a psychopath to some degree. It just depends if we act upon the violent whims… I’m not killing her. Simply… ruining her.

“Thank you,” She smiles, ambles in to my abode. But all this while, I can’t stop thinking about her planned destruction, her inevitable end when I smash her into smithereens.

She takes a seat, same place as before; without even asking, but I prefer it that way, people who talk too much, aggravate me. Sets my nerves on an explicit rampage. I guess that’s the only good thing she’s done.

I roll my sleeves up, my chequered shirt ruffling at my elbows as I, too, sit in the same place I took last time. “What are you going to do now?”

“Today,” Yoona places her hands neatly upon her knees, “We’re going to just talk,” But don't all therapists just talk?

“About what?” I roll my eyes and I’m more than sure she can see the thick layer of my impertinent behaviour today.

“Well,” Yoona takes out the folder she’s been holding, flipping open the cover, and several plastic sheets as she analyses each one carefully. Soft noises of exasperation freeing from her lips, as she fails to do … whatever it is she’s doing. I’m almost too occupied by incredulity; can’t even try to ascertain that people like that even exist; who the makes noises like dumb puppies when exasperated?!

She draws out one, I can’t see what it says from here, so I wait expectantly. Glaring at her, but she doesn’t see my scowls, doesn’t see my hatred for her that fluoresces greater than any emotion I’ve ever had; greater than any emotion I thought I was capable of.

“…a childhood memory,” She says, after seemingly selecting one from her list. “Yep.” She lifts her eyes, glossy, bright, framed with long lashes, “Would you like to start first … or I?”

I don’t answer.

“Okay,” She nods, assuming my silence that she should go first, “When I was younger…I used to catch the butterflies, and sometimes the dragonflies, from the pond nearby and keep them in jars. When they died of the heat, I cried my eyes out and I never attempted to own another pet after that.”

I laugh, let out a quiet roar of amusement, hysterical; a dumb smile slapping across my face, how ... jejune, “What, the, ?”

“Hey!” Yoona blurts, “That’s mean. I loved them.”

I fell silent. Mirth fast subsiding.

She’d loved.

She’d been happy.

ing .

“What about you?” She says when she sees me retreat into myself.

I blink, memories burning in vivid streaks of blood. Time to implement operation: 'Destroy Im Yoona'. A cynical smile flips the sneer; oh, just you wait.

“When I was younger… I was playing in a spare room of the brothel, when I heard my father coming. Because I was terrified of him, and he didn’t like it when I played in the spare room, I hid in the closet. My father dragged in this woman by her hair, like this,” and I reach over yank Yoona by her hair, she winces but doesn’t do anything else. I let her tawny locks go, “I had to watch and hear my father the brains out of the e who weren’t earning enough. You know what’s even better?” I am nearly gleeful as I say this, even though I’m speaking about one of the most haunting memories of my life, “I didn’t care. I let that woman get by own father.”

Yoona looks indifferent, but behind those wide eyes, I know she’s probably judging me. Horrified of me. I wonder if she’ll run, if this is her tipping point. But, instead, she shakes her head, closes the folder and leans forward upon her elbows.

“So you blame yourself for that?” She asks.

I want to say, ‘No, you’re supposed to freak out over how cruel I was. Why are you still talking to me?’

“No.” I say, shifting on my seat as I look away, place my hands underneath my thighs, “I don’t.”

“I don’t think you’re telling the truth,” Yoona says, “I think you blame yourself, and you’re putting up this… this... front to make yourself look big and heartless.”

“No.” I deny it, but I don’t have anything to refute her words. Where are my words, my ammunition, my weapons? The drive still exists, I swear (I can feel it curling in my bones), but I can’t implement anything destructive. Why?

Im-ing-Yoona senses it, and, like a vulture, circles in and stabs with meticulous precision; she extends her hand, hovers it above my knee, as if she wants to pat it, but she doesn’t because she sweeps her fingers over my jeans before retracting her limb once more. “It’s not your fault. You were scared.”

A few seconds breach humid air; and I’m genuinely considering her words. “I could have done something.” I say, and I mentally hit myself; why am I still going along with this?

