Pairing: Namjoon x You 

Genre: Angst (honestly I'm not sure if this would be angst, but it's definitely gloomy)

A/N: The poems in this oneshot are mine. I wrote them when I was feeling a little down and out.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was your favourite spot to visit. A train graveyard: empty shells that once were heavily relied upon to transport valuable goods. They were once sturdy, promising a safe ride with no fear of breaking down. Like everything though, there comes a point where the expiry date nears. When something once durable and stable falls apart and is no longer of value or use. The trains here were shells, hollow, only the wind passing through the open doors providing a shrieking voice to the pain and emptiness felt.

They lay on their tracks, stretching as far as the eye could see and beyond. You tried walking the length of the forgotten tracks once, but they spanned too far that you gave up your journey. The trees growing between the wooden planks didn’t help much either, as though they were purposefully blocking your path, aware of the desolation that lay beyond. Your favourite part of the forgotten land though was the silence that came with it. You were alone, yet not. The trains provided an imaginary sense of escape. An escape from the mounting pressure and judgement of the world around you. An escape from the people expecting everything from you; expectations you felt were unreachable. The trains helped you relax your mind and find a focus that seemed lately to be too easily slipped from your grasp.

It was a foggy day as per usual, when you headed out to your favourite location early in the morning, once again running to the promise of momentary freedom. There was seemingly nothing out of the ordinary: the trains lay lifeless, the trees stood proud to be taking over a once important land, the silence stretching far beyond the realm of the little world you built for yourself.

You hopped up onto the roof of a train, still sturdy beneath your running shoe clad feet. Looking out to the horizon, you breathed in the stale air. The air that smelled of pine and misplaced diesel fuel; smells you now associated with peace and tranquility.

It was dancing in the wind when you first noticed something out of the ordinary. A single piece of white paper leaping and bounding its way over to the train you perched yourself above. It caught your curiosity, for it meant that another life was spending time in your world, a world you once thought was only between you and the trains.

You landed heavily from the train, the floor grasping your jump but the pebbles beneath rustling its protest. The paper managed to get caught beneath a wheel of a rusted train; hiding as though it didn’t want to be caught invading your space. You saw it though, and were drawn to the paper, feeling its power over you.

It was crumpled, the anger of the wind pressing creases into the once perfect sheet. The written words were easily read though, and through them you felt the emotions of the owner; the anxiety and frustration of the world, just as you felt too.

Can you see it?

See the fear, anxiety, and emptiness in her strained eyes.

Can you feel it?

Feel the tremors, the shaking of her lifeless limbs.

Can you taste it?

Taste the stale yet bitter air of uncertainty

Can you hear it?

Hear the silent screams and anguished pleas of help.

Can you touch it?

Touch the empty air of what could have been.

This is desperation.

You felt the pain and sorrow; you felt the negative cloud of emotions through the words quickly scrawled on the paper. At once you felt close to the writer, feeling what they feel and knowing of the agony they speak of. It was a connection that had you begging for more. A connection that had you reeling in curiosity as to the identity of this mysterious and poetic soul.

You folded the paper neatly and placed it in your pocket, wanting to keep it as reminder you are not alone in this desolate world. A reminder that people feel the same as you, and you’re not the only one on this mindless journey called life.

It was a few days before you returned to the railroad, having been slapped in the face by reality and its posse of responsibilities.  You breathed in the air, and melted into the muted sounds. Yet again, another crumpled piece of paper flew towards you; a connection similar to that of two magnets. It was similar to the first: the same scribbled hand writing, the same angry creases, and the same desolate poem written for no one in particular.

If you could turn back time: what would you do, where would you go?

If I could turn back time, I would be a better me. A me with a voice. A me with a vision.

If I could turn back time, I would fight harder, stronger, and bolder.

If I could turn back time, I would start things sooner and not wait until the clock hit zero.

If I could turn back time, I would not regret anything I did or failed to do.

If I could turn back time, I would find my voice and not be broken down.

If I could turn back time, I would ensure that in my future I would not want to turn the time back again.

But I can’t turn back time, so where does that leave me now?

There it was again, the anger towards a future lost, and a present dead. The words rang out in your mind, a flood of love for the truth of the words. You desperately wanted to meet whoever wrote these poems. Whoever put down into words the exact thoughts you failed to express. Once again the crumpled paper was smoothed out and gently placed into your pocket. It served as yet another reminder that somewhere, someone was feeling your pain.

