lex

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆˚࿔ ⠀

—𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐠 (𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐬)

FRIENDS

SOUR

ROOMMATES (smau!)

STUCK WITH YOU (smau!)

—𝐂𝐡𝐨𝐢 𝐒𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐠-𝐇𝐲𝐮𝐧 (𝐓.𝐎.𝐏)

HIDDEN

HIDDEN pt.2

INTERTWINED

—𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐠𝐲𝐮

“hello?” your friend drawls, dragging the word out as she waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to you.” you blink, lifting your head from your phone. the screen goes dark under your thumb as you lock it and place it facedown on the table. “sorry,” you mumble. she narrows her eyes at you, unconvinced. “ever since you started talking to that guy, you barely pay attention to me anymore.” you huff out a laugh, albeit one threaded with sheepishness. “and it hasn’t even been a week,” she continues, leaning back in her chair. “didn’t you literally tell me he was an asshole? six days ago you were going on a rant about how annoying he was and how you were never speaking to him again.” you fail to suppress your smile. “hm,” you hum, reaching for your drink to hide behind the rim of the glass for a moment. “yeah, but that was six days ago.” she stares at you in disbelief. “oh, okay. my apologies. clearly a lot can happen in six days. did he suddenly wake up transformed into prince charming overnight?” that pulls an actual laugh out of you. you shake your head while taking another sip, allotting yourself a few extra seconds to think of an answer that doesn’t sound completely ridiculous. nothing has really changed, that’s the thing. all you know is that, over the past three days, talking to tbong has become like a strange, addictive part of your routine. something you find yourself waiting for throughout the day. at the beginning of the week, your conversations had barely lasted forty minutes before you found an excuse to leave. but now they stretch late into the night without either of you noticing. five hours last night alone. you’d only slept three hours before work this morning, which explained the crescents underneath your eyes currently concealed beneath a diligent layer of concealer.

“you could say that,” you shrug without much conviction. “i don’t know. he’s so annoying and… cringe,” you admit with a laugh under your breath. “the first time you talk to him, he sounds incredibly stupid too. i’m serious, you start wondering how he’s even capable of using a damn phone.” your friend snorts loudly. “but the more you talk to him, the more interesting he becomes. it’s just—ugh, i don’t know.” you sigh dramatically, frustrated by your own inability to explain it properly. “like, yes, he’s annoying, but he makes me smile. and he’s cringe, but it makes me laugh. and he’s smarter than he seems too. way smarter.” you pause briefly. “plus, he has a good heart… i think.” your friend stares at you for a second before raising her eyebrows. “alright, lovebird.” you roll your eyes. “it’s not like that,” you groan. “i barely know him.” “mhm.” “i’m serious.” “and let me point out,” she says, leaning forward, “that you don’t even know what he looks like.” you make a face at that, lips pursing as you tilt your head to the side. “girl, that’s not important.” “um,” she drawls, lifting a finger, “let me argue with that for a second. yes, it is. what do you mean it’s not important? attraction matters.” “okay, but that’s not the point of the app.” “easy to say now. but what happens if you meet him and you’re not attracted to him at all?” you haven’t let yourself think that far ahead, if you’re being honest. tbong has begun to exist in your head almost independently from a physical body. like a voice lingering in the dark. “i don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “nothing?” “so you are wasting your time!” you tsk softly, shaking your head. “it’s not wasting time if i’m enjoying myself,” you argue. “besides, i think you always end up learning something about yourself with these kinds of things. even if nothing comes out of it. i don’t think that’s time wasted.” “yeah, true,” she sighs in reluctant agreement before taking another sip of her strawberry matcha. “but what do you think he looks like, though?”

