#* luhan

( * is he serious; well, in the spirit of the holidays, why not? )

As the phone rang, Han turned and began to walk; slow, swaying steps that wove on the sidewalk as he ran wet fingers through his air and waited for the inevitable click. Maybe he needed someone who was almost a stranger—maybe he needed the impersonality of a simple conversation; the dry wit.

Without it, he was sure he’d cry.

"Tell me that you know what my name is, Park Jiyeon."

there was no real expectations as to who would call her anymore--as it was, her call logs bounce back and forth from jaebum, the local jjigae restaurant, an unlisted number the belonged to a too lax of an oppa residing halfway across the world--and even he doesn't call often--and infomercials. funny how they exist even at a place like this.

and so, she had no idea what to say to the voice that greets her through the phone, blinking slowly in response to the question thrown at her as she pauses. "uh—" the former acolyte hesitates--never one good with names--though a helpful (seemingly meek) voice in the depths of her mind registers differently, remembers a young chinese boy who had long struggled with the matters of getting his own name pronounced correctly. 

"why wouldn't i? lu han..." her voice is almost coy, fingers twitching against the fabric of her sweats as she shifts, scratching an itch under her eye absently.