Pieces of Daisies

Pieces of Daisies

Jongin × Kyungsoo

Here’s to someone the time has stopped for, from someone the time runs too fast from.

Cramped elevator. Smells like three weeks old halfheartedly brewed coffee stain.

I was in first, then he came in to stop the doors from closing.

I inhaled. He smelled of cigarettes he didn’t smoke and bottles of alcohol he didn’t sip. The more he tried to rake his hair to shrug off the scent, the more it wafted in the little and dimly lit space we were trapped in.

I offered him a hand. Commented about the weather. Did what was enough to make him notice me.

A murmur was my reward.

An awkward reply for the comment I already forgot followed soon, falling from his hesitating lips into my ears like chocolate. He always sounded like chocolate. And a glass of good wine. Or the warmth of sunlight at eight in the morning.

We drowned in silence. Me, boring holes at the back of his head and him, probably wanting to get out as fast as he could. He exhaled loudly the moment the doors of the elevator opened. I almost laughed. I could’ve laughed.

Thousands of words made my lips itchy, but even after a seemingly long walk along the hall to his front door, I wasted my chances.

And yet, he snatched my chance back and handed it to me.

‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

And in the moment he asked me that, I finally believed him. He wasn’t kidding.

He doesn’t remember a lot of things.

And I’m one of them.

He was the perfect object. The most beautiful tragedy. An anomaly that time either hate or loves to deal with, all at once. For those who has too much unappealing memories to carry around, he shall be envied. For those who cherish whatever it is that I don’t really understand about, he is a sad melodrama.

He forgets his yesterdays.

Such a gift. Can I have a taste?

The perks of being forgotten everyday?

I can say anything on my head to him without fearing that he won’t look at me the same anymore. I can spit my bitter words on him one day and still hang around with him at his balcony the next day. I can just tell him that I love him, I ing love him, and he’ll say okay, I know, thank you, I think I love you too, and then the next morning we’ll meet in the elevator again, him wanting to get off as soon as possible because he can’t stand being next to someone smoking.

The cons?

There is literally nothing that can connect us.

If I tell him the most evil, disturbing words I could come up with regarding him being the tiest person to be attached to, I won’t even have the chance to feel remorse, to apologize and be guilty because he forgets, he’ll forget I’ve ever hurt him. If I tell him I love him, and even if he takes it well, I’ll never have my answer. He told me himself; he can’t love. There is no possible form of familiarity between us except for the pages about me in his journal and the sticky notes I pasted on his wall. Most of the times, I don’t even have the courage to say anything when he looks at me, confused, wondering why is a stranger acting like he knows him.

He does, Kyungsoo. He knows you. You just don’t know him. And it’s not even your fault. It’s not your fault that you don’t even have the slightest idea that you kill him and wipes him out every night from your life.

He was white porcelain. Imperfectly polished into a raw beauty. He was smooth and warm under my calloused cold fingers. He was a white canvas, and I stained him with faint, dark gray graphite powder. We were monochrome together. Monochrome, but at least together.

He tried to stay awake. I tried to make him stay awake. We tried to stay up all night with dozen cups of poorly brewed tea. We sat on the chair at his balcony, his pale, slender legs resting on my wood log looking ones, rubbing and rubbing because the night was cold and his skin was warm. So warm.

He rambled about anything he could come up with. I listened. I listened to his words. I listened to his tone of voice and tried to embed it on my brain because I would miss it. I would miss the way he talked to me as if I’m the most trustworthy tard in the world. I would miss the way he made me feel like I’m a constant variable in his constantly changing equation. I would miss the way we were fairy-tale normal. I would miss him missing me even when I was next to him. I would miss him telling me things about tomorrow, like weather forecasts and plans, because it made me think that he would wake up in the morning bringing his yesterdays with him; bringing me with him.

But of course, sleep took my love away, it always takes him away. All I could do was to rest his head on my laps and run my fingers through his locks.

In that moment, I hoped. I was hoping, sincerely, with my whole being, that he would open his eyes and smile when he sees me and give me my ‘good morning’, as if he’s been waiting in his sleep to tell me that.

However, desperate people like me don’t rely on hope only. I carried him to the bed, and wrote whatever I could write, and then I finally dared to hope that he’d remember me tomorrow.

My name is Jongin. You love me.

I never planned this.

All I wanted was to make my last work to be the best piece I’ve ever written. It would’ve been great. A glamorous way to leave this ty place. People would yearn for me when I’m not even here anymore. A legacy everyone would talk about for years. I’m sure even my ghost would stay to see it unfolds.

He ruined it all for me. He ruined my dreams, and rebuilt it with his own hands and made it a new one. A dream, where he would sit there at the other corner of the bench on his balcony, sipping coffee, staring at my cig with such hatred that would only make me fall harder than I already did.

In that dreams, he calls my name first every morning, we plan vacations and Christmas dinners, we blow candles together because our birthdays are only one day apart – and I stay next to him for a very long time, and he doesn’t get to see the daises wither.

But as we know it, dreams are just… dreams.

I just want more time.

My name is Jongin.

I’m the writer who lives next door.

See you tomorrow, hyung.

Don’t forget!

[A/N]

Yes, it was written for January 13^th.

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