The One with Distractions, Wedding Dresses, and Pasta

Jongdae hated his new wrist clock; staring at the shiny new model with so much hatred, he felt like sawing his hand off. He practically begged the nice old lady that helped him out two months ago to take it back, but she said they would only take it back if he found his soulmate. He then wondered if it would be worth it to sue city hall, since he was sure that he shouldn’t be forced to search for a person in order to take it off.

The smell of coffee hit him like a punch in the gut when he walked past the city hall coffee shop, and he tried his damnedest not to think of her, but his eyes searched the menu board and he couldn’t help to compare the price of her favorite coffee with this shop; surprised by how cheap it was.

She would probably hate it, he thought before wrapping his scarf around the lower part of his face as he braced the chilly air outside. The snow was soft and white on some untouched benches, and on the street, it was a slushy nightmare; reminding all drivers to slow. He breathed in the scent of his scarf, feeling a small nip of cold at his ears as he rushed to the bus stop, trying his best not to slip.

Next to him, he looked bitterly at the couple that was laughing and hugging each other to keep warm.

His new watch pinged, and he stared down at it, annoyed that it kept going off every hour countdown. He didn’t even care anymore if he was going to find his soulmate; why should he when he built up his life and devotion to the woman he was best friends for years? Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes and could feel the promise of a headache come on; reprimanding himself that he would stop thinking of what transpired two days ago.

However, as he watched a woman being catcalled and then being called a , he closed his eyes and sighed, wondering if it hurt her more than it felt good for him to say. He couldn’t believe those words that came out of his mouth; even though he was pretty sure he had every right to say those words to her. He didn’t understand why she just didn’t tell him, but he also knew he was partially at fault.

Stubbornly, he made it his life goal as a teenager to take every single kiss from her. It started with the kiss he stole in that classroom when he was fourteen, then a kiss at Christmas when he was fifteen, a kiss he stole at the playground when he was sixteen, the one he begged for when he was seventeen, the one that was gifted when he was eighteen, and then the one he pranked her for when he was nineteen. At twenty, she gifted him their first time, and now, as he stared at the slush, unknowing that he missed his bus, he wondered if that was truly what she wanted or if she was playing games.

He felt betrayed because she claimed she trusted him with her everything, but apparently not enough.

Sighing, he decided to walk the twenty-minute bus ride back to campus, not caring that his feet were cold and watered down by the snow. He cursed that he didn’t bring his headphones, because right now he didn’t want to be in his thoughts. It irked him; because he tried to rationalize himself that what she did was acceptable; and clearly lying to your best friend for six years is a pretty bad crime.

His phone dinged and with a skip of his heart, he quickly answered his phone, only to realize it was a message from his group mate, and not her. He felt stupid, because he yelled at her. He called her a lying , and said she was playing with his heart; he shouldn’t be hoping to be getting a text message from her. The scene of her sitting on her bed, not daring to meet him in the eye before he slammed that door was still clear to him and he felt terrible every time he thought of it; he honestly doesn’t blame her for not wanting to ever contact him again.

He felt his heart tug when he saw the picture of them on his lock screen; they were both laying on her bed, and she was cuddled up, nuzzling his neck with a smile on her face while he posed silly for the selfie. It was a bit dark and somewhat grainy; but Jongdae felt like it was years ago that he was that happy. He stared at the photo before quickly pushing his phone in his pocket; shaking his head because no! No, he was angry at her! He shouldn’t be pining; he shouldn’t be nostalgic over something she did. She was the one who openly ripped his heart out; she was the bad guy, not him.

Jongdae glanced up, passing a music store, and let his thoughts drift; allowing him to wonder how she was doing. Was she still crying? Over him?

Mourning? Did she drink that coffee or the soup? Is she eating? Did she go to her classes? She showered, right? She hates greasy hair, so she obviously showered… right? Is she eating? Did anyone come by to see how she’s doing? Is she at least getting out to exercise? She’s practicing her piano… she has to be. She yells at me for interrupting her… Is she regretting me?... Does she miss me?

Jongdae was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he was surprised by the time he got to his dorm hallway, staring past his door and down to hers. He felt his watch ping twice, but he was too deep in thought, wondering if he should at least let her know that he got his new watch. He didn’t know why; did he say that he never wanted to see her again? He couldn’t remember, but he felt obligated to prove to her… that he has a new watch. Maybe if she sees that her name doesn’t show up, then maybe she might smile.

