lost objects
@epluhan
It took forty minutes for him to notice his journal is gone: his steps had been much lighter, his mind less occupied. He’d pinned it on a good mood -- these often sprouted in certain company, in certain silences -- but as his steps rounded the corner and as his hands began to explore and pat and slither between his robes, an emptiness began to bud. Because his journal wasn't a mere physical object; the information inside, the words neatly marching across the pages, stitched together an energy that went beyond borders, beyond tangible edges. He would often run his finger along its spine for the soothing calm of its stable line -- the disarming of anxiety. There was a spark, too: a reminder of who he was, who he had to be. His Slytherin persona relied wholly on what lay between its pages.
It took forty minutes for him to notice, though it only took two for him break down. He'd peeled off a few layers of clothing -- thought that, in the frenzied mess of fabric and pockets, something had been misplaced. Perhaps it had found its way into the other side of his clothes. Perhaps it had tangled itself in loose thread.
But even as the pool of fabric grew, and the set of onlooking eyes doubled, even as his chest began feeling more and more empty, as if making room for the neat influx of panic that poured into him, no journal surfaced. Even when he yelled -- a low, visceral sound, more pained than angry; more pathetic than predatory -- nothing emerged. His mind fell into step with paranoia: the smell of leather in a flame filled his nose; the crackle of paper, the sound of it splitting apart echoed in his ears; the snicker of eavesdropping, the ridicule of exposure made his cheeks warm. If it wasn't here, his fears whispered, it could only be in the wrong hands, destroyed; a whole life bound in a small notebook, now pulled apart, undone in the matter of hours.
Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he still had his pride -- still had his vanity. Even when his fingers curled, even when fists formed; even when a tremble swam up his spine, traced his arms, settled in the slim bones of his wrists, Jongin tried to hold on to poise. Though it faded fast; the minutes ate away at its silhouette; the panic tore it from inside.
His friends, by now, look worried -- though he only imagined amusement in their eyes. Only saw hostility; a kind of sabotage.
Jongin's posture faltered and he stepped forward, took one of them by the front of their robes; his fingers twisted around the fabric, pulled the boy higher until their eyes clashed. Confusion stitched itself into the furrow of his brow, but a pure, unfiltered emotion -- close to anger, akin to sadness -- washed over the color of his eyes. This, too, was a form of distraction, an accusation that numbed his mind; a conflict that allowed adrenaline to trickle in. It was a loud and brusque announcement: he'd rather embrace disaster than be toyed with.
