#seom writes

Oh shit. Oh shit oh fuck hell no oncoming car oncoming vehicle get out of the way before you get splashed- you’re not fast enough and you get sprayed directly in the face with dirty street water. Fucking wonderful. That’s exactly what you wanted.

If this were a TV show, you would dramatically collapse on your knees and scream into the rain while a laugh track plays over your agonized yelling. But this is not a TV show and you’d like to get home as quickly as possible.

Telephone poles with random ads catch your eye while you trudge down the street looking like a sad wet rat. Ads for random tutors and lessons. Help wanted for someone moving out of their dorm. One girl who does fake nails and stuff. Good to know. Band members wanted. Huh. Wait, did that say-

In a thick wedge Sharpie scrawl on a sheet of letter paper that’s starting to melt in the rain, you manage to make out ‘we need a new drummer’ and ‘dormroom 613 for auditions on Thursday afternoon’.

This might be just what you need.

Since the last band you were in split up (the guitarist got accepted to a big university and you started college), you’ve been aching to play the drums again. Bang, bang, percussion, music. You miss the burn in your arms after a long night of playing, the feeling of making music with a group of people. Community and creativity.

You get to your dorm, dry off, mourn your rain-saturated boots, get changed into some pajamas, brush your teeth and head to bed. Classes start early tomorrow. Besides, the faster you fall asleep, the quicker you can go to that audition.

•••

The morning starts with your alarm clock startling you awake, followed by you trying to find the right pair of jeans to wear with your favorite shirt, a quick stop in the bathroom to get ready, a mild outburst of frustration in being unable to do the second wing exactly like the first one which results in you throwing your liquid eyeliner across the bathroom (it falls somewhere in your bathtub, leaving a long black streak where it landed), some breakfast, and then you’re off to class. The lecture goes by quickly enough, especially since your mind is elsewhere during most of the day. Drum auditions. The possibility of getting back into a band. Music. Finally, something fun to do outside of classes.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Ciel waves you over during lunch the exact moment you step into the little café not far from your place, and you roll your eyes at the stupid pet name, one of many that they always give you, “how’s your day going so far?”

You grab a seat at their table, pulling out some snacks from your bag. “Good, good,” you nod, munching on some trail mix, “I saw someone posted an ad last night, they’re looking for a drummer in a band.”

Ciel’s eyes light up and they straighten up in their seat, intrigued. “Ooh, do tell.” The look on their face is pure curiosity and interest. They’ve always been so sincere in their friendships, and it’s no different with you. They care a lot about your interests. Strangely, though, they’ve never expected the same from most people, so when you asked them about their hobbies, they almost smothered you in a hug.

“I couldn’t read much from the sign, ‘cus it was raining and the writing was kinda half-melted,” you start through a mouthful of M&M’s, “but they’re holding some auditions, I guess.”

Ciel takes a bite from their sandwich. “Which dormroom?”

Okay, wait, what did that sign say? Fuck your prefrontal cortex sometimes. You rack your brain for numbers. “6…” you pause, brows furrowed in concentration, “613? I think it was 613.”

“Mm, I see,” they nod, a smirk on their face. Ciel’s always had a pretty good poker face, and it’s pretty much impossible to read them. What could possibly be running through their mind right now? What does ‘I see’ even mean? Is it good or bad?

“...is that a bad thing?” you ask, nervous. Ciel knows literally everyone on campus, surely they know the mystery inhabitants of dorm 613.

They shake their head. “Nah, you’ll be fine. More than fine.”

You finish off your bag of trail mix, impatient. “C’mon, Ciel, just tell me who lives there.”

“Nope, it’s a secret. You’ll just have to wait and see.” They wink at you, and you’re starting to get tired of their cryptic antics, but you know if you try to press, they won’t budge. They’re an expert at keeping secrets.

One time, they somehow got ahold of the list of everyone’s midterm exam results and refused to tell you if you passed until you got your exam back and discovered you performed ridiculously bad on it. An embarrassing D with confused red ‘???’ all over the paper from your professor trying his hardest to correct your mistakes.

Ciel keeps their mouth irritatingly shut about 613 and its mysterious inhabitants, leaving you perplexed and fully in the dark until you can go over and impress whoever might be looking for a drummer. It’s the midterm exams of 2024 all over again. Speaking of, you should probably be studying right now instead of dillydallying around.

