#int:solo

Through their half-year hiatus, Hara was more or less out of the public eye, save for a few pictorials here and there. In a sense, it was a time of healing, for her to stifle all the negativity that had built up in the days she was publicly dating another idol, as well as the dark cloud that had hung around once in January, then in April, when two of the ‘best fucking five’ decided to terminate their contracts and part on their separate ways. It was a time to build herself up, and she worked harder than ever to work on the weak vocals she had been birthed with, and to tone her body through vigorous dance practices and exercising in hopes of reaching that ‘perfect’ body image, despite her discontent with her natural lack of curves. And in a sense, Hara was coming back, more confident as ever— compliments on how her voice sounded more steady and praises for how fit she kept her body built up her self esteem; she felt rejuvenated physically, emotionally, mentally.

With this comeback up and rising and rushing towards her faster and more headstrong than she expected, there seemed to be a direct correlation; the closer the 18th was, the faster her so carefully built up self confidence began to drop once more, replaced with an impending sense of apprehensiveness and perhaps even reluctance. It wasn’t so much that she did not want to see her fans, to return to the stage, to have a schedule that didn’t consist of merely lazing at home or staring longingly at the idols promoting on the television, but rather, she had lost the numbness she had before towards the hate and negativity tossed her way, and it was replaced by a heart of a peach. Soft, easy to bruise, supple— her previous hardened demeanor had been reduced to the flesh of a fruit, every dent and nick all too visible.

                                                                                                  Pathetic.

She scoffed quietly to herself as she propped her legs up on her coffee table, awaiting the call of her manager that he was in front of her residence. To add onto the usual insults that she had gotten all too used to (talentless, slut, plastic, princess), this comeback would bring back an entire other slough of comments and backlash— attacking their newest member, wishes that she, Hara, the ‘talentless’ member, had left instead of Nicole and Jiyoung, wishes that they had disbanded, wishes that this comeback would be a complete flop, or, what hurt the most, the Kamilias who refused to support their promotions because the addition of a new member— that she would have to learn how to be numb to. That was a quality that was almost necessary in the business of being an idol— learning how to be numb to negativity. And not only would it bruise this peach-like heart of hers, it would affect her grandmother, her father, her brother.

Her teaser dropped, and so did her heart.

There’s this type of strange curiosity; the more backlash she got, the more curious she was to what they said specifically. Giving into the urge to check the comments about her teaser being released, she brought the mobile device up and closer to her face, lips pressing together thinly as she tapped into the teaser. A large amount were of praise, from the loyal fans who complimented on how she looked more mature and still as beautiful as ever, but her eyes honed in on the negative ones, the comments with the worst ratings, the ones that made her breath catch in her throat in the uncomfortable manner that always ensued when she felt like throwing up.

                                                                "The plastic monster is back! ~~~~"

           "Ah, the talentless one has her own teaser now, congratulations."

As she was about to scroll down, in search of the more malicious ones, the ones who were bound to raise the Radio Star incident or her being seen out with male idols, an incoming call screen slid down, the low rap that was her ring tone disrupting her thoughts and her manager’s number lighting up the screen. Pushing herself up and off the couch, she slung her bag over her shoulder, lips still pressed in a thin line as she exited out the door and headed forwards her manager’s van, one single thought resounding in her mind, with resolute.

                                       ”— a tall personal Pike Roast!”

     A clear voice chimed out among the quiet bustle of the surprisingly not-too-populated corner Starbucks and she glanced up from the screen of her slim MacBook Air, hand raising from the keyboard to adjust her mask ever so slightly before getting up, moving towards the serving counter and picked up the paper cup from the counter, a muffled ‘thank you’ slipping out. Absent-mindedly shifting over to the self-service stand, she poured a short stream of the half-and-half into the dark brew and picked up two packets of raw sugar while still keeping a watchful eye on her belongings at her corner table, trapping a stir stick between her fingers before moving back towards her spot. Somehow between preparing for the upcoming comeback in August, attempting to figure out the enigma that was Heo Youngji and nursing her health, Hara managed to squeeze in a few hours to sit herself down at the coffee shop near her residence (she didn’t want to go to sweet n kitchen at the moment, didn’t want to run the risk of being caught by her managers) and she took the time to clear her thoughts and leave an update or two on the social media services for her fans, as well as writing a short entry to Miracle, reassuring the members of the fansite that she was doing well and left a few words of encouragement, knowing that many of her fans were students.

