Title: Miss
Series: None
Description: She's walking. Just walking, before her routine life changes when he crashes into her. She wonders what could have been.
Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): AU, Language (Minor), ual References (Minor)
Pairing(s): Jiyong (G-Dragon)[Big Bang]/Taeyeon (SNSD)

o Miss o

            She’s walking. Just walking. A simple brown messenger bag is slung across her petite frame and a white beanie covers her shoulder length tresses. She is young, but her eyes are weary and is drawn tight. Invisible lines mar her forehead and pull at her consciousness, willing her to stay awake thanks to the cup of coffee she clutches in her hand, the effects of which are only beginning to kick in. Minutes later she is sprawled in a strange pattern on the middle of the street, invisible lines pulling her out of consciousness as she struggles to keep her eyes open.

           She’s walking. Just walking. She regrets leaving her apartment without her scarf and shivers as the vampiric autumn wind bites at her neck. She takes a sip from the cup, the contents burning her tongue a little, oddly numb, leaving a bitter taste in . There’s barely any traffic on the streets and even less on the sidewalks, which is telling of how much business the little flower shop she works at will get. No one has time enough to afford walking or flowers, and she doesn’t have enough to afford much else. She sighs. Everything is in greyscale, all somber and still. The only sounds come from melancholic caws that ring through the air at random intervals and die. She calls out weakly, sprawled on the ground, her world draining of color.

           She’s walking. Just walking. She notices her figure flashing back at her from the corner of her eye, reflecting off of windows of random shops. The kind of shops that display odds and ends aging with the dust of negligence and discarded hope. Her reflection blends into the bleak surrounding quite fittingly. The antique shop at the corner of the street promises rare and unique treasures for the curious individual and she studies her image in musty panes. She can’t see her reflection anymore, sprawled where she is now, but she’s sure that besides the blood, she's still a jigsaw somewhere in this bizarre, tragic puzzle.

           She’s looking. Just looking at the contents on display at the antique shop: creepy porcelain dolls, a scratched up cello, a wooden music box, a brass hand mirror, several gold and jade figurines, and a large wrought-iron bird cage. She becomes aware of her vacant stare in the reflection and looks away, filled with sadness tinged with shame. It’s not until she’s sprawled on the concrete that she remembers that she’s made of flesh and bone and blood, and the realization almost relieves her.

           She’s looking. Just looking at her feet as she waits for the walking signal to come on at the deserted intersection, her eyes exhausted of other things to look at. Her boots were a present from a friend she lost contact with several years prior. Unlike the friend, they are worn and loyal and actually match her outfit today—not that anyone is there to care. Maybe the driver will notice, maybe it’s fate, she thinks wryly, sprawled strangely on the ground like a backward ballerina.

           She’s not looking. Just not looking when she should have, ignoring her usual routine of waiting at the crossroads until the signal comes on. Not looking and taking a mindless step against the blaring red hand signal when no cars are in her sight. Funny how relevant it all was to her life in that novel-like sense. That the one time she chooses to make a move on her own she suffers some sort of life-altering change. She would’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt even so much as to breathe, all sprawled like she is now.

           She’s unmoving. Just unmoving, just milliseconds before the impact. A last-second honk startles her from the stillness of her world, in time to witness a car coming at her in slow motion, but not enough time for nerve impulses to transfer this information to the rest of her body. She’s petrified, not so much out of fear as in surprise. Surprise that her everyday routine is effectively ruined, surprise that today is the day that everything changes. She is somewhat more at ease when she’s sprawled in front of the dented car, and by the time the driver reaches her in frenzy, she has already come to terms with it.

           She’s wondering. Just wondering what life could be like if she finally tore herself out of her numb, routine-filled life. If she could gather the courage to leave and face the world. Escape from her own entrapment into mediocrity and face all the harsh vivacity and pain of the world outside hers that contrasts so caustically that it makes her afraid. Experience everything she feared and gave up; prove to herself that she is wrong about the world. She wonders briefly if today is a Tuesday or a Wednesday, but it doesn’t matter anymore as she whips her head to the left and is sent sprawling onto the cold and hard concrete.

