#hscharoen

The list of clutter in the living room grows steadily by day: books abandoned where she’d last left them, mugs in every nook and cranny, stray socks wedged between cushions and beneath the sang. It’s a never-ending cycle of tackling messes and making them.  She’d recently decided to let the natural order of things fall into a progressive disarray.  Regret hits belatedly, long after Charoen steps foot into her house, and well into the good twenty minutes spent hastily digging through the boxes out front.

“Aha!” A hint of chipped plastic emerges from beneath two old magazines dated back to 2015.  At least the lid’s intact, though the same can’t be said for some of the pots inside.  Ultramarine blue’s been worn down to the pan, and there’s a sizable chunk of vermillion missing.  She makes a mental note to run down to The Islander this week; for now, they’ll just have to make do.

“There’s red wine on top of the fridge.” Jihae sets the palette down and fiddles with her speaker until Kim Minki’s voice creeps into the room, low and sweet.  Satisfied, she straightens up from her spot on the floor and ambles over to the kitchen to retrieve some cups.  “Feeling inspired tonight?”

@hscharoen

The rain is an endless cascade, lasting for hours, overwhelming the small town with its quiet roar. It’s weather he loved since he was little, rainfall resembled song and it calmed him - on most days. For this reason, he bought obnoxious yellow rain boots and a large, clear umbrella made with cheap plastic. From underneath its cover, Daewon watched the torrent of raindrops fall and explode upon contact. It was soothing, the visual whimsical, amusing the five-year-old Daewon that existed somewhere inside. 

Normally he’d consider this perfect napping weather but he slept over ten hours last night, and also enjoyed a generous serving of cappuccino. After leaving the cafe he wandered a bit, partially uncaring but mostly unknowing. The streets were empty except for him, and her, a girl he didn’t know with honey-colored hair. She stood out, vibrant compared to the gray afternoon, and without an umbrella. Without slowing the rain poured, hammering into the concrete and rooftops. You learn to ignore pitiful sights in the city, there’s always a sad story to be told and at some point, the shock is worn away. Considering this, Daewon spun his umbrella. The droplets flew off in a spiral, and he thought: well, this isn’t Seoul.