First, grind the espresso beans, approximately a teaspoon and a half.

     With one hand, she drew the edges of the bathrobe shut, wishing that she had least bothered to slip on a pair of pants first before venturing downstairs, her other hand still working at the handle of the antique hand-crank espresso grinder she had received at a white elephant gift exchange during Christmas. The scent of the freshly ground permeated through the tiny kitchen space and Hara paused for a moment, her forearm aching slightly from the repeated action of turning the lever; she wasn't used to having to grind the espresso beans herself, normally she'd use the machine at the store to pre-grind it for her, but she took this chance in particular to one, use the gift that she had previously discarded to a side and two ... it made things all the more sentimental if the entire cup of morning brew was made by herself.

Second, make sure the machine has enough water to create steam for the coffee, place the grind into the filter and evenly pack down the grinds with the bottom of a spoon. Secure the filter to the espresso machine.

     Easy enough. Breathing out a low hum, she skipped the first part – the machine had its fresh water supply hooked up, anyways – and unscrewed the filter carefully, opening the small drawer attached to the base of the espresso grinder before spooning the finely powdered grind into the opening of the filter, making sure to pack it down tightly (first with the spoon, and then when she got frustrated, with the tip of her finger instead). With one hand supporting the machine cautiously and the other cupped steadily around the bottom of the filter, she screwed the filter on slowly, making sure not to spill the grind and turned it once, twice, until the faint 'click' signalled proper installation.

Third, set a small espresso shot cup under the filter and flick the 'on' switch to allow the water boiler to heat up, and flick the 'on' switch for the machine to begin making coffee until the cup is about 2/3rds full, then turn it off.

     Man, being a barista would be a pretty neat thing to do if I didn't already have a career.

     Chuckling faintly to herself, she fiddled with the knobs and switches of the expensive espresso machine, a quiet whirring starting from the inner workings as she stepped back, making a half turn to lean her weight against the marble countertop, fingers reaching into the pocket of the bathrobe to pull out her mobile device. As she scanned through the headlines slowly, she narrowed her searches to just 'Kara', and pressed her lips together tightly as she read through the articles and comments left by netizens slowly. Most of them were about the KARA Project and the members, and she set her phone down on the counter instead as the espresso machine continued with its low, steady hum, trapping the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she tried to sort her thoughts.

( Beyond this 'read more' will be information on Hara's stance and viewpoint on the past 6 months, compiled by a mixture of knowledge of Hara's personalities and actions and guessing. If you're easily offended/a Kamilia who is very much supportive of the members who have left, I'd advise you not to read this. And to those who read it anyways, sorry if I've offended you in any way. )

                                               Miau!

     It's 6am, and she's woken up to the insistent mewling (if Pico's low, grouchy morning grumbles could even be considered 'mewling') of her border-line overweight Scottish Fold, his weight settling against her lower back and she groans (albeit quietly, ladies didn't groan like that), wriggling half-heartedly. She turns her head in a lazy attempt to glance back at him but to no avail; the pressure against her lower half has stopped her from any motion more than a mere turn of her head to press her cheek against the pillow. Lifting her head once more, she turns it to the opposite direction, her lips pursing in a slight smile, a mixture of melancholy and the faintest traces of regret for not waking up even a bit earlier.

     Because the pillow only leaves an indent, instead of a head of bleach blonde hair, and instead of arms around her, pulling and pressing her closer to the person in question, she was met with nothing but cold sheets (ah, the cliché), the corner of the blanket pulled back neatly in a triangle. 

     She heaves out another low sigh, opting to close her eyes for a moment as if the motion would help her to will away the almost unbearable feelings of missing someone. Always having used to mock those poems and songs about waking up to an empty bed and cold sheets without really ever having experienced it herself (was this karma?) and here she was, now; feeling the very same emotions that the writers had penned into their literary works. 

                                               Miau!