Wouldn’t that make her feel worse, he thought before he made the quick decision to walk into his dorm and lay on his bed, wondering what life would have been like if he had never met the woman. To him, even just the idea made his stomach hurt.

Meanwhile, Wendy kept extending her time in the piano room, furiously scribbling notes and scales, adding pianissimos and fortes with every bad thought and overthinking the key changes. She would demolish one sharp and squeezed in a flat, she would extend her palm as far as it could go and cramp her hand with each and every twirl of staccatos. She cracked her knuckles every so often, and her feet danced as the keys would chime or stop abruptly.

There was always sound; and where there was always a note being played, be it part of her music or not. There was always noise so she could keep herself distracted.

Wendy would like to think that she wasn’t easy to distract, but it proved to be difficult many times, judging by the piles of works in progress or sudden ideas that piled around her that she clung to every thought that would occur. She told herself not to think any of these thoughts because these thoughts would distract her from distracting herself

They say one should name their song after it has been written, but Wendy didn’t believe that, as these piles had names that ranged with silly jingles to boring ballads, with easy synonyms that reminded people of seasons and holidays to harder pronunciations with difficult spellings just to be an . There was one pile though, with no name, and she would find herself staring at it before deciding that no, she couldn’t work on that pile; on that specific piece because unlike the others she churned out in a matter of two days, this one she was working on for a few months. It didn’t have a name, because nothing sounded right, nothing explained the song without needing to listen to it.

Her lip was bruised between biting back tears and concentrating on writing the notes. Her stomach growled in anger, and body ached for sitting so long on the hard, wooden bench. She should change her clothes, and wash her hair, but she promised herself, as the looming finals were starting to send all the students and staff into a frenzy, that she must focus on the piano.

The piano made her concentrate on something and not him. Concentrating on the piano made her forget all the bad she’s done; made her forget all the pain she caused and the pain she felt; and made her forget how easily she lost two people within the same day. The sounds, the strategy of piecing together a beautiful chord, and the anticipation of what to play next distracted her long enough to help numb herself to the future.

Right now, all she had to worry about was making it to finals without thinking of how much she deserved every word her best—ex-best friend threw at her. All that mattered right now was the process and not that she was going to be lonely for the rest of her life. The only thing that mattered was the music and not how she single-handedly ruined her future with a man she loved with a six-year lie.

None of that mattered as she allowed little rests and many chords; her fingers twirling and dancing up and down the ivory and onyx keys as she continued with idea after idea, ballad after jazz after an attempted rendition of a popular song after ballad. Her phone had died between an obsession with a melody of opera songs and a silly attempt of an upbeat piece. The coffee and soup were still in her room, left untouched, like relics of what once was a happy life. She was wearing her own hoodie, but she couldn’t give up his sweatpants. Her hair was flat, and she felt warm all over.

The door handle jiggled, and she froze in place, her heart rate accelerating before it stopped and no one came in. With a pause, she found her forceful distraction interrupted and she slammed her hand on the keys; the collective bass sound resonating like a bad taste. She panicked as she quickly searched for a piece, any piece, to work because how dare she hope that he would just waltz in like he used to and forgive her. If anything, she’s anticipating the director to kick her out of the piano room, take away her scholarship, and kick her out of the school. If she was already a swirling vortex of bad luck, why doesn’t life just take her out right from under the rug before she distracted herself with music again?

She picked up the unnamed piece, and felt her stomach growl in agony, begging her to eat something. Pausing, she told herself that if she worked for another hour, she’ll go eat; she’ll just blast her favorite songs on her way over to the cafeteria—oh that’s right, her phone’s dead. Remembering that, she took her water bottle out of her bag and took a swig before popping in a piece of gum, hoping that it will ease her growling stomach for now.

She stared at the unnamed piece and played what she wrote; falling back into her new routine of musical distractions and punishing herself further with stinging tears that wanted to fall, a dull heart that wanted to reach out, and a headache she’s been sporting for hours.

Minseok panicked when he saw the pot of pasta water almost boiling over, quickly lifting the pan and watching it bubble down. He sighed and set it back down on a lower heat, keeping nearby the water as he leaned his back against the counter, watching the girl chose her carefully as she dabbed more color on her canvas. The cat was lazily sleeping on the window ledge, basking in the light of the sunset as Yeri’s model. The man felt a bit embarrassed that he almost ruined his stove top and the food just becaus