Fourteen

fourteen

[ Jonghyun ]

“Listen, Jonghyun,” Krystal smiles sweetly. “The whole redemption thing was cute at first, but now it’s beginning to piss me off. I’m beginning to think you’re actually gay for the kid.”

Jonghyun shrugs, the back of his neck growing warm. “I don’t know. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately and--”

“Oh God. We are not having this conversation.”

Krystal glares and flips her hair before stomping away, her bubble tea left half drunk behind her. Jonghyun wrinkles his nose at the overpowering smell of vanilla perfume that remains, shaking his head to clear it off the stench. He tosses Krystal’s drink into the trash, slurping the rest of his before he throws it out as well.

Outside the day is hot and Jonghyun feels his shirt beginning to stick to his body. He keeps to the shade and wonders how he’s going to kill the rest of the day. Now that Taemin’s stopped talking to him, he’s kind of lost motivation for anything that isn’t related to moping around his house, watching videos of kittens falling over each other and wondering what Taemin’s reaction would be. The things that have suffered the most from Jonghyun’s funk are his grades (which have plummeted a point in each class) and his voice (because it cracks now if he doesn’t warm it up before trying to hit that high C). But he doesn’t really care. He spends his free time exploring every recess of his room because there might be a bit of Taemin leftover--an inexplicable pocket of his cologne, a forgotten jacket or bracelet, a teasing note scrawled in a familiar hand.

It really being dumped, Jonghyun realizes, though he’s not sure the word is quite right for their situation.

Either way, Jonghyun can’t even bring himself to sing anymore. His vibratos are lackluster, his octave jumps are sloppy, and for the first time in his life there isn’t an elusive melody weaving itself through his thoughts, begging to be vocalized. There’s no inspiration in the bands he usually likes, and when he puts his iPod on shuffle he feels like puking because all the songs are so old, so naive.

He pauses outside of a CD store he’s never noticed before. It looks gritty and hipster, just the sort of place he’d love to stumble upon normally. A sheet of paper on the door advertises some band he’s never heard of, the picture of the members unfocused and blurry. When he peers through the windows, he can’t see anything inside because of the darkness. The shadows look inviting when compared to the oppressive heat outside.

He shrugs to himself and pulls open the door. Why not give it a shot?