God, I hate pretty boys. I know that it will be completely wrong to despise the entire population of the beautiful male species in this world I inhabit. The existence of pretty boys has not effect much part of my daily life for the past twenty years—though I could not entirely understand why pretty boys could look ten thousand times prettier than average girl—but God has sent out two of its wonderful creation to intimidate my own existence, all in less than a week.

And do not even let me start to talk about their eccentric miens.

I leaned my back against the side of the bathtub, heaving out a frustrating sigh out of my exhausted self. I lifted my head up until my sight adjusted onto the pale color of the ceiling above me. When I lowered my head a second later, my sight averted onto the gig bag that lay across the bathroom floor in front of me.

“What are you doing?”

“Shopping for a new bag for Christmas,” I answered cynically to the question asked by my best friend, who leaned leisurely by the doorway of the bathroom. I pushed myself up into a standing position before I sat down on the edge of the bathtub, balancing myself so that I will not suffer an embarrassing fall.

She smirked, probably still bitter with my sarcastic answer. Obviously, she lacked sarcasm and height altogether in her young life. “Instead of shopping for a handbag, you have just won yourself a trip down the gig bag section to buy a Fender gig bag that costs 74,923₩.” Or I may be wrong—she does have a sense of sarcasm after all.

“Who brings a 74,923₩ gig bag to classes?”

“A rich spoilt brat,” she answered nonchalantly.

I bended down and lifted the gig bag off the bathroom floor. I had the gig bag balanced on my thighs while my fingers ran through its zipper, the irregular edge dug into the back of my fingers with every movement. As much as I tried, I could not remove the paint stain off its front pocket—I could not fix the gig bag to be in its original state. I stared deep into the yellowish white dried stain. It would probably be logical if I wish one of those magic wands from the Harry Potter’s movies to remove the stain by magic.

When Boram walked into the bathroom, I automatically shifted onto my left so that she could have a space to sit by the edge of the bathtub too. As if my instinct was true, she balanced her petite self on the edge quietly. The two of us sat there next to each other, listening to the silence as we wished we have not been there at the Faculty of Music on that particular Thursday.

Although I wished I could have not met the pretty boy bartender on the previous night even more.

“Back then when you saw that boy,” I lifted my head up abruptly and shifted my sight onto the bare face of my best friend. Her eyes widened as it indicated her risen curiosity. “You acted as if you know him.” She added a second later, her widened eyes still looking at me.

I foolishly smiled and shook my head in a faux denial. “No, I do not know him.”

“You’re a bad liar,” she answered immediately. I inhaled deeply and breathed out less than a second later to the reality that my best friend has known me well enough to see through the awful lie I was trying to tell. I maybe the one friend with the delicious treat of sarcasm, yet she remains as the other friend with enough intelligence to know myself deep into my core.

“I thought he is the pretty boy bartender from the previous night,”

Jeon Boram has probably dropped her jaw in surprise. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I pushed myself off the edge of the bathtub and onto my own two feet. I brought the gig bag together as I made my way out from the bathroom. “I am going to tell that bastard that I will buy him a new one,” I stopped midway and turned to Boram.

I entered the small living room which could only accommodate a small couch, a squared coffee table I frequently vandalized as my working table and a small cabinet where I placed a fourteen inches television; I flung the gig bag onto the floor and lazily slumped onto the couch. I leaned back and closed my eyes—desperately wished I could sleep through the exhaustion and wake up to nothing but just a hilarious nightmare. It would be nice to have that, I thought. It would be really nice that it will no longer be a reality, I sighed.

Through the darkness, I could listen to the faint footsteps of Boram as she walked out from the bathroom, obviously chose better to not bother with me anymore. The footsteps eventually disappeared and all I ever heard was the awful silence.

“ this,” I muttered those words nonchalantly in the same time as I opened my two eyes. It was almost impossible to ignore the gig bag that lay on the floor beneath me; the paint stain seemed as if it was mocking me in such a disgraceful way.

Not able to think of anything else, I immediately jumped off the couch. I grabbed the tote bag I carried around much that it began to look as if it survived a war and made my way out from the confinement of my own apartment.

“Where are you going?” Boram surprisingly appeared from the kitchen, holding onto a mug of warm drink in her right hand. She even had the time to have tea—or coffee, or some warm alcoholic beverage though Boram was no way like me—when I was already closed to lose my mind.

I opened the door of my apartment, without even turning toward Boram as I muttered, “Just going to see if committing suicide will solve any problems.”

It was a sarcastic remark.

I did not really want to die, seriously.