You grab something quick to eat before getting dressed in something that screams “I play drums, you need me in your band”, then you try to fix that damn eyeliner, take a second to assess the damage to your boots that got rain soaked yesterday (they’re fine now, you may or may not have just overreacted about them last night) and, finally, you make your way to the dorm.

You knock on the door, three curt knocks, and there’s no answer. Did you just get scammed by a poster or something? You hope you didn’t get scammed. As you’re contemplating giving up and leaving, the door swings open to present the most drop-dead gorgeous guy you’ve ever seen. He stands there, with those silver lip rings, an oversized band tee and distressed jeans, a stunning tattoo sleeve and messy long hair. Holy shit, you feel like the wind just got knocked out of you. Cue the cheesy 2000s romcom punk song. This may just be the man of your dreams.

“Uh,” you stammer, how eloquent of you, and straighten up, “‘m here for the drummer audition. Saw your sign on a telephone pole.”

Your gaze roams all over him, lingering on those beefy arms of his. Hot damn. Absolute eye candy. Candy you definitely wouldn’t mind to lick and taste-

“Cool! You’re the only person who actually responded to the ad. Come on in,” he ushers you inside with a smile. Because of course, not only is he the hottest guy you’ve ever seen, he also has one of the nicest voices ever. He sounds so sweet. Cheerful and bright, kinda like a happy puppy.

Ciel was right. You’ll be much more than fine.

You walk into the dorm, impressed by how clean and nice the place is. In the living room sits one of the most beautiful drum kits you’ve ever seen in your life: a custom painted Tama Superstar Classic. The cymbals are polished and reflect the light perfectly. The drums look like they’ve just come out of the shop. You feel a hint of jealousy and your jaw nearly hits the floor.

“Like what you see?” The voice behind you chuckles.

“This is the nicest drum kit I’ve seen in a long time. You take good care of these drums, I can tell,” you admit in awe.

The guy gestures to them, a hint of pride in his voice. “Go ahead.”

You take a seat behind the drums, gingerly picking up the drumsticks. You didn’t think about what song you’d play at all. So you make the excellent decision of sitting there for a moment, brows furrowed in deep thought, before the guy speaks up again. “Pick a song yet?”

“Mm,” you frown, “didn’t think this far ahead.” The drums look so inviting, so eager to be played. It’s almost like they’re whispering your name, "c'mon, __, you know you wanna play.” You stare at them for a second like you’re a deer about to get hit by a red 2004 Honda Civic on the highway. What should you play?

“Well,” the guy starts, “what’s your favorite song to play? You can just play that. If I know it, I can follow along with the guitar.”

Favorite song? Well, that’s hard. That narrows it down to, like, 50 songs. There’s so many songs you like to play. But something that makes your arms burn…

“You know M.I.A?” You look up, expecting him to frown or shake his head. The reaction on his face is quite the opposite. Big doe eyes and a wide smile. Wow. 10/10, best face ever. Get the rings done now. You’re already writing your vows in your mind. Is it too soon? It’s probably too soon.

“Yeah!” He nods excitedly. “I love her music. You wanna play one of her songs?”

He picks up an electric guitar, a gorgeous black Fender II Stratocaster. You audibly gasp when you see it. Where is he getting all these amazing instruments? The music shop down the street barely sells any average quality instruments, let alone the higher quality ones. He checks the strings before plugging it into an amp, turning the master volume up to 7. “Ready when you are. Wait, which song did you want to play? I don’t remember. You probably told me, but I must’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mention it,” you shake your head, “I saw your guitar and my brain turned to Jell-O. Um, I was thinking Born Free.”

He nods, a look of determination on his face. “I love that song. Let’s do it.”

The second you hit the first note, autopilot takes over. The beat comes out like it hasn’t even been a while since you last played. The guy’s good with his guitar, he follows along perfectly. You can tell he doesn’t remember the exact lyrics by the way he kinda mumbles through the song, but his fingers work the strings like an expert.

You bet they’d work y- uh, maybe you should focus on the song instead. You’re trying to join a band, not fantasize over hot guitar guy over there.