     The mewl comes again, louder and more demanding and Hara sighs, palms flattening on the bed on either side of the pillow and pushes upwards, the feline rolling off her back and to the side with a comical yelp as she pushed herself up completely, the blankets gathered around her waist and eyes still glazed over with sleep. She turned to the left once, then over to the right, her back cracking as a reminder that despite her baby face and how young she looked physically that she was, indeed, aging. Raising a hand to slide a few runaway, loose strands behind her ear, she stretched out, the same delicate fingers grasping at the cold metal slab of a phone, the screen unlocking with a quiet 'click' as she skimmed past the rest of the notifications that had gathered during her slumber, her fingers tapping into the messaging app. She presses at the name already at the top of the list, the pads of her fingers tracing in an almost graceful manner (think Kim Yuna at the Olympics) over the glass screen. 

[SMS → 배비♡] Morning, handsome. Woke up to a house with just Pico and maybe some sounds of Hyungnim shuffling downstairs; it's been a while and I still don't get used to waking without you, mhm. [SMS → 배비♡] You better have at least had something for breakfast when you left the house this morning.  [SMS → 배비♡] And you know I have a tendency to be a very naggy girlfriend ♥(ˆ⌣ˆԅ) [SMS → 배비♡] And maybe I'll visit you a little later if I'm not preoccupied with something.  [SMS → 배비♡] Aaaaand ... I miss you. And I love you. You know I do. I don't have to leave these little texts here and there, you already know I'm damn homesick for you 'cause you're home and when you're not home, this house is merely just a building. 

     With those few, short messages being sent, she swings her legs off the bed, once again breathing out another sigh as she pads silently across the hardwood floor to the door, the aforementioned feline following suit after her and tags at her heels, eager for his morning meal. She stifles a yawn behind her fist, almost stumbling down the stairs (how she managed to be part of KARA's dancing line, she'd never know -- she could've sworn she was born with two left feet), Pico still following daintily and gracefully behind her (as graceful as a borderline overweight, inherently lazy cat could get).

     Flicking on the lights in the kitchen, she blinked once, twice -- before her eyes settled on a paper bag and a Styrofoam cup; at first she's wary of this -- you could never be too relaxed around suspicious deliveries, being an idol and all -- but as she stepped forward, her eyes recognizing the scrawl of a Sharpie on the lip of the bag -- 

                             "Morning, beautiful." 

Hara hates cooking.

That’s a lie. She doesn’t hate cooking, but she says she does because she sucks at it; she’s an utter mess in the kitchen 90% of the time, and it’s easier to say that you hate something as opposed to admitting that you suck at it. She can make a great smoothie (but if you couldn’t manage a smoothie, you really were a lost cause), she could cook a steak (but a basic steak was nearly impossible to mess up, unless you overcooked or burned it), she could do basic breakfast items (eggs Benedict sounded fancy and all, but it was pretty much just half of an English muffin, a poached egg, ham, and some sauce made from those powder packets) but when it came to anything even remotely complex – Goo Hara was at an utter loss. She couldn’t follow recipes.

So she wasn’t quite sure what drove her to decide to try her hand at macarons, of all things – according to a few of her friends who had already attempted making the French pastry, it wasn’t particularly easy, especially if you were lacking expertise in the kitchen department in the first place. Still, she eventually pulled herself out of bed a little after nine, dressed in her sweatpants and a mask tugged over her face, groggily clutching at the recipe her friend had given her for raspberry macarons. Somehow managing to gather all the ingredients at the market without making a fool of herself (by not asking the cashier where she could find icing sugar – duh, Hara, baking section.), she offered a polite nod to the lady who had so kindly directed given her tips (“Fresh raspberries will fare better than frozen ones, you’re in luck that we have them available!”) before shuffling back out and down the street, taking the time to inhale the fresh and slightly chilly morning air in an attempt to wake herself up, lest she end up making any fatal (for the macarons, not her) mistakes in the kitchen.

Pushing open the front door, she nodded her head sleepily at Hyungnim, who had hurried over to greet her as she kicked off her sneakers, the pup letting out a slightly disgruntled snort at the lack of attention from the female, who usually showered him with affection and toddled off to entertain himself instead. As she set the grocery bags down on the counter, Hara resisted the urge to crawl back into the comfortable (albeit empty) bed, opting to tie her hair back into a comfortable ponytail instead, her lips curving up into a fond smile as his voice resonated through her mind.