your cheeks puff as you think, eyes drifting toward the window beside your table while your brain attempts to piece together a face out of nothing but the texts you’ve sent each other and a handful of vague details. “i think he’s…” you trail off. “an okay-looking guy?” your friend stares at you. “wow. what a description.” “stop, i don’t know. probably dark hair? black or brown?” you begin counting details off lazily with your fingers. “and i know he has tattoos because he told me yesterday, but he refused to tell me what they are.” you narrow your eyes faintly at the memory. “he was being all mysterious about it for no reason. all i know is that he has tattoos on his hands, his arms, and apparently his back too.” “anything else?” your friend presses. “uh…” you hum thoughtfully. “i also think he’s attractive, but not in a conventional way.” “what? why?” you shrug. “i just don’t think he’s the type of guy people would call handsome. but there’s probably something about him. from what i know, he’s been with girls before, so i’m assuming he can’t be hideous.” she laughs into her drink while you continue rambling. “and i’ve also completely headcanoned that he’s not very tall.” “no?” “he gives me short king vibes.” your friend nearly chokes. “really? absolutely the fuck not. girl, you need to ask that man his height immediately.” you laugh, shaking your head. “hell no. i’ve spent the entire week talking shit about shallow people who only care about looks, i’m not about to embarrass myself by asking him how tall he is.” “girl, that’s different.” “it’s not.” “it is,” she argues. “height is important.” “if i ask him that now, he’s gonna think i’m a hypocrite.” your friend’s grin turns sly. “aw,” she coos. “you’re starting to care about what he thinks of you. cute!” “stop.” “you stop,” she laughs, nudging your foot underneath the table. “this is adorable to witness, let me tell you that.” you roll your eyes without any real annoyance behind it. “i’m just joking,” she says after a moment, giggling softly at your expression. “you know i love messing with you.” you shake your head, reaching for your drink again. “oh, yeah, and also… didn’t you tell me you can only focus on talking to one person at a time on that app?” “yeah.” “so what are you gonna do?” she asks curiously. “keep talking to him or try meeting someone new?” realistically, you probably should keep your options open, that’s the entire point of the app: talk to people and move on if it doesn’t click. except the mere thought of opening echo and trying to force the same kind of conversations you have with tbong with someone else feels like a chore. you glance briefly at your phone sitting beside your drink. “i think i’ll stick to him for a while.”

(read 3!)

though the first seven days had passed quickly, the following ones went by even faster. without realizing it, you’d spent over two weeks talking to tbong every single day, from morning to night, whenever you had the chance. who would’ve thought? certainly not you. you still can’t believe the app was right about your compatibility. in the beginning, you couldn’t stand him. every message from him annoyed you. every stupid nickname, every corny line, every attempt at flirting made you roll your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. now, against all odds, you’ve started looking forward to talking to him and you spend your days thinking about where he is or what he’s doing. fuck. you’re a grown ass woman. you have a job, responsibilities, things to do. you should be doing something useful with your time instead of fantasizing and daydreaming about a man you’ve never met. shit, you don’t even know what he looks like! and it’s not like you’ve been talking for months, either. sometimes you feel like you’re going crazy. the more you get to know him, the more frustrating the mystery becomes. perhaps it’s the fact that you don’t know what he looks like that keeps you so hooked. every night, your imagination creates a different version of tbong before you fall asleep. sometimes he has blue eyes, sometimes they’re brown. sometimes he’s taller than you imagine, sometimes shorter. your brain tries so hard to complete a picture… only to tear it apart again the next day and start over.

every single time he reveals something new about himself, no matter how insignificant it is, you feel your stomach twist with curiosity. you’ve been enjoying talking to him way too much. so much that he’s managed to lower your guard and you’ve let yourself be vulnerable with him, telling him things about yourself that most people never got to hear. and he’s done the same. you’ve grown so comfortable around tbong that when the app decides to turn things up a notch and introduce a new category of more intimate prompts, you don’t even bat an eye. a few weeks ago, the idea would’ve made you delete the app. now, you’re curious.

you’re embarrassed to admit that sexting tbong has been one of the hottest things you’ve done in the past three years. his cocky, cringey self, full of confidence and arrogance, really does it for you. so much so that whenever you masturbate now, you can’t do anything but imagine you’re fucking him; that every time your vibrator slides in and out of you, it’s him making you feel good. you don’t think you’ve ever gotten as wet as you’ve been getting lately, not since you started fantasizing about him. your washing machine has seen better days, all you seem to do these days is strip your bed, wash your sheets, put them back on, and repeat the process the next day. they end up ruined so fast whenever one of your conversations takes a turn and you’re lying in bed with your phone in one hand and your dignity nowhere to be found. you think it’s the fact that he could be anyone that turns you on so much. your mind reels with possibilities. what if you’ve passed each other on the street before? what if you’ve sat a few tables apart in the same restaurant? what if he was the pizza delivery guy who brought your order the other day? something about that makes it so exciting. you crave him. you want to know if he’s all talk or if he’d actually do all those things he tells you he would.

