Kyungsoo walks with a sense of purpose. The city streets are too busy, with cars flooding the roads and storefronts blasting colour and light from electronic billboards effectively outshining the unconfident rusty lampposts. Too much dazzle to process, too many shops jostling for attention. If he doesn’t walk resolutely, he’ll get trampled under all the advertisements.

Amidst all the flashiness sits a dimly lit shop. Its mewl of “don’t look at me” draws more attention than all the come in here!s and buy me!s. Curiosity slows Kyungsoo to a halt. He peers through the window and sees rows and rows of small wooden animals. Some are domestic; others don’t belong in the city. However there’s something wrong about these animals, Kyungsoo thinks, and it’s not just the subdued shades in which the animals are coloured. His eyebrows furrow as he looks closer, nose almost pressing against the window, and he notices that all the animals have small imperfections. Some are subtle, maybe a misplaced splotch of white on a black cat, but others are bolder - a giraffe with a crooked neck, a jaguar with a leg snapped clean off. The way the defective animals are so unashamedly displayed makes Kyungsoo wonder if this is how they’re meant to be. The artist is probably angry, he decides, but when he sees the rows upon rows of animals - all with shortcomings - he wonders if the artist is perhaps in a state of perpetual rage. 

He only notices the sad eyes watching him from inside the store after he has contemplated the animals for a minute or maybe ten. He has observed and been observed too long to leave unashamed, so he pushes the door and walks in.  

“Hi,” Kyungsoo says tentatively when the boy is too busy frowning at the block of wood in his hands. 

“Hello,” says the boy, looking up unsmiling. His name tag reads Kai. “Feel free to look around.” 

“I did,” Kyungsoo nods. There’s a pause, which Kyungsoo thinks he can afford because there are no other people in the store anyway. Then he asks hesitantly, “Are the animals meant to be broken?”

“I wouldn’t call them broken. They just have flaws.”

“Are they meant to?”

“I’m only being realistic. Nothing is perfect.”

Kyungsoo’s eyes rest on a delicate crane spreading its wings. One of the wings has been roughly smashed off. “They’re so close though,” he says. “If they weren’t missing parts, they’d be perfect.”

“I know.” A grim smile tugs on the edges of Kai’s lips. “But I break them on purpose.” 

“Why?”

“Because,” Kai says, reaching for an undamaged elephant. “I like it. I like the control. I have power over their fates, their imperfections,” he whispers, eyes glinting in the soft light, and snaps off a tusk. The wood splinters beneath his deft fingers.

Kyungsoo tilts his head. “Are you obsessed with power or flaws?” 

“Neither,” answers Kai, absently running his fingers over the tusk. “I’m obsessed with metaphors.”

“And what does this metaphor compare?” 

There’s no response. Kyungsoo doesn’t press on this matter because he’s not sure if Kai wants to talk about it. Kai doesn’t continue, so Kyungsoo helps out. “You have an interesting style,” he tries.

“Thanks. Not so good for business though.” The tusk lands in a garbage bin.

“Why don’t you try something different, then?”

“I’m an artist, not a conformist. This is the only way I can escape.”

“You don’t need to escape,” argues Kyungsoo. “You’re so talented. The animals are beautiful.”

“Before I break them,” Kai mumbles, dropping his gaze, but Kyungsoo shakes his head.

“They’re still beautiful,” says Kyungsoo. “Their power comes from the way they still stand so dignified, even after disfiguration. They’re not scared of judgment. They overcome their obstacles and I think that’s their strength.”

In this silence, Kyungsoo’s hands fidget. Kai lets his insolent expression dissolve, and gives Kyungsoo an appraising look. When Kai speaks again, his voice is low and his tone forlorn. 

“I was a dancer.”

“Was?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I have a waist injury,” Kai spits out through gritted teeth. “It restricts my movement. I can’t dance anymore.” And suddenly the words spill. “Some people go, ‘What happened, man? Your dancing used to be so good,’ and others say, ‘Don’t be so hard on the poor boy. He’s got a waist injury, he can’t help it.’ And I prefer the first, because I don’t need anyone’s pity. I’m happy now. Here, as a sculptor, I can control fates. I know where I will inflect each defect. I can take away the aspiration of perfection. It makes me happy, so stop, stop feeling sorry for me!” His yell sounds more like a wail; his eyes are blazing as he raises a wooden dolphin above his head before driving it into the ground. The dolphin smashes into pieces, but Kai doesn’t look at any of them. Kyungsoo steps forward and picks them all up while Kai breathes heavily, eyes closed, head bowed. 

“I’m not sorry for you.” Even though he is. But he doesn’t pity the boy with the crushed dreams, he pities the lost, stumbling boy who can’t catch up.

Kai looks at him.

“I’m not,” Kyungsoo insists, shrugging to show indifference. “What is there to pity? People who have dreams torn away from them come away with a firmer resolve to make another dream a reality.”

“I have no other dreams.”

“Think of your talents,” Kyungsoo urges. 

“None.”

“You’re a good artist,” Kyungsoo says doggedly. “If you just become brave enough to convert your resentment into passion, I’m sure you can do great things.” 

There might have been a flash of something similar to hope in Kai’s eyes, but maybe it was a trick of the light because after Kai blinks, it’s gone. Kyungsoo expects Kai’s voice to break in his next sentence, but instead it’s oddly empty. “No one wants a broken animal. No company wants a dancer with a waist injury.”

“I’ll buy ten.”

Because it’s not always about the perfect, it’s also about what has the potential to be.

He takes his time choosing the animals he wants, and pays the substantial bill without complaint. When he’s halfway out the door, he turns again. “Stop punishing yourself,” Kyungsoo implores softly before leaving Kai with his block of wood and frown. 

A few weeks pass before Kyungsoo walks the same street again. He walks with a purpose, quickly weaving past the flashing signboards and coupons being shoved his way. It takes him a while to realize he has an eye out for the dimly lit shop with the quaint animals. However, this time it’s not as hard to see, because although the shop is still not as bright as its neighbours, it gives off a warm glow. When he peers through the window, there are people walking around the store and commenting amongst themselves about the animals. There is a wooden carving standing in the middle of the store, a four legged animal that is small in stature but stands tall anyway. Its eyes are wide and innocent. Kyungsoo walks inside to look closer, knowing there should be a flaw somewhere, but he still can’t find any mistake.

“How much for this one?” Kyungsoo asks the boy at the counter. He has a familiar face.

“It’s only for display,” says the boy, looking up, smiling. His name tag reads Jongin.

“Well, it’s really great,” Kyungsoo congratulates him before leaving, an inexplicable grin stretched across his face. 

Briefly he wonders if this is the same guy he met weeks ago. 

Probably not, he decides, because Jongin’s eyes twinkle.