Well… maybe you can multitask.

Drums, cymbals, pedal, over and over until sweat starts to bead at your forehead and that familiar sting pricks at your arms. The audition’s pretty much turned into a jam session at this point, as you play the percussion perfectly and he strums along with skill you’ve only seen in guitarists who’ve been playing their whole lives.

Damn, he looks hot with that guitar. Um, maybe try not to forget a note instead of ogling. You’re still in the middle of auditioning, this is currently an audition, nothing more. You don’t even know if you’ll be accepted.

You hit the final note, pushing your sweaty hair out of your face. It’s a good thing you took your waterproof eyeliner and not the regular stuff. You’d probably look like a melted raccoon by now with the non-waterproof eyeliner. A very cute melted raccoon, but a melted raccoon nonetheless.

Hot guitar guy gives you a high-five, an excited grin on his face. “Damn, man! You’re insane. That’s some of the best drumming I’ve ever heard.” Oh, he’s stroking your ego, isn’t he? You’d be lying if you’d say it isn’t working.

“Thanks,” you grin proudly, setting the drumsticks down gently, “you’re a great guitarist.”

Footsteps startle the both of you, followed by a loud yawn. “Christ, could you be playing any louder? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, hyung,” he winces before turning back to you. “This is Yoongi hyung, he’s our bassist. I’m Jungkook, by the way.”

“I’m __,” you shake his hand, getting up from your seat, “nice to meet you both. Although, it is almost 2 PM now. Long night?”

Yoongi runs a hand through his long hair, a little droopy-eyed. “I work night shifts.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, okay. Sorry for waking you up, then.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, putting his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants, “your drumming’s impressive. I assume you’re here to try and join our band?”

You nod eagerly, very content with his reaction. Even half-asleep, he still thinks you’re a good drummer.

“Have you ever been in a band before?” Jungkook asks, setting his guitar down on a stand.

“I had a little band going for a few years, yeah,” you nod, “with some of my buddies. We went our separate ways, so we ended up breaking the whole thing up.”

Your phone vibrates in your pocket. Shit, the study group tonight! You forgot all about it. Ciel’s probably already waiting for you at the library. “I gotta go,” you nearly trip over your feet on the way to the door, “um, do you need my number to contact me later?”

“Won’t say no to that,” Jungkook winks, handing you his cellphone. “I’ll send you a message once we make up our minds, that sound good?”

You quickly type in your number and your name in the contact info. “This was fun. Even if it doesn’t work out, we should totally organize a jam sesh sometime.”

Yoongi nods, reaching over for a handshake that you gladly accept. “Absolutely.”

You book it the second you close the door behind you. Grab your bag at home with all your notes in it, run across campus to the library. No time to waste. Not even fifteen minutes later, you’re practically busting down the library doors, eyes squinting at the surroundings. There should be three people sitting together somewhere. Lots of heads, but none are your friends’. Cornrows, wavy hair and a fluffy afro. Where are they?

That’s when you spot Ciel’s boyfriend Sav. He’s wearing that hideous yellow turtleneck he loves so much. It does suit him, you’re just exaggerating. Mustard yellow isn’t the color you’d assume he would look the best in.

He waves at you with a grin, and the gesture makes Ciel and Kendra look up from their respective textbooks. You sit down in a fluster, pulling out your laptop. “Sorry I’m late, I’ve been all over the place today,” you sigh.

“How was your audition?” Ciel wiggles their eyebrows at you, taking a sip from their iced coffee. Kendra hands you a takeout coffee cup just as you’re about to answer. She always knows exactly what you need at the moment. “613 treat you right?”

You snort. “It’s not like I got laid there, I was just there to play drums.”

“Oh, 613, that’s where those two stoners live, right? The two musicians who played at the bar when we went together, right?” Sav asks around a mouthful of shingara. If those are the ones he got from the little international supermarket down the street, then they are absolutely divine. You sneak one out of his container as quickly as you can before he eats them all.

Ciel nods, stealing a shingara from Sav too. “Yeah. We went there on a date a few months ago and there was a live band. That was them. I don’t know what happened to the drummer, though. I think he moved out of the country or something.”

Classic Ciel. They’re a specific brand of polite nosy.