still, despite his constant attempts to get you to meet up with him over the following month, you always decline. you’re scared. because right now, everything is perfect. or at least, as perfect as it can be. you wake up to his messages, you go to sleep after talking to him, he makes you laugh when you’ve had a bad day, annoys you when you’re in a good mood, and he helps you get off when you’re horny or stressed. what if meeting him ruins that? what if your friend was right? what if the chemistry is only there because there’s a screen between you? what if you meet him and realise you don’t like him? what if he meets you and realises he doesn’t like you? then what? you don’t think you’d be able to go back to normal after that like you thought. you’ve become too attached to tbong. you could even say you’ve started developing real feelings for him, a man who could walk past you tomorrow and you’d never know it was him. it’s so stupid. deep down, you know that eventually you’re going to have to meet up, you can’t keep living in this weird limbo and this knot in your stomach forever. you need to know if the conversation would flow as easily face to face as it does through text, and whether this connection is real or if it’s just a fantasy that’s gotten out of hand.

your phone starts ringing from where it’s been abandoned beside you on the couch, the sound pulling your attention away from the book you’ve been reading for the past thirty minutes. you glance at the screen and see your friend’s name lighting it up. without thinking much of it, you answer. “hello, hello,” you sing cheerfully as you bring the phone to your ear. “hey girl,” she says. “are you home?” the moment you hear the words, you know she’s excited about something. there’s a particular pitch her voice acquires whenever she’s about to gossip or drag you somewhere you absolutely did not plan on going. naturally, you assume it’s the latter. “yup,” you answer, sinking into the couch cushions. “why?” “turn the tv on.” “hm?” “channel two,” she says impatiently. “look who’s on.” your eyebrows knit together in confusion as you sit up straighter on the couch, flickering your eyes toward the blank tv screen sitting across from you. “who?” you ask, reaching for the remote control, your curiosity spiking. “just put it on and you’ll see,” she replies, sounding far too pleased with herself. “if this is another one of your celebrity crushes—” “shhh! hurry up.” you roll your eyes, pressing the power button and waiting impatiently for the television to turn on, your foot bouncing against the floor while the screen flickers to life. the second it does, you begin searching for the channel she mentioned, flipping through them until you finally land on channel two.

you understand now why she sounds so pleased with herself. your entire face twists in disgust. “…the new song that has recently gone viral across multiple streaming platforms,” the news presenter says brightly. “could this be the beginning of a new star? choi subong’s rising fame continues to attract attention as—” you lower the volume. “what the fuck?” there he is. larger than life. with the same stupid face you unfortunately know far better than you’d like. on the screen is a picture of subong looking exactly as insufferable as you remember him, except now with purple hair. the cackle that erupts through the phone speaker is so loud you have to pull it away from your ear. “i knew you’d love it,” your friend says sarcastically. “this fucking asshole,” you mutter, staring at the screen. “how is he even viral? his music sucks.” “he has a great voice, though, and you know it.” “so what? his lyrics are the most hideous, depraved things i’ve ever heard in my entire life. seriously, how are those songs even allowed on streaming platforms? his last single—” “i see someone’s been doing research.” that shuts you up for approximately a second. “what?” you gasp, scandalized by the accusation. “no. no, fuck no.” you shake your head despite the fact that she’s obviously incapable of seeing you. “i have not been doing research,” you insist. “i just get him on my ‘recommended’ sometimes. i don’t know, we have followers in common and all that shit.” “mhm.” “and he sent me a friend request on instagram like… two years ago or so. so i checked his profile because i was curious, obviously, and let me tell you, i was only happy to see him struggling.” you sigh. “girl, he barely had two hundred followers back then. two hundred! what the fuck is all this now?” “right?! he’s all over my tiktok too. every time i open the app he’s there doing something stupid and embarrassing himself. people are eating his shit up and he keeps posting these cringe ass videos.”

the reporter has moved on from discussing streaming numbers and is now showing clips from a street interview, and there he is again, answering questions with an easy smile before reaching for the silver cross hanging around his neck and pressing a kiss against it. “first off, shoutout to my mom. she did that shit by herself, raised me from nothin’. everything i got is ‘cause of her. so i’ma make her fuckin’ proud, no matter what.” something about seeing him smiling into the camera as though life has finally decided to be kind to him, feels aggravating. your jaw tightens. it’s so unbelievably irritating seeing him happy, winking at the camera as if he’s spent his entire life standing in front of one, making eyes at the interviewer so shamelessly... he’s so effortlessly himself that it makes you sick. how can he be so ridiculous? “…hello? girl?” your eyes refocus. “sorry,” you mutter. “you were saying?” “i was just saying how crazy this whole thing is. this man studied at one of the best international schools in korea and now he’s making brainrot music and going on national television talking like… that.” you snort. “what’s his problem?” “oof… trust me, he’s always talked like that.” “really?” “yeah. he just tried to hide it from everyone like the fake ass person he is.” “what?” “yeah. i think he listens to too much rap. it’s gotten into his head.” “gosh, it’s so weird.” “i know.” “and what about the hair? there’s no way he’s still friends with the others, if he’s walking around looking like that. and the nail polish too.” she pauses. “imagine their faces—wait, do you think he’s still friends with them?” you shrug, even though she can’t see you. “i don’t know.” “i don’t think he is. c’mon, do you think any of them would be supportive of this?” your eyes drift back toward the television. the purple hair, the tattoos, the nail polish… things that would’ve made him stick out like a sore thumb back then. “i mean,” you say slowly, “he’s getting famous. if they’re not friends now, they’ll probably be friends again soon. those assholes would latch onto anything for attention.” “this would be bad attention, though.” a scoff leaves you. “as if they’d care.”