                       “Don’t burn down my kitchen.”

Breathing out a chuckle, she moved to wash her hands, making sure to clean under her fingernails (in case he got suspicious and asked if she even washed her hands properly) before measuring out the ingredients to st into the food processor, leaving the machine running as she pulled out the carton of eggs, prepared to use at the very least, half of the carton, despite the fact that the recipe had asked for only two. The first two eggs went the same way; she cracked it too hard and the yolk spilled into the whites, eliciting a quiet curse from Hara’s lips as she set it to a side to use for an omelette or the likes sometime in the future. The third egg cracked fine, but as a shard of the shell fell into the egg, her clumsy fingers managed to break the yolk – again – and she grumbled out, setting that one to the side as well. The fourth and fifth egg, thankfully, cracked fine and she managed to separate the yolks from the whites, more or less. (There was actually more whites she could separate, but she was afraid that if she tried again, she’d break the yolk and ruin it all.)

Then the fun part came; she pulled out the electric mixer, careful to turn it to a low setting as she whisked the egg whites, breathing out a sigh of relief as they formed soft peaks, as her friend told her they should before continuing on with the recipe, meticulously measuring out the proper amounts of caster sugar into the bowl, then a drop or two of pink food coloring, then the almond and icing sugar mixture, her lips curving up into a pleased smile as it began to, more or less, resemble what it should look like.

Aha. Maybe she wasn’t too terrible with this whole cooking, baking thing, after all.

She preheated the oven, a low temperature set to the machine (which she avoided touching most of the time; Hara was always prone to burning or injuring herself in some form or another) as she leaned down, eyes trained on the baking sheets as she carefully piped one tear drop, and then another one, the edges touching to form a heart, before repeating the same pattern all across the sheet, until she ran out of batter, nodding a little to herself as she pushed the tray aside carefully, letting the mixture stand.

As she allowed the shells to crust (so far, so good), she began to try her hand at the filling with the mindset that she’d mess this one up in some way or another (she heard that if you boiled cream too much, it’d begin to curdle and you’re pretty much fucked.), pouring the cream into the saucepan and watches it warily, careful not to let it boil before pulling the pot from the element and stirs the white chocolate into the cream and lets it melt. Licking dryly at her lips (thank God she didn’t do this for a living, why did people bake for fun?), Hara glanced over at the sheet of shells again before checking the oven, opening it and sliding it in, sure to set a timer for the bare minimum time before turning her attention back to the ganache, stirring slowly at the pot to combine the now-melted chocolate and the cream, setting it into the fridge to let cool before breathing out a low sigh, allowing herself to rest against the counter for a brief moment.

Rubbing gently at the bridge of her nose, she brought the dirty bowls and utensils over to the sink, turning on the tap for a few minutes to run water over the supplies, reaching under the sink to pull out the chopping board, carefully slicing at the raspberries (and couldn’t resist to pop a few of them into her mouth, while she was at it) before patting them dry with paper towels (which the recipe didn’t ask for, but she supposed that you didn’t want the fruits too moist).

80% done. Now all she had left to do was to make sure she didn’t burn the macaron shells, and everything else was a piece of cake – who came up with that metaphor, anyways? – so she allowed herself a moment of rest, slumping down on the counter as she sat herself down on one of the island stools, chin rested on her folded arms as she watched the ticking numbers of the timer, glancing down as she felt a furry object brush against her bare foot.

Pico, of course.

Casting a glance down to the feline, a mewl escaping the cat (most likely demanding for attention) as he bumped his head against her foot again, Hara breathed out a chuckle, about to reach down to allow the cat to settle in her lap before the alarm went off obnoxiously loud, and she immediately abandoned her treasured cat (who reacted much like Hyungnim did, and went off to find some sunny area of the house to nap) to check on the oven, stupidly reaching in without her oven mitts over her hands.

