Kimchi ramen or tempura udon.

He’s been standing in the food section for a while now, his eyes scanning the various selection of cup noodles in front of him. He can sense the cashier staring at him suspiciously and honestly, he doesn’t blame him. He’d do the same if he saw a guy frozen on the same spot for a solid 15 minutes staring at a row of noodles. Anyone would be weirded out.

He managed to reduce his choices to only two, but somehow that made it even harder to pick one. He likes kimchi ramen, it has a spicy savory flavor to it that he loves, but he also likes udon tempura and how the thickness of the noodles mixed with the soup tastes in his mouth. He starts to feel stuffy, an all-too-familiar heat creeping over him, making him uncomfortable. He seems to be good at that for some reason; making everyone and everything uncomfortable, even himself. He shrugs the unpleasant thought instantly, but he knows it’ll come back. All unpleasant thoughts come back one way or another, despite your best effort to throw them away. They have a mind of their own, like a viper. They cautiously roam around you, taking shelter in your shadow and when you’re most vulnerable, they strike.

He shakes his head this time. He’s drifting back again. Now’s not the time for this. Or maybe it is. Whatever. He’s a mess, no point shutting your mind when it’s going full speed towards a barricade. He knows the crash will come, so why delay it?

He mindlessly grabs the udon and drags himself to the checkout counter. He doesn’t bother looking at the cashier-a middle aged man with wrinkles that hold several stories, or so he’d like to think, he just hands him the money, opens the lid and starts pouring hot water from the kettle on the udon. He does this as fast as he can, unable to shake the piercing gaze the cashier is giving him. As much as he makes people uncomfortable, people make him uncomfortable too. It’s a fair trade if you ask him, so he’s not complaining. He quickly grabs his udon and a pair of chopsticks and goes out to sit at one of the tables in front of the store. He lets out a long breath as the harsh cold night air hits his face, the prickly heat from moments ago gone and replaced with a chilly empty feeling. That’s all he’s been feeling these days, or months, or years. He lost count of the last time he was in touch with himself. Everyday the distance between him and himself grows bigger and bigger and he’s just there, watching himself drift apart, unhinged, paralyzed to a reality he didn’t even paint. He can’t remember when it all started, can’t bother to remember even if you begged him, he’s terrible with keeping track of things. But, one thing’s for sure, it feels like forever. He knows that logically that can’t be the case, but time becomes irrelevant the moment you stop living. Your system shuts down, your mind turns against you, your heart grows numb and your soul is just not there anymore. The dead don’t feel time because they know nothing could ever bring them back to life, so why bother reminiscing over happier days when the present and the future both promise you eternal dullness, and those two never break their promises.

He throws his head back, wishing some of his thoughts would dissipate with the air, but that’s just wishful thinking. God, he wishes he could stop thinking forever. Every moment with himself ing hurts.

He steals a glance at his meal and curses when he sees the lid is open, the once warm noodles are now soggy and cold. It shouldn’t bother him that much, he can always buy another one, it’s not like it’s expensive; hell, he can even eat udon cold, it shouldn’t be a big deal, but things are never that simple. His hands start shaking and the familiar sinking feeling is back, but really, it was never really gone. It’s always there, waiting for him to up.

It’s always the small things that throw you off your balance. It’s always the stupid insignificant acts built on constant concealing and surpassing of emotions that drive you over the edge, that drown you in your own blood and make you wonder why the hell are you even living.

He tries to take several breaths to calm down, to distract himself from what’s coming next. He rubs his hands on his rough black jeans, and concentrates on not thinking anything. Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think—

You’re stupid.

Stop thinking Jung Jungkook. Stop, stop, stop—

You’ll never be anything.

. . He can’t stop. The thoughts are swarming in rapidly, like an army of soldiers violently busting through the door and threatening any sense of rationality left in his system. It was a losing battle from the start. You don’t control your thoughts in moments of despair, you can’t. It’s always the other way around.

He hangs his head low, his skin prickling with an indescribable heat, the warm clothes he wore to protect him from the frigid cold suddenly feel suffocating. Everything does, even the air; he struggles to breath, his face heating up as his mind goes haywire and before he knows it, he lets a few tears fall down his face, for the nth time that month.

He didn’t come here to feel sorry for himself, so why is his mind not cooperating? , he’s a mess. An unsolvable mess.

He wipes his face hurriedly, ashamed of himself. He knows there’s no shame in being vulnerable, but when it persists for years, it becomes a misfortune. That’s what his life is; a series of misfortune.

After long minutes of just sitting there and pitying himself, he sighs and decides to just call it a night, pop some sleeping pills in his system and hope for the best. Or worst. Whatever can shut his mind, he’ll take it.

As he’s getting up though, a figure approaches him and grabs his forgotten cold noodles. He staggers backwards, startled by the sudden appearance of this mysterious person.

“looks edible. Can I have it?” A tall lean girl with long brown hair and smokey eyes says, wearing nothing but a turquoise long sleeve sparkly mini dress that reaches her mid thigh and black mid-calf combat boots. He stands there silently, looking down at her boots, not really in the mood to engage with a stranger tonight. Not when he’s feeling like .

“Hey, I asked you a question.” She speaks again, this time impatiently, motioning to the Udon in her hand.

He doesn’t spare her another glance, he weakly nods and starts walking away, ready to go back and disappear in the hollowness of his apartment. But then, a hand catches him by the arm, and he turns around, eyes wide and confused. The girl looks at him intently, mouth twitching as if she wants to say something.

“Are you sure you don’t want your udon?” she asks, her hand still gripping his arm.

He sighs. “Yes, I’m sure.” He tries to get out of her grip, but she holds on into his arm tighter. Jungkook’s beginning to get slightly irritated.

“We can share, you know. I can’t finish it alone so we can eat it together.” she mumbles and Jungkook’s about to throw her off until he sees her face and suddenly, it all makes sense.

The distress written all over her features, the pleading in her eyes, the desperation in her firm hold; it’s all so familiar. She doesn’t say it, she doesn’t have to. He can easily tell.

She doesn’t want to be alone. No, she’s scared of being alone.

He thinks right then and there, that maybe, he too, can use a little company tonight.