phantom.
idjiyong:
jiyong’s tongue ghosts over his lips, the flesh tugged between a set of ivories quickly after. words escape him, and so do the motives that led him here. suddenly, he’s not sure why he’s come to her. he’s just glad that she’s opened the door. that she’s let him in.
june, with seolhee. ( @idsophia )
loneliness is a vagrant, settling into places like between her fingers or the gaps in her rib cage. or behind her teeth. in her eyes, her smile, her empty apartment. it turns insomnia into a war fought beneath her skin. every step she takes outside the confines of her temporary home (what’s a home with invisible bars and invisible guards, eyes watching her every move? what’s a home when it feels just a like a prison?) a metaphorical gunshot. this late night blues, it makes her hungry, desperate for a distraction.
what sophia doesn’t expect when she opens the door is for reprieve to come in the shape of a boy she tells herself she’s forgotten.
this is the prelude to tragedy: her breath hissed out in time to stuttered heartbeats, the nervous staccato drumming of her fingers against the door and making eye contact with a boy who was always capable of seeing through her.
she thinks he’ll say something. anything. he doesn’t. (she doesn’t either.)
time slows to a crawl, pulses between them. she waits. and waits. and stares right back.
but his eyes--they leave a wound. a perpetual ache, like a pinch to her skin. sophia doesn’t know what he wants when he looks at her like this—relieved and open-faced. none of those sinister sneers gracing faces whose names she can’t recall when her scandal broke and she was nearly crucified for daring to be human, for falling in love. no, he looked nothing like the vultures hidden behind cameras, waiting for a juicy soundbite, waiting for her to slip up, waiting for her to crumble.
nothing like them. like juwon with his lips curled into a knowing smirk and wolf eyes.
it makes her wary. afraid. it makes her want.
sophia looks at him and wonders if this is what writers mean when they say heartbreak, heartache, heart anything is hard to mend. because falling in love (falling out of love, or so she tells herself. over and over again) shouldn’t feel like starvation, withdrawal symptoms showing up as trembling hands and his name pressed behind her teeth. she thinks she’s over it–the addiction. to him, to them. but moving on isn’t supposed to be a heated kiss done in the darkness of a closet and riding the knife edge of disaster. it shouldn’t feel like after-midnight saudade either—a trip down memory lane in the way her hand brushes across the bed (his side), catching on cold sheets. it shouldn’t be a reminder of his absence in the phantom imprint of his body. of warmth no longer found and no longer there. a body long gone.
and yet, here he is: in the flesh, smiling at her.
she looks at him, gaze dropping to his mouth and thinks about free-falling.