Even after I left my apartment, I could not put my mind at ease. There were too much for me to think—for my poor brain to process all in the same time—but I could not find a way to stop it all. I kept on coming with reasons for the bartender to forget me.

I thought about it for a while, only to realize I suddenly had an urge for an alcoholic drink. It was still daylight—much to my disappointment—but I assumed I could do well with a beer which was easier to buy from a convenient store. Though, I would still adore the idea of having fancy cocktails.

It was fortunate enough there was a convenient store just a few walks away from the main street leading back to my apartment.

The cold air from the air-conditioner brushed against my bare skin when I walked into the twenty-four hour convenient store. I shivered, only then realizing how minimal my clothing was. this, I mentally reminded myself. I need a beer, and that was all I really needed.

I went straight toward the beverage section, got myself a can of Cass Light—of which was not quite my favorite, but I thought it would do just fine for a daylight urge for an alcohol—and walked back toward the cashier.

“1200₩,” the female cashier had muttered after she scanned the price tag.

“Right,” I whispered sarcastically, just because I did not need a price scanner to tell me how much my beer cost, even more a female cashier who did not even bothered to greet me politely. I rummaged through my tote bag, only to realize one obvious matter. “Oh ,” I cursed, and it got the female cashier to glare at me as if I had simply run over a child with a bulldozer.

I had forgotten to bring along my purse.

“Are you going to pay or not?” The female cashier asked, still glaring at me as if I had really murdered an innocent soul. She should have known better, the only soul I wanted to mercilessly murder was hers.

I hesitated. “I don’t—”

“—here’s 1200₩ for the beer,” a voice surprised both the female cashier and I, as I immediately turned my sight toward my left.

There he was—Seunghyun or whoever his name was again because I repeatedly forgot his name— standing particularly closed beside me. His right arm was stretched out, handing the exact amount of money to the female cashier. Much to my annoyance though, was that he continued to put on that stoic expression.

“Where did you come from?” I hissed, obviously annoyed.

The female cashier quietly took the money and muttered politely, “Thank you.”

“Did you fix my gig bag?” He asked, without even bothering to turn toward my direction. Young people nowadays needed a quick lesson on how to act with manners.

“Thanks for the beer,” I nonchalantly uttered those polite words. I pulled out my hand to snatch the beer can off the counter, but he was fast enough to hold it down with his own hand.

Seunghyun slowly turned his sight onto my presence. “How’s my gig bag?”

“I assume you are rich enough for a new gig bag, aren’t you?” I scoffed, angrily snatched the Cass Light beer within his grasp off the counter and immediately making my way out from the convenient store.

One thing I was thankful enough despite my minimal clothing choice, was that I was bright enough to put on a pair of shabby sneakers instead. Once I stepped out from the convenient store, I had mentally told myself to run—or jog, or whatever my feet could do best—to avoid meeting him again.

I began to run, though I was not sure why I did it. I thought I wanted to escape, but there was a partial of my own self that had secretly wished he would chase me down. I had wanted to talk to him again, only to ask him personally why he had forgotten me.

Damn it, I practically yelled at my own foolishness. My feet eventually brought me into a sudden halt just after I ran passed a familiar junction. I had ridiculously run passed the street that led me back to my apartment. Yet I did not feel the need to bring myself home, yet.

I approached the painted wall by the side of the street, quietly leaned my back against it as I popped up the beer I was still, strangely holding within my grasp. The beer had made a discreet hissing noise, yet I instantly brought it up to my lips and chugged down a mouthful.

Even if I ran away far enough, I still have to deal with the stained gig bag. Somehow, regardless how messed up my life would ever be, I still have to meet Song Seunghyun—and his glorious pile of arrogance and ignorance in one fine  and pretty package—and replace his gig bag.

One gulp led to another, until the beer has completely finished and the can was awfully dried, as I threw it aside with a loud bang onto the tarred pavement. I desperately needed to throw myself out of this life I had been living within.

“What am I supposed to do?” I was slightly—maybe not quite—drunk, when I realized I was talking to no one but myself. I must have been losing my mind, or I was slowly making no sense in whatever I was doing.

I unknowingly pulled my right hand up; wrapping my fingers around the small pendant I wore around my neck. The smooth surface of the silver pendant was cold against the back of my calloused fingers. It was a small gesture of comfort, at least for me.

And suddenly it simply hit me.

I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the stained gig bag.

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- Thank you so much for the comments, please accept my sincere apology for taking such a long time to update this story. Forgive me for the obvious grammar mistakes, as English is not my first language.

*Title is taken from the song Running to Stand Still by U2.