           She’s imagining. Just imagining, with hyperactive nerve impulses in her brain that serve only to augment her imagination and ironically leave her rooted to her spot. Everything is slow, like always, but this time everything is clear and so sharp that it almost hurts her eyes. She notices that the driver is a male with styled dark brown hair that almost matches hers in color. The phone clutched in his non-driving hand is falling as if through thick honey, and his eyes are wide open in terror. She thinks she would have chuckled, before her world is sent sprawling everywhere towards the ground.

           She’s imagining. Just imagining, again with the hyperactive cerebral activity, thinking about planes of time and doctrines of existentialism and of destiny, about the geometry of events that brings the two of them here at this point in time and space. He is quite handsome, she thinks, or would be, if he didn’t have such a cartoonish look of horror on his face. He might have been a decent man, a potential love interest, if things could be different. If they didn’t meet in this strange way with him coming towards her sprawled body in a frenzy.

           She’s wondering. Just wondering if things could be different, if they would still meet at a later time in their lives. Were they fated to just this tragic meeting? Or were they fated? She looks up, surprised to hear the bell ring when she was fairly certain that she had put up the “Out For Lunch” sign. A man with gelled hair walks toward her as she stands up, ready to apologize to him and tell him to come back later. He interrupts with an apology first and tells her that he needs flowers, of course, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, for a relative who died. I’m Jiyong, by the way. Kwon Jiyong. She nods, trying to look understanding of his well-masked grief, and asks him what he is looking for. She helps him pick out a bouquet and he thanks her.

           Some weeks later, he is back, and she finds it strange and a little disconcerting that she still remembers him. Kwon Jiyong, right? He nods and smiles, explaining that he is visiting the grave of his dead relative. She helps him pick out flowers again—I’m not much of a flower expert, he says, and it is evident when he points tentatively at a bucket of Lily of the Valleys. Those flowers mean a return to happiness; I don’t think those are quite suitable, she jokes, laughing lightly. It could be a little relevant, is his reply. He gives her a small grin, I never much liked my cousin anyway. Before he leaves, she shyly tells him to look for a Kim Taeyeon the next time he visits. And visit, he does. He comes back frequently, in fact, giving excuses about a new apartment, about starting a garden, about friends’ birthdays and needing to get promoted, before the relationship they forged amongst flowers brings them on their first date.

           They are kind of unlucky when they are together. Their first date ends in an encounter with a gang of drunkards but he heroically saves the day by running away with her in tow, losing their hammered pursuers in a dim alleyway. It leads to their first kiss however, high on fear and adrenaline, his body pressed against hers. The faint lights cast mysterious shadows on their faces and they are strangely drawn together, chests heaving with hearts sprinting from the chase and from the electric fire that tingles between them. Some of their later dates end with food poisoning, allergic reactions, and several in rain, but their connection grows stronger still, bound together by their misfortunes rather than being separated by them. Eventually they move in together and have their squabbles over poetry and music and television, but they always find common ground and their interests grow on each other just like their feelings do.

           One day she is cooking, or trying to, and he is at the dining table looking at her with contemplative eyes. She is singing softly, a light and cheery tune, but is interrupted when hands circle her waist lovingly. She pretends to swat at them playfully with her spatula, complaining about him being a disturbance to the cooking peace. He kisses her neck, sending brazen nerve impulses throughout her body and she reacts, leaning against him. He unties her apron as they kiss, and he leads her to their bedroom, where they make love for the first time. When they are done, the food is burnt and the smoke alarm goes off for a while, and the neighbors—mostly cranky old ones—yell at them to turn the damned thing off. They end up ordering pizza since the stove needs replacement, and when she is handing the delivery boy the exact amount of change, he tells her suddenly that he loves her, evoking much confusion and discomfort from their “guest.” She throws the money at the poor boy and slams the door shut, forgetting that they hadn’t taken the pizza from him yet, and jumps into the arms of her boyfriend, screeching happily. She showers his face with kisses while affirming multiple times that she loves him too, before their ever-so-lovely neighbors scream at them to shut the hell up.

           They still run into a lot of unluckiness together, but they also share their dreams. He wants to be a singer-songwriter and eventually a music producer. She wants to be a writer,  and although he swears that it would be a waste of her superior vocal ability, he supports her all the same. They don’t quit their jobs yet, but they make an effort to spend time together toward achieving their dreams, with her writing poetry and eventually starting a novel and him composing a song and eventually penning lyrics. Sometimes the trying to achieve their dreams part gets frustrating so they blow off steam by ordering pizza and watching TV and screaming at their neighbors.