God damn, thank god the oven was only set at a low temperature of about a hundred something, not three hundred – but she yelped anyways, drawing her hand back and immediately sticking her fingers into her mouth to soothe the burning sensation, letting out a muffled grumble around her fingers. Turning on the tap to run the cool water over her fingers, she gave it a few moments before wiping her hand dry, putting on the oven mitts – let’s give this another try – before pulling out the trays of macaron shells, blinking slightly at them.

… they looked more or less like the ones she saw at the store. Good enough.

Setting the trays aside to somewhere where she wouldn’t burn herself, she allowed the pastry shells to cool, popping her head into the fridge instead to check on the ganache, pulling out the pot and rests her hand tentatively on the side of the pot, nodding to herself when she found it to be cool to the touch. She poured in the bowl of chopped raspberries into the pot before reaching for a wooden spoon to stir in the berries gently, humming lowly to herself with a slightly proud smile tugging at her lips.

The next part was easy – piping the ganache onto the shells, and this part was actually enjoyable (not that the entire process was completely terrible, but if she had it her way, she’d much rather buy the macarons than make them herself) her lips curving at the way the heart-shaped macaron shells sandwiched to form the little French pastries. As she finished up and placed them into the fridge to set, Hara went off in her search to find one of those clear, disposable gift boxes she had bought the other day, a length of ribbon trapped between her fingers as she headed back towards the kitchen to pack up the macarons, glancing at herself briefly in the mirror before leaving the house, box clutched in her hands as she got into her car.

It didn’t matter how bitingly cold it was outside, or how the sky darkened too quickly, or how she couldn’t feel her fingertips within a few minutes of stepping outside. It didn’t matter how she could see her breath – a phenomenon that she could never get over, even after years of watching her breath take form in the freezing weather and dissipate just as quickly as it came. It didn’t matter how her nose would crinkle up every now and then, nor did it matter that it reddened in an unpleasing manner. It didn’t matter that she’d usually catch a cold for being out in the snow without proper clothing, clad in only a pair of shorts and a tanktop as she stepped out onto the balcony, leaning her bare arms against the snow-covered railing. It didn’t matter that she’d most likely spend the next week indoors, nose seemingly running endlessly and body buried underneath a mountain of blankets, desperate for warmth.

All she knew (and cared about at the moment, for that matter) was the fact that it was snowing and whenever it snowed like this – not the little flurries that lasted and afternoon and didn’t stick to the ground – thick yet light snowflakes drifting lazily with no apparently path except down, gravity tugging at the fragile ice crystals, bringing something that seemed so pure and heavenly and untouched down towards earth. It was as if they were little souls, or little sprites, settling down to reside among mortals, if only for a little while.

(She tries not to think about how quickly the snow is trampled under the boisterous footsteps of the pedestrians, or how cars drive over them and dirty the delicate flakes aggregated in light blankets in smaller streets, tries not to think about how deadly snow could really be and all the countless news reports of tragedies and lives taken by the beautiful yet merciless snow.)

Tilting her head up, Hara glances up at the sky – thank god there was no wind (yet; it was only about 5am) and hopefully it’d stay relatively peaceful, as it was now; the screaming wind that whipped around corners would ruin her plans for crawling back into bed for a second round of  slumber. She feels her lips curve up ever so slightly as a snowflake comes to rest on her eyelashes, fluttering her eyelashes slightly to get rid of the faint weight, opting to stick out her tongue childishly in an attempt to catch a few of the flakes on her tongue, laughing quietly to herself.

Slim fingers wrapped around the neck of the canning jar, the bland yet strangely calming scent of the peppermint tea rising up and out of the mouth of the container. Sometimes Hara was a bit pretentious, using unconventional objects as cups and mugs- mason jars (even if those were becoming rapidly popular with interior designers and & hipsters) and tapered canning jars (which she was using right now, the tea filter lingering near the surface of the hot liquid) — as long as it was capable of holding a fair amount of scalding fluid (while still being ‘normal’ enough — she wouldn’t use a fucking tub to drink her tea, would she?), Hara would eventually scope it out of its place in the house and transform it into a vessel for her beverages. She glanced down at the tea now, fingers plucking gently at the tab as if it would aide the tea in steeping any faster (it wouldn’t.)

