Seong Somin

There was a beautiful, broken man unconscious on my piano dripping with blood that called out for help in his sleep. His blood dripped from the black material of his clothes, staining the ivory keys, the grime on his fingers smeared over the maple colored wood. My first thought was to capture the scene with my camera. Then, I cleaned his wounds, let him sleep on my couch and fed him breakfast in the morning. He smiled his heartbreaking smile, taught me how to play the piano and helped me moving lighting equipment from my studio down to ground floor. He held me at night, kissed me during the day, and somehow completely captured me with his eyes. He didn’t leave for an entire month and I was content with letting him stay.

I’d never grown so close to another person in such a short time. He produced music, he belongs to a band, he was 27, he liked eating breakfast for every meal, he was hiding from the rest of his band members and company.

His lonely smile, the kind way he treated me, his music, intoxicated me and suddenly I wasn’t sure if he was staying because he wanted to or because I wouldn't let him leave.

“Seong Somin,” Yoongi spoke up from his seat at the table in my studio. “You good?” I sat in front of him. We both had laptops propped in front of each other. I’d been furiously typing up a paper that was due at the end of winter holiday at school and he’d been working on music. He’d lifted one of the earpieces off and waited for me to respond,

“Yeah,” I place my fingers back down on the keys and start up again, my eyes uselessly flitting between my notes and the screen. His eyes didn’t leave mine for a moment while he tried to gauge my thoughts before cautiously putting the headphones back on properly. Underneath the table, shoes around mine tightened momentarily. I lasted another ten minutes before my thoughts wandered again and my finger stalled on the keyboard.

Yoongi sighed and pulled the headphones from his head to rest around his neck. His eyes dark eyes searched for mine.”What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” I inhaled before closing my laptop and leaning forward to press the side of my face to the cold metal. “Just burned out, the shoot from last night was draining and the model was the biggest pain in the .”

Yoongi chuckles and I feel his hand slip through my hair, pulling on the strands gently. “You say that about every model.”

“And it has never failed to be true,” I mutter, shutting my eyes, lulled by his hand in my hair. It felt good, every off-handed thing he did to comfort me, every time he touched me, every time he kissed me, my skin warmed. It was almost dangerous how good it felt to be around him. He’d slept next to me and somehow my body was completely infatuated with his.

"Sleep, you did come back pretty late,” Yoongi says. I wanted to, but I knew that if I didn’t finish the paper now, I’d regret it. So I pushed myself back to an upright position. Yoongi’s hand fell away and he stood up.

“I’ll go make coffee,” he says pushing in his chair and detaching his headphones. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Yes please, just grab something from the fridge,” I tell him. He smiles at me before turning away and starting upstairs. I wasn’t used to this, being babied around, taken care of. I’ve lived alone ever since my parents kicked me out, almost six years. Boys came and went, friends stayed a bit longer, but it felt foreign.

“Apples or grapes?” Yoongi calls from upstairs.

“Both,” I chime back and he laughs. I can hear him tinkering around upstairs probably putting away washed dishes and for some reason I find myself typing his name into a search engine.

Min Yoongi.

I clicked on the first website, an encyclopedia dedicated to him.

Min Yoongi, better known by his stage names Suga and Agust D is a South Korean rapper and singer-songwriter born March 9, 1993 in Daegu. He is a member of the band Bangtan Boys. Is currently taking a break from group promotions to compose since January 11, 2019.

Besides all the information is a promotional photo of Yoongi with white blond hair that suits him just as well as his dark hair.

“Holy ,” I say, zooming in on the photo with my fingers as I hear his shoes on the stairs. “You look really good blonde.”

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