Buses stops and go, but you never got on any of them too endorsed in the view of a statue standing across the road, finding the difference between you and it. The road is wet from the drizzling rain that’s been pouring since the last two hours. You don’t hear a word, if people were talking, you just stared at the statue realising how similar you are.
It stood there, lifelessly, but exists.
Time passes, like the last time you were here and people walk by, never seeming to notice the statue. You wondered just how many people notice you even being around. Just like that statue, standing in the rain, you were remarkably, unseen.
There’s comfort in it. There’s also discomfort.
1 new message(s)
Did you miss the bus again? - Husband
Yes, but this time, willingly. You needed a moment alone in your thoughts. Not long after that, a bus comes to a stop and you got on.
The earth’s smell when it just stopped raining. The scent that arises when the grasses were cut. Soothing. It has been awhile since you noticed these. That the sky have different hues of blue and the clouds. There’s so many people around in that bus. People say sorry and move on with their day. That’s how it has always been.
The view of the street from a moving bus always gives you a sense of calm. You don’t think there would be people out there who understood how you feel. That you like these little things no one notices, just like how they don’t notice you. Why is today so melancholic. Everything brings you back to the emotions you thought you’ve erased. Now you’re not so eager to forget. You’re trying to remember how it all felt. What it was like to love, what it was like to be  anticipated, what it was like to have someone wanting to know you.
Your card beeped open at the front door and you heard him waddling down the hallway at the sound of you taking off your pumps.
“Took you awhile,” Namjoon helps to hang your bag on the hook, “I started a new book, I’m sorry I didn’t reply as quick.”
You didn’t respond and just walked into your bedroom.
“Can I... take your make-up off, immediately?” Namjoon stammered. You nodded. He settled on the floor next to the bed and put a pillow on his lap where you could lay your head on. It was his favourite thing to do at the end of the day. He could erase all the colors of your face and see you for you. He is careful and gentle. When he fetches for the cotton pads, and the make up remover liquid, he does it methodically. Like a doctor preparing for surgery. Articulate, nimble fingers, carefully curved and applied pressure just enough to cast those eyeshadows off.
Little by little, your skin color reveals themselves. His eyes fixated on each resemblance of the soul he loves. He counts your eyelashes, one-by-one, erasing the mascara. The concealer above the scars and dark circles you shamefully hid from the world. The blushers that mimic a healthy skin tone, gone with a swipe. Namjoon leans down to brush his lips on those very skin he had wiped clean. Those dark circles. Those scar under your skin. Every imperfection, every spots, he presses his lips and linger as long as he thought needed.
It’s a way of him telling you that he saw these things you called flaws, and love them still.
Last but not least, your lipstick. He takes extra time, extra care for his most favourite part of your face. As he erase the colors, a tear fell from the corners of your eyes, staining the pillowcase. He thumbed those pearls and nuzzles his nose on yours.
“Bad day?”
You couldn’t say anything else and just nod.
“I got you...”
Namjoon draws you a bath. Take you out of the bathroom and wrapped you in a warm towel. Helps you brush your teeth. Pulls the blanket up to your chin, turned the lights off. You watch him fetch your clothes from the floor and put them in the laundry basket. He takes them to the laundry room and helped you wash.
“You have the doctor’s appointment tomorrow...” he looks through your phone, “Did you take your pills?”
You must have drifted to sleep before you could answer. The nurse calls your name and smiled at you when you stood up.
Dr. Lee invites you to sit.
“How are you?”
“I am alright...”
“Are you taking your medications?”
“Yes.” You threw the whole bottle in the toilet and flush it down.
“Is your imaginary lover still around? What was his name...”
“His name is lonely... or Namjoon.”
“Yes yes. Is he still there?”
“No.”
Some people have to create their own therapy. The way that should work, didn’t. Why is the one way that did, considered wrong? Why did it made someone insane?
You were at the bus station alone. The messages never came. You entered your home alone. Draw yourself a bath. Wrapped yourself in towels. Did your own laundry. And removed your own make-up, pretending Namjoon is here to love you when you can’t love yourself.
You know he’s not real. You’re sane enough to know he’s not real. But sometimes. Sometimes.
Sometimes you wished he was. God, you wished he was.
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Namjoon blew hot air to his forehead and shoving his phone, facedown, on the sofa next to him.
“She’s still mad. Still mad,” he muttered to himself. The words caught the attention of Yoongi almost instantly. If he wasn’t assertive, he would have said something sooner. But it’s not like he had a gist of what Namjoon’s wife would be angry about. The most patient women in the world is mad—Namjoon must crossed some lines.
“You okay?” Yoongi awkwardly fidgets.
“Yeah—no,” Namjoon admitted. It’s easy to tell from the way his shoulders dropped helplessly and the charisma he wore just moments ago, vanished into thin air at the mention of your name. With a heavy huff, “Where do I even begin...”
Because, it could have been that time when...
“No sweetheart, I am not buying you more stuff to be delivered...” Namjoon huffs. His actions defy his words. He continues to type his home address in the shipping box. Adding a new item he thought pretty into the carts.