A week later you returned. Having been coming by less and less, but still finding the time to get away, requiring the reset that the gloom provided you with. Once again you looked for a white paper, tossed away into the wind with no thought of having it return; however, this time you found no such piece. Instead, in its place, was another presence. A soul you were quick to realize was held down with the weight of the world; a soul that felt the pressure and sorrow that only a select few can connect with. At once you recognized the boy even though this was your first encounter with him. The way his hunched shoulders curled toward his chest, and the way he gazed solemnly out into the vastness of the fog down the tracks, you knew he was the one who written the anguished words on the white paper.

You weren’t certain what to do at this point, not wanting to interrupt his peace, but also wanting to talk to him about the bustle of emotions clearly trying to find their escape. Slowly you crept forward, attempting to still the pebbles from moving too hastily under your soles. One snap of a twig though was all it took for the still air to become disturbed and the mysterious boy to look your way.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you or make a sound.”

“You were trying to sneak up on me then.”

His voice was deep and calm, like the crystal blue waters in an underwater cave. It held a serenity that you didn’t think was possible for someone so seemingly married to torment. His eyes as well, held a flitting mixture of amusement and tranquility, but also harboured little flecks of doubt and uncertainty.

“I wanted to ask you something. Were you the one who wrote these poems?” You spoke to him softly, as though your voice would somehow cause him to disappear in a whirlwind of dust.

“You found them. When I tossed them away I didn’t think anyone would pick them up, let alone read them.”

He turned back around, opting to stare out yet again to the farthest reaches of the tracks. You took his response as a sign for you to continue the conversation, so you sat next to him, residing in the space the creaky open doors of the train provided.

“Your writing is beautiful. Why did you throw them away?” 

“I meant those as nothing more than a transfer of thoughts into words. As a way to rid my mind of the negativity that sometimes seems to creep into my soul without my knowledge. Don’t you find that sometimes it’s easier to write what you feel rather than say it out loud?”

“I guess.” You couldn’t say anything more to him, for the pressure of his words were overwhelming. His presence seemed to loom over you, strong and built with poetry and poise, yet gentle and vulnerable. He felt the weight of the world too, but seemed better at coping than you.

You spoke again before he could, “But still, why would you simply throw your words away? Wouldn’t you want to keep them? Even though they are your negative thoughts, would you not use them as a reminder that you made it out of your slum?”

“That is one way of looking at it. Keeping the words that represent a low point in your life and only going back to them as a reminder you could overcome anything, even a point of apprehension. But you see, I look at it a different way. As I said, I transfer my thoughts into words. For me, that’s symbolic. I put my negativity onto a fleeting piece of paper and toss it to the wind. I’m throwing away the paper and the words on it; I’m throwing away my negative feelings.”

Once again the wisdom in his words reverberated in your ears and dug themselves a home inside your mind. The boy seemed to be of your age, but wise beyond his years. He held himself and spoke as though he had the answers to all life’s questions, but was still unsure himself.

Silence had blanketed the two of you, the wind being the only accompaniment needed along with the hushed inhales and exhales of soft breath. You sat together, watching nothing, yet seeing everything. No words were needed, just the comfortable presence of two young people feeling the same emotions.

Seconds fled into the abyss, and minutes followed along. Hours swept past with the shifting fog, time being lost down the never ending rail road tracks. It was peaceful. It was quiet. It was sane. Nothing in the moment reminded you of the outside world, and for that you were grateful.

“I have more you know.”

“Huh?”

“Those poems. I have more if you’re interested in reading them.” Once again he turned to face you, slower this time rather than the sharp jerk just moments before. His eyes still held the same emotions, drawing you in and promising safety. You didn’t personally know this man sitting beside you, but the familiarity of his emotions and of his radiating soul made you feel at ease. An ease you hardly felt around anyone any more.

“I would love to read them. One condition though: if you throw them away, throw them to me. I want keep them.” For the first time since your encounter together, he smiled; a small tug of his facial muscles that stretched across his face and diffused into his eyes. He stretched at that moment, bringing his arms over head and reaching towards the heavens. Standing up he held out his hand, open and inviting you to take the first step into some unknown.

“Let’s go then. We can grab some coffee on the way.”

This time, you allowed yourself to smile, a small tug that was the first sign of happiness in a while. You stood and grabbed his outstretched hand, warm to the touch and holding on to you with such earnest certainty. He started off, walking a few paces in front of you and leading you both down the tracks.

“I didn’t get your name.”

He glanced behind his shoulder, pace not slowing for a second. He threw his name into the wind, howling past your ears and engraining itself into memory.

“Namjoon.” You mumbled silently after him, enjoying the poetic vibration rippling up your throat.

You glanced back behind you, taking in the scenery lost to mankind, but still proving to be useful. You found peace in the lost land of the trains, you found words that spoke volumes to those with keen ears, and you found someone who held a mold of life similar to yours. For some, the rail road was an end, the expiration date come and gone. For you though, it was a beginning and a future.