“Even though it’s terrible, and if I could, I would eradicate all such happenings from occurring in the future. But, it’s just a blatant and horrifying fact; as long as mankind exists, these things will happen too,” She shrugs, “These things, no matter how cruel, don’t always have anyone else to blame but the assaulter, themselves. And only them.”

I stare. I don’t know what to say. How could she apprehend my pain? She’s not me. She’s not that woman. She wasn’t ing . The worst atrocities she ever witnessed was her damn pet dragonfly dying. I saw my own ing parents die.How’s that for a citrus-scented refresher, hm?

So I say just that. “You don’t understand.”

“I’ve lived everything through my clients,” She replies, and just as I’m about to say something she continues, “Not that I’m saying that I can understand what a victim has experienced. Nor can I begin to comprehend your situation, either. But what I have is sympathy, what I offer you is my time, my honest thoughts and my support,”

No, no. I gaze at her, anew odium strangling my stomach, and distaste sitting atop my upper brow. you Yoona.

I refuse to speak anymore, and time falls away, until the session finishes with a scrabbling halt that couldn’t come fast enough.

Eventually, Yoona leaves, tells me to start a journal with a leather bound diary – the carmine material feels expensive, the cream pages textured beneath my fingers. She says she doesn’t have to read it, but I should try to write down my feelings or something along that line of positive down every day. I shrug, throw it somewhere on the stack of items and go to a fitful sleep instead.

~*~

More clients come and go. As with usual, I get to take my pick. And they’ll, most of the time, take me out to meals in restaurants that aren’t quite prestige but aren’t exactly beggar’s morsels either. It’s considered a comfortable moderate, and I get fed, so I don’t complain. Therapy-wise, I’m no better. Yoona says things that grate my depleting temper until it’s raw and tender, until I’m certain I’d wring the life from her neck. But I haven’t plotted out her ‘happiness demise’ properly yet. I’m not exactly sure how to go about it, either.

And when I meet with my dearest clients-friends, the same topic usually wanders into a grotesque annoyance.

“How’s the therapy sessions?” Joohyun asks one day, bringing up a topic most disgruntling. I still can't tolerate Im-ing-Yoona.

“Fine.”

“She’s good right?”

“She’s okay. Let’s change the topic back to you…”

“Unnie,” Joohyun frowns, mouth and teeth taking in her lower lip, “I hear you haven’t really been speaking in the sessions.”

Stupid, ing…. ! How dare she …

“She say that?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Yes,” Joohyun glares at me – something she rarely does, and when she does, it’s quite the hostile sight to behold, believe it or not. Personally, I think it’s something to do with her quotidian gentle demeanour, her soft voice, juxtapose that with pure untended aggression and it’s intimidating. “I paid for those…”

“Did I ask you to?” I counter, stubbornly.

Joohyun thinks for a moment, sighs and puts her head in her hands. “I don’t know what to do with you,”

“You could pay me,” I say, “Let me do what I’m best at,”

She doesn’t even try fighting, as I take her hand, pressing kisses into the base of her neck. Trailing fingers and teasing the places I’m so well-versed with.

“You’re so good at this unnie,”

“I think you sometimes forget I do this for a living,”

What differs from Joohyun to my other main clients, Hyoyeon and Soonkyu, is that she requires gentle treatment. Her favourite persona of mine is the one I’ve lazily termed ‘the devoting lover’ - I affectionately caress her soft hair, press our lips together as if this kiss would be the last, so it’s sweet, it’s harmonic to her dulcet melody, as I bring her to the edge, tortoise pace. Whilst she writhes on my sheets, I hold her to me, tell her she’s truly venerated, tell her she’s most the loveliest creature I’ve ever had the delight to hold.

For the while, she believes me, whilst she’s trembling, quivering as she rides out the rest of her release, clutching my arms, vice-like, nails leaving several indents upon my skin, she’ll believe those words.

I end up humming a soft song to lull her to sleep. So easy.

~*~

[ That :

Hi Miss Kim! I was wondering if you’d come visit me in my office from now on? The exercises are easier completed there.

