flicker, fade
september 2016 ; @kwkrystal
he knows this girl.
in the reflection of the door swinging inwards, he catches only fragments: the curve of a cheek, the tip of a nose, turning away. the familiarity is a punch to the gut, salt on a wound that should only be skin, but he can’t be sure. it’s been a while since he’s thought of her, longer still since he last conjured her in a place she couldn’t be.
there are ten million people in seoul, but he could swear that she’s distinct. and the impulse to turn her by the shoulder—this is new. he remembers her better with darker hair, remembers her vividly in full uniform. blazer, knee-length skirt, black loafers. but the posture is just like her, shoulders squared above a straightened spine. she’d always looked pulled taught from end to end, hadn’t she? like something made to be unraveled.
luck has a way of playing him for a fool. they say you always run into old flames on bad days. but there are bad days, and then there’s jung jaeyoung with his bad year and worse habits: holding crutches, leg still encased in plaster, staring hard at the back of a nondescript girl in a line for coffee he doesn’t want to buy.
she turns, and it’s her.
it’s her and he’s caught in the peripheral of her vision, drawing a blank. his train of thought had never gone this far. he opens his mouth before he knows what to say, exhaling the first vibrations in his throat. he’s cringing. fuck. he’s cringing so hard his cringe is cringing.
“uh—hey.”
