#;1

ㅡ Name: Kim Chungha Group/Occupation: I.O.I ㅡ

                 He’s also not very good at smiling. He’s always been good at it; even as a little boy, deserted by his father at the age of eight, he still smiled as though nothing was wrong. He hasn’t smiled in days, doesn’t quite remember what it is to smile.

             When he arrives at the apartment, it’s only half past eleven, so he’s certain that she won’t be awake for hours, not until five, at least, unless she had gotten up to be sick. He remembers that he’s left a bucket beside the bed as he locks the door. Then he fills a vase with water and sets the bouquet of flowers inside it, puts the bread in the toaster and water in the kettle. He heads towards the windows to draw the curtains, and she’s curled up into a ball so small on the couch that he almost misses her when he’s returning to the kitchen.

                Her skin is so paper thin that the veins beneath it are protruding, making her look blue, and the dark stains beneath her eyes look like bruises. His heart clenches in his throat so tightly that he catches his breath, feeling lightheaded by the sight of her as he forces the tears away as he kneels down beside her. He can see that she’s awake, with lidded and swollen red eyes, and he brushes back blonde hair from her neck. Her skin feels sticky beneath his rough fingers. He’s terrified that he might break her.

                “Hey,” his throat is so dry that the words almost don’t come out at all. “You’re awake.” He’s trying so hard not to cry as he caresses her face, smooths down her hair. “Are you hungry? I bought food.” He has to remind himself to breath. “Your favorite. Nutella.”

                 But at least he’s home now. Oh, Lord, home sweet home! Finally, finally. He’s been thinking of his couch all night, like an enamored fledgling thinks of his beloved, his couch and a good book waiting for him at home, less than ten steps away (no need for takeaway tonight, having eaten so much at the party that his stomach is now sticking out beneath his dress shirt). And no work tomorrow, he remembers! His neighbor probably won’t be home either! She’ll probably be with family! Ahhhhh, yes. Now he feels the exhaustion seeping away, replaced by relief. Then he thinks, God, I’m getting old, because who looks forward to going to bed? He’s interrupted by a bump against the shoulder, and he’s about to look up and apologise when a cold, sticky liquid soaks the front of his shirt. And when he sees who it is, who the liquid belongs to, (or belonged to a moment before, when it wasn’t leaving a quite possibly permanent stain on his work clothes) his mood plunges considerably and he scowls. “You.” There goes his night of peace and quiet. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

yE,, we have been for a little bit ;u;;