Sent:  12:01 ]

I don’t even know why, but I send her a text agreeing. Initially, I’d thought it’d be more amusing to ruin her in my home, but then, upon second thoughts, destroying her in the place she feels most secure brings a taste of sweet, sweet delight to my tongue. Break her, demolish her until whatever life that remains in those glowing umber eyes evanesce and disintegrate. She’d never feel protection anywhere else, again.

I collide, forehead bumping into a pliable chest, indicating a woman – as if the soft scent of vanilla isn’t enough to imply as such.

“Watch where you’re going,”

The voice is cold, lightly-accented so I can’t place where it’s from, so I blink, bring my eyes upward, already in defence. The words are out of my mouth before I know it, “Watch where you’re going.”

The woman glares at me, jaws flexing, eyes flashing. I think this is the second time I’ve met someone who’s possibly my equal in hostilities. My throat’s constricting, it’s acrid, its, nearly, unbearable. If I look from an objective view, she’s certainly beautiful. All the while something twinges within me, brings a slow tugging, niggling sensation. Persistent and gnawing. 

Perhaps she’s a client I’ve had serviced…?

“Who the do you think you are, preying in my territory?” Her voice is cold, miserable. She sounds like me, but I’m not miserable. Am I?

Or a I knew from an even further, deeper past?

“Kim Taeyeon,” I sneer, lift my nose high. “And, I don’t need your permission; I’ve been in this ing business since I could talk.” I exaggerate, I’ve been in this business since I was a goddamn child.

The stranger-woman’s eyes continue to icily lour, and I feel as if I might possibly freeze over, solidify with the chilling glower; that or spontaneously combust.

“Jessica Jung.”

The recognition clicks, there and then. Jessica Jung, the best friend of my adolescence. Head of fiery red hair, face of an angel, but not quite, she’s a red devil, seduction seething and rippling from every step she takes. Jessica was my best competitor, but we were always there for each other… until one day… she was ‘transferred’. At the time I thought that meant death, a softer synonym, but I guess not. Because Jessica stands before me at this moment. Maybe not quite alive, maybe not youthful as she was… but she’s here and she’s more… mature looking.

“…wait.” I say, when realisation hits me, muttering quietly; I hate to use this name, but it’s a last resort, “It’s me. Miho.”

“Huh?” Jessica raises a brow, clearly bewildered, maybe because she doesn’t recognise my name, doesn’t recognise me from that aeon ago. I hate to admit it, but it burns as if I’d been branded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I feel stupid, but, yet I continue to wrack my brain for stimulants, something to bring reminiscence to jolt forth.

In the end, she lifts her phone to her ear and begins to strut away, obviously deeming me as some doltish passer-by, and someone not worthy of the princess’s time, “Anyway, Yuri-baby….”

Feeling the scalding iron of being forgotten melded to my charring flesh, to something I’d set up a long, long time ago. I was a fool to think it could withstand everything forever. Apathy can only last for so long. With pain coagulating and leaving a bitter remnant under my tongue, I watch her leave. A phantom drifting away from me, once more, one final time. “Goodbye, Jessi,” I whisper as she sashays away, stepping through the probable last door of my life.

Later that night, I write my first entry:

Dear… diary.

Today, I saw another ghost of my past; as if I’m not haunted by them already, enough. Jessica ‘Princess’ Jung. She was one of the few I could become friends with during my time at the brothel. I guess my first unofficial girlfriend, too. Maybe we were together because we’re equally as desecrated upon, inside. Anyway, she didn’t recognise me… I---.

With foggy eyes, I slam the diary shut with my palm, biting back something that’s caustic and smoky, something that abrades me in the inside. When my fingers touch to my eyes, to my checks, there’s something damp; I figure there must be another problem with my body. But I don’t understand what it is.

Not at all.

Wait. I don’t want to understand what it is; I’m not like any other human, I’m me, I’m Kim ing Taeyeon. Renowned e of Seoul, I take my pick of the clients and I could dine on caviar as a midnight snack if I wanted to; I’m high end; I’m ---

---Who the hell am I kidding?

I’m a ing , and that’s it.

