Song: Eyes, Nose, Lips Tablo x Taeyang version

I wake up to the chirping of the birds,

Singing their sweet melody.

One is cut off abruptly.

Curious, I peer out of my window,

And find it on the ground,

Bleeding,

From various bite wounds.

The scene is all too familiar to me

Today is a maroon day.

When I first woke up, I thought that it would be silver. Still gray, but with a bit of shimmer, courtesy of the bird calls.

Now capillary action has brought brick red up my exterior walls, through the windows, and to my ceiling, where it then drips on me. Each splash splatters into my hairline, staining my hair the color of mahogany.

I jab a comb through the tangles in my hair, not bothering to change out of the shorts I went to bed in. They are, in fact, the same basketball shorts that I stole from my brother last week, but it’s not as if it matters. He’d be a hypocrite if he called me out on it.

I’m brushing my teeth viciously when said brother calls out to me.

“Yeonsoo.”

I turn around, eyeing him with disdain.

“Wash your face today,” he tells me, unperturbed.

“Why,” I state.

He begins to walk away, tossing words over his shoulder indifferently. “Jihoon’s coming over at three to hang out and have dinner.”

Lee Jihoon, our twenty three year old cousin is already a hot topic in South Korea, despite having just debuted. Infamous for his short stature and his cutthroat attitude for it, he is both revered and feared. His solo covers, which my brother had produced when Jihoon was still a trainee, can be heard in a smattering of road shops in any town or city, and even in some haughty department stores.

He used to joke that he hated going outside with me. Being that we are the same height, it only accentuates his own, in a negative way.

I spit into the sink, pursing my lips into a thin line and gripping the counter, because, .

He’s been inhumanly busy, what with promotions and my brother running his entire group rampant. I haven’t seen him since he debuted, and he still doesn’t know about…

No. I’m not going to think about it.

Once my face is washed, dried, and slathered with the same cream that I used to apply religiously, I exit the bathroom, making note of the time from the clock on the wall as I close the door.

It’s already noon.

I can feel the melancholy seeping through my bone marrow, urging, tempting, seducing me to go back to bed. But I have to buy groceries.

~

I’m tempted to buy pepper paste to put into the rotisserie chicken that I’m planning to make tonight, just to spite Yoongi, but Jihoon can’t handle spicy foods either. I would sacrifice my own tastebuds, but Jihoon needs real food.

I reluctantly put it back on the shelf.

An ajumma looks over at me. “Darling,” she says. “Here. Take this brand. It’s much better.” She points to a package with cartoon peppers plastered on the logo.

“Oh, I can’t eat spicy,” I tell her quickly, waving my hands. “But thank you.”

“Ah, poor child. My son is the same way.”

I give her a small smile.

“Well, if there’s anything you need help with, I’d still be more than glad to,” she insists.

I shake my head. “No, but thank you. I’m almost done shopping already.”

Though it doesn’t bother me, it strikes me that I must seem incompetent, having left the house in a t-shirt the color of today, the shorts I woke up in, socked feet clad in sneakers, and hair thrown up messily into a bun. Once again, there is not even a drop of makeup on my face.

It is bared to the world, juxtaposing my heart.

My coronary arteries form a cage around it, shielding me from whatever decides to attack me. I cannot be more grateful for their cold steel.

Perhaps I should have hid behind them earlier.

Wispy bangs flop on my forehead eagerly as I walk into the streets outside of the supermarket, much like how Yoongi embraces his bed at night. They tickle the skin there, prompted by the gentle breeze flowing through the street.

The breeze carries the familiar twinkling of bells.

There, across the street from me, is the same flower shop I visited almost a week ago.

I recall the flowers I bought and make an impulsive decision.

I’m going to buy more.

I look both ways before crossing the street, shivering slightly when the wind nips my arms.

The first thing I notice is customer coming out as I go in. The second?

The store smells like mango.

The same boy from monday is working at the table, on what must be the tenth bouquet on its surface. Judging from their identicality, they must be for a wedding.