“I would absolutely not do such a thing,” his voice disembodied through the phone and you hang your head to the side, hollowing your cheeks at the denial.
“Namjoon, I’m not kidding you right now,” clipped and terribly unimpressed, “We have no more space to put more things inside. We can hold an art exhibition at this point—“
“H—“
“—Not that it’s an idea to be considered anytime soon,” you pinched the bridge of your nose and clenching your eyes shut.
Namjoon pouts through the phone.
Or that time when...
In the wake of a dewy morning, the hue of the sky, blue with a hint of the sun.
Namjoon arrives with a heavy sigh. Door clicks mechanically behind him, and you swung your arms around his neck. Feeling the tip of his nose dipped to the crook of your neck, his arm around your waist, hoisting you further up so your legs circled around his hip.
“I’m about to pass out,” he pulls his shirt through his head and walked shirtless down the hallway to the laundry room.
“But you promised to take me out to the movies today,” you waddled lazily, whining at the view of his back. Crossing your arms, leaning against the door frame, you pouted.
“Maybe next week?” He arched an eyebrow and hollowed his cheek as he checked his phone for messages that he deemed more important than the conversation. Not that you mind. It wasn’t the first time.
A few hours later, you get all dressed up and he asked where you were going.
“To the movies. I really wanted to watch it...” you puffed your cheeks up and dabbed some lip balm on. His head swiveled around, following you. You circled the sofa and stamped a chaste kiss on his cheek, with a loud smack.
“You’re really doing this to me, you’re really going without me—“ his words were answered with a door click.
That can’t be...because...
“What are we. 12?” Namjoon slides further down the chair, tossing the writing pad away from his lap, “Am I 12? Why am I sulking because I’m being ignored...”
“Uhh because she’s your wife,” Yoongi shrugs, “You come home to her.”
There’s truth in Yoongi’s words. Things took twice the blow because you’re his home.
1 new message(s) from Bighit Jungkook
Namjoon fishes for his phone.
“Look who rise up from the dead,” he grumbles.
“Jungkook? He passed out that long?” Yoongi scoots over to see the message.
hyung, i went to my messages and it looks like your wife was looking for you all night... did you tell her you’re staying over?
Namjoon crumpled his face, “But I didn’t stay over? I know I wasn’t drunk enough to forget... and because of that...”
Namjoon’s memory flashes in front of his eyes. He didn’t tell you that he was joining Jungkook for a drink at the bar. He knows you don’t really like him being drunk. Chances of liver cirrhosis and your family’s opposition towards alcoholic drinks, and whatnot. He figured he’ll just have one glass and leave. He didn’t leave until 3 glasses. He took a taxi home, and dug the keys into the keyhole, as usual. Not staggering in his stance, just a little bit sleepy.
He didn’t think it was the alcohols though. Couldn’t have had that much to start feeling drunk.
You were in the bedroom, laying on your stomach, reading on your phone for the latest news. When he walked in, you didn’t even glance up. Once you’re into your reading you can’t be bothered, Namjoon knows that. He went straight to the showers and you shut your book already when he’s done.
“You know what, I was getting my lab coat measurements today,” you chirped, excitedly telling him the story. Namjoon pulls the t-shirt over his head and hummed in response. Why the heck is he so sleepy.
“And a friend was doing a lab research about this new drug he us developing about gouts,” by now, Namjoon is already grabbing a pillow to hug and laying his head on another, eyes drooping lazily.
“I think it was a brilliant finding. He made a nano-technology version of the micro powders for the active ingredients and he was going to diffuse the material into a machine that mimics the human skin and—“ your enthusiasm died. Namjoon is softly snoring. Eyes glued shut and not moving.
You puffed your cheeks and curled your lips, mumbling, “Goodnight, I guess...” you reached over his side of the bed and flicked the lamp switch off. Thumbing his cheek and pressing your lips against his temples before settling on your side of the bed, pulling the blankets up.
Fuck.
This friend who you worked in the lab with is sending you home. Feeling like he was being pushed to the side at the slight oblivion he exhibited regarding your passion, made him feel like he had to do something in order to make the situation better. You’re always very keen to hear the ideas he had and now, you must have felt that he couldn’t do the same. Or at least, provide the same platform.
It was a wrong night to tell what you’re up to, and he couldn’t offer a proper attention because of the liquor. It was nobody’s fault. It just turned out that way. You’re not the kind to share many stories about yourself, especially what you’re up to, and it was not out of the ordinary for you to act guarded-up like this. When your energy isn’t matched, you learn to walk away and find the ones who does. He should know.
It’s pretty black and white to you.
“Thank you,” you tattled, sheepishly. Accepting papers for you to review from this friend. Something to fill time while Namjoon is out doing whatever Namjoon does. He bids farewell. And you meet Namjoon’s eyes. Unreadable. Or you refused to.
“Have you eaten?” You broke the silence with a smile.
“Was hoping you’d have dinner with me, unless you already did,” he passed, eyeing the car that just sped off.
“I have a big space for food,” pause, “What do you have in mind?”