you stare at subong’s face on the television screen, not paying attention to what the reporter is saying anymore as your eyes remain fixed on him. he looks exactly like he did a few years ago, it feels like he hasn’t aged a single day. sure, the purple hair is new, and there are tattoos peeking out from underneath his clothes now, but the face is the same. his clean shaven face and messy hair look good on him. he’s always been attractive. or at least, he’s always been attractive to you. turns out that hasn’t changed. you feel disgusting for even admitting it to yourself. even worse for acknowledging that you thought the same thing back then, too. how can you despise someone so much and still catch yourself glancing to his lips every time he speaks? you wish he didn’t exist. or at the very least, you wish he hadn’t succeeded in anything in life. as cruel and evil as that sounds. because then you wouldn’t have to be sitting here looking at his beautiful stupid face while the reporter talks about his rising fame. with the phone still pressed to your ear, you reach for the remote and switch the tv off before standing up and wandering out of the living room while your friend continues talking shit about him on the other side of the line. after everything subong and his friends had done to you, you had expected karma to work in your favor and make their lives miserable. well, fuck that. looks like karma is one benevolent bitch.

Ten years ago…

your steps are fast as you storm down the hallway, the rubber soles of your uniform shoes striking against the floor with every furious stride. unfortunately, they’re not loud enough to drown out the hurried sound of subong’s footsteps a few meters behind you, cursing under his breath every five seconds. he calls your name, but you ignore him. he calls your name again. still, you don’t turn around, your jaw tightening as you continue marching toward the staircase ahead of you. “ya!” his voice ricochets through the hallway, making a few students lingering near the classroom doors glance over curiously. “you fucking ignorin’ me?!” he snaps from behind you. his footsteps quicken. you consider speeding up too, but you barely get the chance before a large hand wraps around your arm and yanks you backward. “ya, i’m fucking talkin’ to you! what, you fucking deaf now?” “don’t fucking touch me, asshole!” you wrench yourself free violently, shoving his arm away from you with so much force that he stumbles back a step, surprise flashing across his face at the hostility in your reaction before irritation quickly twists over it again.

his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek while he stares at you, chest rising and falling under his uniform blazer as he tries to calm himself down. “girl, what the fuck is your problem?” you scoff, turning around again, fully intending to keep walking away from him. but you barely manage to take a few steps before his fingers clamp around your shoulder from behind, twisting you back toward him so abruptly that a startled breath catches in your throat as your body is forced to spin around against your will. his other hand lands on your opposite shoulder, shoving you back so hard that your spine collides painfully against the cold hallway wall. you can only stare at him in pure disbelief. subong stands too close to you now, one hand still gripping your shoulder as the other remains planted beside your head against the wall, trapping you. “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” you snap, trying to shove him away. “have you lost your fucking mind?!” “who? me?” he shoots back with disbelief. “do you want to die, you fucking psycho?!” you hiss, struggling against him. “let go of me! let go of me or i swear to god i’ll fucking kill you!” “kill me?” he repeats with a humorless scoff. “alright bro, calm the fuck down. don’t start actin’ ridiculous now.” your jaw drops. “you shoved me against the fucking wall!” “‘cause you wouldn’t stop walking away!” “well, take the fucking hint!” “you little brat,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “i’m trynna fuckin’ talk to you girl, can’t you see that?! huh?!”