Anxious, yes, I’m ing anxious, I’m eager to erase my transient lapse in cognitive composure; snatching my lighter and a cigarette from the packet left by an earlier client, I hold the tube to my lips, lighting it before inhaling, deeply. Feeling the noxious gases entwine and devouring whatever’s left to devour. I finally exhale my lungful, grey ashen whorls floating in slow gyrations, fading and evanescing; watching that, I almost feel as free as the smoke. “, man.” I murmur to myself, reclining further back into my seat, “It’s been a while since I’ve had one of these.”

I don’t know why it’s been so long; they’re so damn good.

~*~

When I return home today, after a day of chores, and general nondescript duties to which I am most alluded by, I spot a bag, full of essentials from the local 7-11. The card within the plastic bag depicts a few words, written in delicate ‘o’s and flowing round shapes. Whoever wrote this has astonishing calligraphy.

‘To Miho,

Take care of yourself. You should eat better.

☺’

I’m still frowning, however. Few of my clients know me by my previous name, now, excluding the beautiful trio, beguiling Hyoyeon, lovely Joohyun, and the enchanting Soonkyu.

And, Jessica? She’s long forgotten me. Ouch, that hurt to touch. The wound’s smarting, sneering at me, reminding me that, despite everything I claim… I’m just as ing human as every other pathetic soul out there.

Nevertheless, I bring these items in, place them onto my kitchen counter, tidy them away, still perturbed as to who the gift-giver is.

It turns out to be more than a one day thing. I return home, or open the door to a bag of necessities each day; Milk, kimchi, coffee… the list… is endless. I don’t understand the gesture; but they continue to arrive:

Red chilli, eggs, white radish and soy milk:

‘Miho,

I hope you find reason.

☺’

“Reason?” I repeat, frowning so hard that I wonder if it’d leave permanent wrinkles upon my smooth youthful forehead. “What, the, , does, that mean?” I don’t care to fixate on the silly note for long, however. But I do overtax my brain upon the irksome issue: A stranger who knows my dreaded name, and I don't know them... how… peeving. I don’t like mysteries, I don’t like them one bit at all.

The next time: A couple plastic boxes casing various healthy-looking foods; seasoned seaweed, bean sprouts, anchovies and some other stuff:

‘Miho,

Enjoy.

The side dishes are good, trust me, my grandmother taught me well.

☺’

I’m eating healthier, thanks to this... smiley-faced...person. Oh, and, the side dishes were good; the stranger was right… and a good cook.

Howeve, I simply cannot comprehend the motives, buying groceries something I, myself, can achieve alone. I’m not that poor to resort to relying on such character-reducing charity. I’m not, I swear…

. . .

“Come on, just touch it,” The man coaxed me, something horrid flaring in his tenebrous eyes, something I didn’t recognise because I was … too young. It stood… upright, it looked disgusting and I didn’t want to touch it.

“Go on. it… like a lollypop,” I glanced to my mother’s supposed best friend, Suhyun, she’s smiling, but it’s not beautiful. There’s something about her teeth, something about the fact that they’re no longer distinct shapes, but rather something decayed, yellowish white plaque situated at the line between gum and teeth – meth mouth. “Come on. It’s fun,”

I didn’t realise it at the time, but she was selling a ual favour from me to a e, used the money to fund her pathetic addiction.

It’s not fun. Too big. Slimy, like thick viscous mucous. It tasted … salty, and dirty, and bitter…I wanted to go play with my doll. The broken doll with the missing eye, the one that Sooyoung taught me to make, but didn’t teach me how to fix, I don’t mind that anymore…Just give me my doll…

“I don’t like it when the white stuff squirts onto my face…And it doesn’t taste good like you said…” I complained, sulking to the woman who, at the time, I thought, cared.

“Just do it. Or I’ll tell your mother you disobeyed me.”

I didn’t want mother to hit me again, so I did as she ordered. Crying all the way. I think the bad man enjoyed my tears…

. . .

 … No. I’m nothing like that. Nothing like her.

~*~

A/N2: idk I had so much trouble writing the straight ... it's been too long aha ._.; Anyways, thanks for reading, again, <3 hehe.