The union of two people, pledged to love each other forever - or at least put up with each other until death.

It’s a morbid thought, but one I’ve had frequently recently. I do not dwell on it.

Instead I face the boy, watching as he burns the edge of the last ribbon in order to prevent it from unraveling and hums along to Jihoon’s group’s latest song.

He sees me then.

“Hello,” he greets me. “You came earlier this week, right?”

I answer with a nod. “I’d like to buy more flowers, mister…” I spy his new name tag. “Hoseok.”

He laughs, running his fingers through his wavy hair. It is, I notice, the color of brown sugar.

“I figured you’d say that. I am a florist, after all. What’s the order, miss?”

I pause for a second. “Do you have any chrysanthemums the color of apples?”

He seems startled at my specific request. “Green or red?”

Today is sangria, so I meant the red. I realize that it may be tough to find chrysanthemums in such a dark color, so I compromise with Jihoon’s favorite color: white.

“Twenty three red, please. Or perhaps the color of Pink Lady apples.”

“Okay.” He moves to pick them out and is silent for a minute before he says, “I’m sorry about your loss, by the way.”

“Huh?”

“The white bouquet.”

“Ah.” I see. “They were for my brother.”

“Were you very close with him?” he asks.

I laugh. “No. He’s still alive, but he dyed his hair white.”

He doesn’t say anything for the span of time that it takes him to pick out three more flowers. I assume that he’s thinking of how to respond. “Oh,” is what he settles with.

“Mhm.”

His quiet is eerie, and I become consumed by my own thoughts.

This flower shop, fragrant with hundreds, even thousands, of blossoms feels seafoam green to me. The green life of countless stems mingles with hues of blue petals and yellow centers, each vibrant in their own colors, each made unique by their own imperfections.

I wonder if I have ever encountered such a peaceful florist shop before. Others are bustling, even when there are no customers, harried florists frisking from one end to the other. This one is much like the day’s disposition: sunny, warm, and mild.

Perhaps it is Mister Hoseok who makes it that way.

“Is the shop solely yours?” I ask him.

He ties a silver ribbon - funny, I think to myself - and responds without looking up from it. “Yes. I just graduated from university, majoring in botany, and decided to open a shop here.”

He’s quite a bit younger than he seemed, but that is probably because he is a business owner, and it’s not everyday that you encounter someone as such at the age of twenty four.

“I owe you about twenty five thousand won, correct?” I question.

That gets him to look up. “Yes. How did you…”
 

“Know?” I resist the urge to smile petulantly. “I used to be quite the flower lover. I still check on the market now and then.”

I suppose that something in my voice gives away a bit of what I’m feeling, but that is my own fault. If I had let him state the price himself, I wouldn’t have broken one of my steel beams.

~

Jihoon is playing cards with Yoongi at the dining table when I walk in.

“Yeonsoo!” he exclaims, that cute cousin of mine.

“Hey,” I say back, before turning to place the grocery bags on the table.

I am already seasoning the chicken and sticking a cut lemon into its, well, cavity, when I remember the bouquet.

I look to the side, only to find it missing, along with Jihoon’s mop of baby pink hair.

“Where?” I question.

I can hear the rustle of Yoongi’s shirt as he shrugs. “I think he went to put it in some water.”

And indeed he has. He enters the kitchen seconds later, carrying a mug and balancing the flowers inside of it.

“Do you have a secret admirer?”

I nearly choke. “What?”

His smug smirk pops up next to me. “So you do.”

I roll my eyes. “Shut up, Woozi. I bought them for you. You can check my purse if you want the receipt.”

“Yeonsoo, we’re not kids anymore. You can’t call me that.”

I point the scissors I am about to use to cut the string for the chicken at him. “Then tell my brother to change your stage name. Why should fans be able to call you that, and not its creator?”

He closes his mouth with a clack.

~

Jihoon’s laughter is infectious.

~

When I go to bed that night, my head tucked into my cousin’s armpit and my legs sprawled on top of Yoongi’s stomach, my day has turned to the red of a rose.