           I’m on my way back, love, almost there actually, he says through the telephone, surprising her since he was due to come back a day later. It’s supposed to be a surprise, love, he laughs. She laughs along and asks him how the trip went, if the producers liked his song. He tells her that it’s a secret and that they’ll go someplace nice tonight and he’ll tell her. He looks at the gift bag from Tiffany and Co. on the passenger seat and smiles widely, already anticipating the evening to come. She squeals cutely from the other side of the line, already suspecting good news, and his heart smiles fondly. She tells him that she is on her way to work, even though she’s three hours late, complaining of a rough night trying to work out the kinks in her novel and sleeping through the alarm clock. A little rebellion could do a soul good, she grins playfully, and he agrees. There is a moment of silence before he tells her sincerely, I missed you. She is about to reply but neither of them are paying attention to the conversation anymore. The blaring sound of a car honk rips through the air, and everything that comes afterward is muted, and cinematic, the geometric point in the XYZ graph of time and space stretching into a suspended eternity. His phone drops out of his hand as if moving through thick honey, and his features contort in horror, mind not even registering the identity of the person whose fate is quickly colliding with his. When the numbness of the cinematic milliseconds fades away, he goes out of his car in frenzy, and runs up to the injured girl, kneeling beside her in panic. He goes back into his car to fetch his cell phone and calls for an ambulance in a moment of absurd clarity. A few miles away, she is sprawled on the ground, feeling a dull, barely registered pain somewhere in her body as someone is frantically shouting on his cell phone to get an ambulance quick. Luckily none of the parties were seriously injured, as the cars were able to stop just in time to not cause any grave damage. Still, their reunion at the hospital is full of tears and tight embraces and oh God what if’s and thank God you’re alright’s and that was too damn close and for once I'm glad we missed each other. He goes to his car, briefly, and returns with something hidden behind his back. He bends on one knee and presents her with a ring box and they both have tears in their eyes. I know this probably isn’t exactly every girl's dream to be asked a question like this in a place like this but will you—of course it’s yes!—marry me? There are shouts and screams of happiness and she strains something in her hurry to clasp her arms around him and the nurses and patients are shouting at them congratulations! Now shut the hell up! But they are unfazed and share a secretive smile before closing their eyes and locking lips in an adoring kiss.

           She’s trying. Just trying not to close her eyes because she might not ever get to open them again. There is a dull aching somewhere, but she figures it’s not much different than the current state of her heart, in a figurative and possibly now literal sense. She wonders what went wrong with the routine today. She was just walking along ghostly streets, on any day of the week, trying not to meet her eyes in the reflections of the shop windows, looking at the antique shop display on the corner of the street whose contents she should have memorized by now and were somehow never dusty. Maybe it’s because her boots matched her outfit today, maybe the colors were too bright, maybe it's because she didn’t wait for the walk signal, maybe it’s because she forgot her scarf. Oh how she regrets not bringing her scarf. But today might be better. At least her spell of sameness day after day in her monochrome world was broken. Ironically her silent prayer to be plucked out of her miserable routine of meaningless survival came true today. So really, it’s okay, right? Her thoughts are still sprawled as she is in the middle of the street, the blurry figure of a man coming to her in frenzy barely imprinting itself into her memory as her eyes blink slowly, losing the fight for consciousness. The man is shouting into his cell phone for an ambulance and drops it moments afterward to come close to her warily. Miss, are you okay? The corner of her lips lift slightly, and she manages to murmur, “Hi, I'm Taeyeon.”

*****Author's Notes*****

I'm supposed to be updating another story, but I was frustrated with it since I couldn't seem to put my ideas into words the way I wanted them to and imagined in my head. Sigh. Plus, I've been kinda rusty with the not writing :/ But here's to hoping that I can cure this annoying tendency of mine! I haven't edited this yet; it was all semi stream-of-consciousness for me. Idk. This is loosely based off of the short story "September" by Anna Kovatcheva (which is a really good and actually interesting read; you should check it out), and I've been intrigued with the idea of it ever since I read it. It's taken a somewhat different form than I'd imagined at first, but hopefully this is okay. Oh and the ending is meant to be left open ;)

As always, don't forget to comment and subscribe! Concrete criticism is not only accepted, but also strongly preferred :D