Tea was the perfect companion for these kind of rain days; both the beverage and the weather was not too heavy, clear and slightly watered down (hah), and brought around a set of memories of high school days, trainee days, days when she’d skip out of her schedules completely to sit at the door to the roof, a mug of tea clutched loosely in between small hands, fingers occasionally dropping down to massage gently at her bare feet. Tea brought back the memories of quaint little coffee shops, the tiny, ceramic cups offered to her with a teapot of hot water on the side, the sunlight filtering in and through the steam rising from the steeped beverage; memories of the times sitting in her mother’s small flower shop, their knees almost touching and the scent of the chrysanthsemum filling the tiny space instead of the words that could’ve been said, should’ve been said; the memories of the nights she could not sleep, her legs tucked underneath her and the mug of peppermint tea - like she was doing right now - occupying the space between her hands, head tilted back on the leather back of the couch, inhaling deeply as if drawing the particles through her nostrils would aide her in falling back into the state of slumber she so desperately needed.

She's never been a heavy drinker; Goo Hara is a lightweight -- just by looking at her and her slight figure, you'd come to the conclusion that she looks -- and is -- the type of girl who'd get drunk easily. She does not look like the type to go for beers or straight vodka -- she fits into the stereotype of a typical girly girl; when she goes to bars, she calls for those drinks in the tall, martini glasses, the kinds with little umbrellas, the scent almost sickeningly sweet. She's the kind who will sip at her glass with her pinky drawn out, pink lips leaving faint imprints of lip gloss in Chanel's 156 Pampille along the rim of the delicate martini glass, occasionally drawning the glass away from her lips to let out a laugh in response to whatever her companion was saying.

Strangely enough, it didn't baffle her all too much when she found herself slumped against the foot of the couch, head lolled back against the couch cushions and eyes wide and glassy, staring blankly at the white of the ceiling, gaze occasionally trailing to the ceiling lamp and only drawing away when the light began to burn at her eyes. Every few minutes or so she'd raise the lowball glass clutched firmly between her fingers to her lips, head tilting forward ever so slightly to ensure the fluid actually flowed into her mouth rather than dribbling down the sides of her mouth towards her chin. Hara was not a heavy drinker -- she couldn't hold her alcohol well -- but for some reason this didn't stop her, nor did it come off as odd to her, as she sporadically uncapped the beautifully handcrafted Crystal Head bottle (which was a gift from a friend -- they had both meant for it to be purely decorative) and tipped the bottle slightly to refill the short glass, clumsily sloshing some of the clear liquid onto the oak hardwood floor. 

If a 500mL can of cider with 4.5% alcohol volume could reduce her to a mess of giggles and incoherency, this 40% and a bottle of 750mL would probably entice her to do things that don't cross her mind even when she's sober. 

Flopping her arm back on the couch, she felt around blindly in hopes that she'd find her phone, Pang choosing this moment to wander out of her bedroom and making his way towards her, his snout to the ground before sniffing curiously at the spilled liquid. Hara snapped her head up, an uncharacteristic scowl etched across her face as she let out a string of slurred curses at the canine. As he shifted away with a whimper, unaccustomed to his owner's harsh tone, she turned her upper body around again, resuming her search for that large piece of plastic shit people called a mobile phone. Her fingers wrapping around a plastic ... thing, she tugged it out and up, raising it to her face and allowed her eyes to focus blearily on it before her eyebrows drew together in frustration, arm flinging out to toss away the remote. Making another halfhearted attempt to search her phone, she reaches back again, digging her arm in between two couch cushions until her fingertips come in contact once again with what she hopes is her phone, tugging it out before staring at it again, nodding hazily to herself as she confirms that it's her cell. 

Raising her glass to her lips once more, she sips slowly, ignoring the way the fluid burned her mouth (maybe that was why she was doing this, maybe she needed this burn to bring her out of the numb and blank state she had been in all day), thumb absentmindedly swiping at her screen to scroll down the list of contacts in her drunken stupor before her thumb hovers over a name, her expression twisting into a mixture of pain and bitterness before glancing to the side, choking out a quiet sob, muffling the sound by biting down harshly on her bottom lip. She drops her phone beside her, ignoring the way it clatters on the ground, and she leans forward, elbows on her knees and head cradled in her arms, shoulders shaking.