your eyes burn with fury, and your knuckles ache from how hard you’ve been clenching your fists throughout this entire conversation, nails digging into your palms. you’re so fucking angry you can’t even think straight anymore. and subong standing this close to you only makes it worse. before you can stop yourself, both your hands shove against his chest at the same time, finally forcing enough distance between your bodies. “get the fuck off me!” subong stumbles back with an aggravated sigh. irritation’s dripping off him as he throws his hands up briefly in surrender before letting them fall heavily to his sides again, albeit the frustrated look on his face makes it clear he’s only backing off because he knows if he touches you again right now, you’ll probably claw his eyes out. before you can walk away once again, he points at you accusingly and says “if you go to the nurse’s office, trust me, you gon’ regret it.” did you mishear him? because surely he did not just say that. who does he think he is?! a disbelieving laugh slips out of you, which then turns obnoxiously loud. “ya! you think this shit’s fucking funny or what?” “oh, yeah,” you answer, nodding sarcastically. “i think it’s fucking hilarious.” his jaw clenches. “‘cause who’s gonna stop me?” you continue, tilting your head mockingly. “you?” “damn fucking right i will.”

that wipes the amusement off your face. your eyes narrow slowly as you stare at him. the frustration he feels is practically vibrating through his entire body while he stands there trying so desperately to intimidate you… although the effect is ruined by the fact that you’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s bluffing and when he’s being serious. maybe you would feel more threatened right now if your own face didn’t hurt so badly. your cheekbone is swollen and the inside of your mouth tastes like blood every time your tongue brushes against the cut on your lip. all you feel is rage. you shake your head. “you really are pathetic, subong.” “what?” “did your little girlfriend send you after me to threaten me?” you sneer. “what are you, her fucking dog?” his expression grows darker with every word. “aww,” you continue mockingly. “what happens after this? is she gonna pat your head and tell you what a good boy you are?” you hit the motherfucking jackpot. you can see him reach a whole different level of anger right in front of you. his nostrils flare with a sharp inhale, and his jaw tightens so hard you think you can hear his teeth grinding together. it’s fascinating how quickly you manage to strike a nerve with him whenever his precious fucking girlfriend is involved. “watch your fucking mouth,” he says coldly. “and stop actin’ so fuckin’ smart when you just got your ass beat.” you let out a small laugh. “by five people,” you add, fake pouting at him. “wow. so brave. your girlfriend can’t do shit alone because she knows i’d drag her ass across the floor if she tried.” “if you could defend yourself,” he shoots back viciously, “you would’ve done it already.” “what, are you challenging me?” he doesn’t answer. instead, he lets out this short, condescending laugh right in your face. “you know what? fuck you,” you mutter, pushing past him roughly and slamming your shoulder into his as you move away from the wall at last, continuing toward the nurse’s office before he can stop you again. “this,” you spit bitterly over your shoulder, “is me defending myself. i’m tired of all of you.”

you continue walking. behind you, you can still hear subong chuckling, lingering there in the middle of the hallway instead of leaving you the fuck alone like he should. “you’ll lose your scholarship if you report her!” you stop in place so abruptly your shoes squeak against the floor before you slowly turn back around to face him. subong stands several meters away again, and his expression’s frustratingly calm compared to the fury burning through you. you tsk. “is that a threat?” “nah,” he replies. “it’s a warning.” you stare at him while he shrugs casually and slides both hands back inside the pockets of his uniform pants, so fucking nonchalant about all of this that it pisses you off. he looks like he’s discussing the weather instead of the fact that you were jumped by his girlfriend and her friends less than twenty minutes ago. if you had superpowers, you’d make his fucking head explode. “they got way more money than you do, girl,” he continues. “you know how this shit works.” you do know how this works. everyone at this school does. money speaks louder than anything ever will. “they’ll twist everything around on you,” he says. “and you won’t win.” you hate the fact that he says it so matter-of-factly. there isn’t even cruelty in his voice right now, just this horrible sort of certainty. but you know he’s probably right. and he knows you know it too.

“why are you telling me this?” “i’m just trynna help you.” your brows knit together before a scoff slips past your lips, your gaze dropping to the floor for a second as you bite back the string of insults threatening to spill out of your mouth. is this really what he considers ‘helping’? he can’t be fucking serious. “think about it before you do somethin’ stupid, alright?” your gaze returns to him. “something stupid?” “y’know what i mean.” the audacity this fucking man has makes you raise your voice. “so reporting your psycho girlfriend for jumping me with her friends is stupid?” “lower your fucking voice.” “or what?” his nostrils flare again, irritation thawing back into anger at frightening speed. “i’m just lookin’ out for you,” he says through gritted teeth. “y’should fuckin’ thank me for it.” that makes you want to laugh harder than before. standing here with your split lip and bruised face while the boy who watched it happen tells you he’s looking out for you feels so fucking absurd... and then he has the nerve to say that you should be thankful, desperately trying to bury the guilt under his arrogance. what a lame gimmick. “and i think you should get lost, subong. mind your fucking bussines.”