[03] BUZZCUT SEASON, lorde
make believe it’s hyper-real, but I’d live in the hologram with you

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In the end, he never tried almond milk again.

Her parents in SF, sister off to Beijing, when she told him, “Come here and visit me,” he thought it would be the usual equation: Soojung, Minho, good drinks, teasing.

No.

“Minho—” It was whispery, it was soft, it was not like the Soojung that he knew.

Right then and there at her doorstep, breathing difficulty found him again.

“Soojung,” he breathed out. “What happened?”

She never answered him what. She never broke into a mischievous grin. She never held his hand and brought him into the kitchen, “Just kidding! Let’s have some Krystal homemade milk!”

No.

She brought him into her room instead. It was white and various shades of purple. Sitting down in her bed, she offered him no explanation, leaving him to hover rather awkwardly before, out of automatic modesty, settling himself onto the floor.

Polaroid pictures on the wall were of her, some skinny girls, of her and the Jessica Jung, also of her and him—written neatly on each piece with silver ink was KRYSTALMINO.

“Minho—”

He heard it before he saw it: Her sniffling like a baby. TREAT WITH CARE, TREAT WITH CARE, he remained dumbly still, his eyes trained on one of their pictures—one that showed her making an ugly expression while him openly laughing at her.

The contrast between then and now was so striking he looked away as quickly as his nerves allowed.

“Soojung,” he said. “You know that you can tell me anything, right? Anything?”

She slid onto the space next to him and rested her head on the depression of his shoulder. Her breath grazed his neck as she whispered, “I’m tired?”

“Do—do you want to do something?”

“Like what?” It grazed his neck again.

“Like, I don’t know, googling ourselves? Writing a song?” He reached out and grabbed a random object from her table. “How about reading a book?”

“Uh? Okay?”

He ignored those red eyes that stared back at him and flashed her an easy grin. Focus, Song Minho, focus. “Cool.”

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The first one was a Petra Collins pictorial. He gave up after a few pages, “People these days call s art?”

She only scoffed. “Tell me you don’t like them.”

“Soojung!”

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The next one was The Catcher in the Rye. She read it aloud for him and he cringed every time she said ‘phony’. “This Holden guy is such a douchebag.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s his angst!”

He looked at her. “Damn, what a way of channeling one’s inner anguish: being a whiny .”

She rolled her eyes.

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He picked the third book, picked William Shakespeare. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona, where we lay our—” He caught her make a Face. “What?”

“Have you ever heard people out there say it sounds like the dynamic, or lack thereof, that YG and SM have?”

“What the heck? Who would be Romeo and Juliet—” He paused. “Damn, girl, us?”

The Face accentuated.

“What? But I’d die for you, Soojung Capulet.”

“Yeah?” She narrowed her eyes and hid her smiles. “Even if I won’t for you, Mr. Montague?”

“I’m a fortune’s fool, Milady.” He clutched his chest. “I’ll take a bullet for you anytime no matter what!”

“Jesus, Minho.” She suppressed her smiles. “Stop.”

“I won’t, Milady,” he said. “I won’t give up our love. If we’re star-crossed lovers then I will defy you, stars!”

She tried to hide her smiles, to suppress it. “You piteous, young Montague heir.” She openly laughed at him.

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 “Soojung.”

“Yeah?”

He pressed a button and waited for her beauty to materialize on the instant film. “Isn’t it good to laugh at my expense?”

She had the decency to stop. “I guess?”

He smiled and ruffled her hair. “I’m glad to have been of service. I told you I’d die for you, Milady. Being laughed at is nothing.”

He stood up and pasted one more addition to her growing Polaroid collection on the wall. Over the white, with silver ink, HAPPY K BY M.

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He had a day-off and went home. He went upstairs to change his clothes, then his sister barged in his room, “Pray tell, brother. Why is Krystal Jung in our living room looking for you?”

“Wh—what?”

She was sat awkwardly in his father’s favorite sofa but got up when he ran down the stairs and approached her.

Soft and whispery, “Minho—” Again, “Minho—”

No.

Not again.

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