(i don't know when this is but jiyong comes back)

Their legs are intertwined under the familiar sheets of her bed. Their ankles bump and every beat of their hearts radiates around them. His hair has gotten shorter but his eyelashes have stayed the same, long and soft and beautiful. He's still beautiful and she's still in love. His fingers trace her back and spell out his name absentmindedly while she thinks about leaving him in the morning. Trembling hands and beating hearts hurt after a long time. Disappointment has become rooted in her heart and it claws its way out of to leave the words "i'm sorry" hanging in . It's all too much but it's just never been enough. He's always out of reach, always slipping from her reaching fingers. There's a permament sense of anxiety trapping her happiness. She's become someone she doesn't know and a part of him will never admit that he kind of likes it. He likes this girl that pushes him away only to kiss him harder when he comes back. He hates who they are but loves that they hate each other so much they've confused it with love. She will always be bitter that he's the person she cared about the most when she was young. She will never forget that she gave her youth to him. She romanticized and heightened the feeling of being in love but she undermined the toxidity of when it's all over. Flashbacks of locked rooms and blood-stained canvases haunt her at night. The only reason she keeps going back home is because she can't sleep. She can't sleep knowing he's sleeping with someone else. She's sure she's gone crazy because her mom's wary stares and sympathetic touches only make her feel sick. He's gone and all he's left is those stupid, marked polaroids with statements of love made on cheap liquor. The words "i love you" slipped out for their mouths as easily as "i hate you" and that's not how it's supposed to be, right? She shouldn't want to push him away as much as she wants to hold his hand while he sleeps. 

"I'm going back on tour." he says, and she can't see him, but she feels the silent apology making red scratches on her back and it's deep and it's angry but it's sorry. and she is too.

She doesn't respond because by this point, apologies are useless. Words have become meaningless and overused. She can only communicate through light touches or rough grasps. She turns around and slips her arm over his neck to touch his hair. She nods and holds back the burning tears behind her eyes. She keeps them locked away so once he leaves she can drown them in her paintings or in her lungs. Every cigarrette takes away seven minutes of her life and she