sori na.

( kkt: 소리 ) uh huh… ( kkt ) surely not long enough for you to have to swim, i bet.

<drafted> ( kkt ) if you don’t fly over, what am i to make of myself?

Why do I give a shit?

(Why are you texting…)

Draft, draft, draft. Draft it.

( kkt ) update me when something meaningful happens. ( kkt ) i’ll expect no less of you if i don’t hear from you again this weekend.

He wonders where her curiosity stems from. Why she begins to ponder about someone of such ill-importance as him, especially in a life like hers. It’s the first time he thinks of himself, and where he belongs in the scape of her: if he dares to occupy any space at all, there, here, or anywhere else she allows him to.

[KKT: 유빈] You know how much I avoid traveling long distances when I can. There is nothing appreciative in it.

She is demanding and she is blatant – blunt as ever and all things he cannot fathom to understand. All things he cannot come to be, and all things he adores her for, whether she knows it or not.

“Alright, let’s talk numbers. Of course, we’ll have to start with music. There are twelve musical notes (C, D, E, F, G, A, B and their respective sharps and retrospective flats). There are twenty-six letters in the English alphabet. There are 118 elements known to date, and out of them, 94 naturally occurring on Earth.”

“Then let’s change spectrum.” 

“There are only twelve musical notes. The same tone of C, D, E, F, G, A and B. There are only twelve distinct sounds that makes music, music. And yet twelve musical notes have made somewhere between 97 to a hundred different songs as to date.”

“There are twenty-six letters in the English alphabet. There are 171,476 words – just the ones currently in use. There are an additional 47,156 words now obsolete. There are 140 million books in the world, and mind you – we’re just talking about English. There are an additional seven thousand languages in the world. And they all stem from letters, syllables, sounds, pictures: all so meaningless till you put them together into something vaguely coherent. All that don’t seem to matter much until you speak them into life.”

“Now, the most ludicrous of them all. How 94 ‘things’ could possibly make up all the rest of the ‘things’ in the universe. How hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, and sometimes nitrogen are really all that make up anything living.”

“The universe is vast. But so are you. The ant you crossed paths with this morning on the way into class late is vast compared to the spec of dust you saw flickering on and off when the sun was coming in this afternoon while you were dozing off in music theory.”

“What I am trying to say is… there are different sizes of infinity.”

“So, let’s talk about numbers. And how they really mean nothing.”

( kkt: 소리 ) god, are you hearing yourself right now? ( kkt ) god as in oh my god ( kkt ) that’s not you are

( kkt ) fuck.

( kkt ) *Do Sori ( kkt ) 💢 ( kkt ) when was the last time you’ve stepped foot outside of home?

7th Ave, New York, New York, USA Springtime, 2018. Ragtime, vice versa.

14:20 ( kkt: 소리 ) do you think it’s funny when someone trips over something and falls? in a weird way, especially ( kkt ) i mean, it doesn’t make sense to laugh if it’s yourself falling but. otherwise, yes. ( kkt ) right?

14:28 ( kkt ) hey. ( kkt ) i’m right. you should agree.

Just as an answer is on the tip of his tongue the lights dim, the theater becomes dark and Marco loses sight of Sori’s face. Acting on reflex Marco turns to look directly at the doors of the auditorium. Immediately, they open to allow poor light from the lobby to slip in. “I hate the dark.” Marco says with a tone of voice that’s both soft and distracted.

“I’m sorry.” Marco takes a deep breath in and recomposes himself. Easily he slips back into the carefree version of himself. “Let’s get out of here and talk somewhere that isn’t so… let’s just go.” Marco smiles. “I want you to tell me more about your new work.”

Marco’s the type of person who exists in front of him, but is never present. Even now, as they exchange conversation, his eyes are never still, his hands never remain, and his mind seems to be elsewhere, wherever the distraction lies. Sometimes he wonders if the real Marco lies in a room three hallways down, behind a bolted door, with all the attempt to hide from the smallest bit of darkness, like a child, distressed before slumber.

In him lies just a boy, after all, afraid of something he cannot fathom to understand.

“Alright.” He should question, the boy, sometimes. But instead, he greets the man Marco pretends to be, because he’s learned that there is a way to converse with the boy behind the man, with much less confrontation, and less remnants of the dark lurking around them.

(SMS: Do Sori) the students talk about you in the hallway in soft whispers (SMS) then they continue to do so after class (SMS) they generally speak kindly, but i’ve spent so much time with them to know they’re terrified of making mistakes and looking foolish around you. (SMS) Thank you for you consideration. (SMS) …are we still on for tea this afternoon?

(SMS: Do Sori ) Not to be prude but can you not do the ‘sori’ thing and not intimidate the students? (SMS) even though you’re behind the piano, doesn’t mean they don’t look up to you (SMS) acknowledge them when they walk in at the very least. And if it’s not to painful, smile?

Marco’s smile falters a tiny bit when he listens to Sori. It’s a rare occurrence for the other to ask something of him. Normally, Sori walks in while Marco is practicing, places a piece of sheet music over the one Marco was looking at, then he would wait expectantly for Marco to pick up the tune on his violin.

“Well which is it?” Marco asks, voice slightly teasing as he raises an eyebrow. “Do you need my help, or don’t you?”

There’s always the point in an encounter where he’s given the choice to let another take a step further in -- or for his own feet to take two steps back. He’s always made sense of it in the translation of music: there’s a moment in the score to be forte, but also many more phrases to be pianissimo.

Maybe it’s the teasing look, or just the way Marco always seems to play around the notes, and never right on them. It forces him to be loud; and he always finds himself holding a strong forte. 

( ... )

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”  She whispered as her good night. She’s whisked off into her dreams, and for once, she doesn’t have to be afraid of waking up because she knew he’d be there in the morning. And for the first time, she felt as if they had all the time in the world.

She woke up after him, her body warm and relaxed when she remembered his promise. she smiled, her eyes crinkling with an innocent joy she had long forgotten. “Chocolate chip pancakes, please. And don’t forget the whipped cream on top.”

He doesn’t allow himself to sleep because her faltered breaths don’t. They’re labored and bring him colors just like the struggle: drowning blues, distressed grays. They aren’t pleasant to listen to or see, and it keeps him up at night. So he runs his fingers through her hair instead, overwhelmed with the palette of nightmares she shows him, colors he’s never wanted to hear.

He listens because he realizes this is the cacophony she’s been burdened with each waking moment.

[SMS: Princess] so u admit that there’s a possibility we have a future [SMS] Glad u asked bc im already outside ur door w my paper [SMS] I brought wine that expired like 100 years ago [SMS] U class music nerds like shit like that, yeah?