and that was the day that I promised

I'd never sing of love

If it does not exist

Taemin slings his worn bag over his shoulder, tch-ing when a faint sound of something tearing reaches his ears. He would have to fix that up later. School is on in a few minutes and he has yet to leave his home. His parents are still screaming, shouting and at each other’s throats since 7 in the ing morning and making a mess of the whole of downstairs with the crashing plates and the banging door frames. It’s going to be an even bigger pain to get out of the house without being noticed.

He manages to, though; but only after having made certain that his parents were somewhere in the far vicinity of the kitchen, probably throwing knives at each other- or something of the like. He heard the usual lashes of ‘you cheating bastard’ and ‘ who do you think you ing are-’ and several others before he slipped out the front door, silent and tired. Of everything.

When exactly everything began to get so ed up, Taemin had no idea.

Maybe it had started when his father started going home later and later in the evenings, hours after he was supposed to. Maybe it had started when his mother had started getting too doubtful, too damn needy, as Taemin had heard from his room several months back. Maybe it had started when Taesun began to get into things he wasn’t supposed to be, like drinking and smoking and beating up strangers he deemed to be idiots for no apparent reason. Maybe it had started because of Taemin, because that’s what he’s been hearing a lot, that we couldn’t even handle the first one and then you go off and make me start another! (Taemin was grateful that particular evening that Taesun wasn’t around to hear any of that. Taemin can control himself. Taesun cannot.)

Even from meters away, Taemin can still hear the shouting and the screaming and the breaking of glass. He can only keep walking. He’s already late enough as it is.

Taemin doesn’t hate the girls at school, but he can’t say that he likes them, either. He doesn’t like how they get all shy and timid and really, he just wants to cut them off and tell them that they’re wasting his time but then they take out those small, pink (usually, anyway) folded cards of stationery and hand it to him with shaky hands and when that happens, he no longer has the heart to. It’s always at the rooftop where they call him out, either with a shakily-written note in his locker or a passed-on message by a random, all-too-knowing stranger.

The one today had a random classmate tap him on the back and request for him to go up to the rooftop after classes were over. He had homework to do and he was tired (of everything, yes), but he could not just say ‘no’ right then. He’d at least have to say it to her face.

He climbs up only minutes after the final bell rings, hands dug into his pockets, dog-eared bag hanging off one shoulder. Sure enough, there she was, waiting with her hands folded behind her and her layered bangs framing her face. She was one of the prettier ones, he’d give her that.

But this time is no different. She stutters, he watches boredly. She blushes, he waits. She holds her trembling hands out, a pink envelope clinched between her thumbs and index fingers, and Taemin shakes his head not a minute sooner, I’m sorry, no.

He doesn’t explain- he never does- before he bows in apology and walks away again. Again, again, again. His chest does not even feel any heavier anymore, and he is not certain if that was something to be worried about.

When he walks past the school gates, his friends catch sight of him and call his name in excited hollers. Taemin walks faster, assuming ignorance, but they are persistent and chase after him, some asking to borrow his notes and some asking if he was going to what’s-his-name’s party this weekend. He doesn’t even pretend to care, shrugs and replies with a useless, ‘Whatever,’ before he notices someone watching him, from across the sidewalk- and suddenly, he is anything but careless. He straightens up the slightest bit, brushes his bangs out of his face and raises a hand to his rumpled tie, careful not to be too obvious as he keeps moving forward with his chattering friends right behind.

He pretends not to notice when a hand looked to be raising to wave at his direction, a sheepish smile accompanying it, from across the street. He couldn’t afford to.

The house is unusually, unusually quiet when he gets back. His steps had remained noiseless and cautious ‘til the moment his hand touched the front door’s knob and was close enough to hear the silence, close enough not to hear anything but the eerie muteness. There was no screaming, no crashing plates or resounding slaps on skin. He sighs before he drops his bag somewhere on the floor, not caring for the torn strap at the moment as he races up the staircase and plops down on his stool by his bedroom window.

He yanks up the window’s frame forcefully, trying to catch his breath and simmer down the all-too-obvious excited expression on his face as he does so. Cool breezes flow into his room as he leans forward, folding his forearms on the windowsill and propping his head on top of them as he closes his eyes and waits.

It’s a few seconds faster than yesterday when the window of the home opposite his is pulled up as well. The pale-coloured curtains are pushed aside and Taemin almost feels himself smiling, but as always, he does not. It makes him feel kind of jealous, because Minho is never without his smile, ever. It makes him feel kind of inadequate – it always has - but now was not the time for that.

“Hi,” The boy greets from his window, smiling and goofy and hair slightly ruffled from the curtains by his head.

Taemin hides behind his arms but keeps his eyes on the other’s crinkled ones. “Hi.”

“I saw you a while ago, on your way back-” Minho leans forward as well, folds his arms over his own windowsill as he drops in tone. “Tried waving at you but I guess you didn’t recognize me.”

Taemin shrugs, “I guess I didn’t.”

Low whistles of breezes keep slipping into his room, and he can only guess that it was the same for Minho’s. When Taemin’s bangs would flow with the gentle drafts, Minho’s would too. Taemin thinks Minho looks a whole lot different than he does when the winds do that to his hair.

The door slams closed downstairs. It starts out with loud grumbles, and then to escalating voices. The breezes carry with them the loud voices.

Minho seems unimpressed. Taemin attempts to conceal the grimace that he almost makes at a rather loud interjection from his father. Minho only picks at the dried leaf that had flitted its way onto his windowsill.

“There was another one today, right?” The loud voices from downstairs serve as a background to Minho’s voice- one that was a lot, lot lower than Taemin’s.

Taemin nods. “Yeah.”

“I heard she was pretty.”

He shrugs. “She is. Really pretty.” A leaf makes its way onto his own windowsill as well, brushing his nose. He scrunches his face as he picks the browned leaf apart, letting the pieces fall to the far ground below. “Long hair.”

“Don’t you like her?”

Minho sounded odd, then; a little off- but Taemin pays it no mind because he tries to recall the long hair, and the pink letter. And then he remembers all the others; the ones with bob cuts and wavy locks and green and blue letters and blushing cheeks. His brother used to tell him before that their mother loved giving their father little pink letters back when they were in high school. ‘Dad was a stud!’ his brother used to tell him.

He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t shrug. He just keeps picking the dried pieces apart, bit by bit until they’re all gone, gone, gone.

What was there to say?

My attempt at writing something… realer? Hope you guys could tell me what you think so far!