“The audition was fine,” you gulp down some coffee, absentmindedly flipping through your textbooks, “they’re really nice. I think I have a good chance of getting in.”

Kendra tuts. “Of course you do. You’ve got nothing to worry about. If those guys are smart, you’ll be back behind some drums in no time.”

“And if they aren’t smart…” Ciel snickers, “we might witness the first-ever case of vehicular manslaughter by motorized wheelchair.”

Kendra smiles proudly at this, cracking her knuckles. “Anything for my best friends.”

The chatter fades down as you all get back to your notes. Sure, getting back into music would be amazing right now, but you also need to study. You didn’t take out a loan just to party and waste your time for four years.

The shingara is flavorful when you bite into it. If it weren’t for Ciel dragging their boyfriend along with them all the time, you probably never would’ve discovered all these delicious Bengali treats.

The entire afternoon goes by and no news from Jungkook. You’re starting to wonder if he forgot about you entirely. The thought hurts your ego more than you’d like to admit, but it’s possible.

When you get back to your dorm after the library closes at 6, you scrub at the eyeliner in the shower with makeup remover wipes like a madman for what feels like hours. You pop some leftovers in the microwave, dressed in those hideous Grinch pajama bottoms you bought last Christmas with Ciel as a joke and an old oversized hoodie you’ve had since forever. It’s not even 8 PM yet and you’ve already got your sleepwear on.

You decide to watch some TV while eating, and the first channel that pops up is playing a documentary on polar bears. At first, you aren’t too interested, but you eventually get so invested in the footage that you barely register your cellphone buzzing.

Excitedly, you open it to find a few messages from Ciel. Your excitement falters slightly, but you read their messages anyway.

“heyyyy!! at a frat party gettign absolutely wasted right now haha where are u???” the first one reads. “oh mmy god thats ur man. hes right here” followed by a blurry picture of what looks like Jungkook drinking from a red Solo cup, with the flash on. Very inconspicuous of them.

“hhhhh come get yuour man” marks the end of their texts for the night, which is a good thing, because the more they drink, the less coherent their text messages get. One night, they drunkenly sent you an extremely long string of symbols, emojis and numbers which they had absolutely no recollection of ever sending you.

You set your phone aside and finish off your leftovers. Tomorrow, you’ve got a seminar to attend, so you go over your study notes a couple more times. You’re going to do well, you’re going to crush it. 

•••

Tomorrow comes with your alarm clock ringing way too loud. You accidentally slap it onto the floor while trying to turn it off. It lands with a suspicious crunching noise and you hope it isn’t broken beyond repair.

Success! It blinks back to life when you plug it into the socket. Now that you’ve already wasted five minutes, it’s time to hurry up and make sure you don’t arrive late to the seminar. Shove those notes in your bag with the speed and panic of a main character in a 2000s romcom.

You get dressed and ready in record timing, grabbing a quick toast before flying out the door. This one’s worth a pretty important chunk of your overall grade and your GPA, and you’d rather die than get a bad mark on it.

You barge into the classroom in a fluster, and a few people turn their heads in confusion. Some of these people look wildly hungover. You wonder how many of them were at the same frat party Ciel was at yesterday. Speaking of, you should probably text them later this morning to see how they’re doing. After you thought they would’ve passed out, late in the night, they sent you a voice memo, where their words were so slurred you barely understood a thing they were saying.

“...yeah, mate, got absolutely wrecked, bu’ I wish you were here too… Sav had like, four beers ‘fore he passed out like a fuckin’ lightweight… you’d look so peng in tha’ dress right now… night night…”

Throughout the seminar, you try to subtly check your cellphone. Still no news from Jungkook. You bet he’s hungover too right now. You present your notes and participate accordingly, doing everything in your power to get that Satisfactory grade you so desperately want.

The seminar finishes and you decide to grab some lunch at Jo’s, a quaint little noodle place not far from your dorm. You order a serving of jjajangmyeon and sit at a table, where you notice Jungkook hunched over a bowl of makguksu looking like he fell out of bed and down the stairs this morning. You make eye contact and he doesn’t seem to recognize you at first. Then, his eyes widen and he picks up his things to come sit in front of you.

His hair is all tousled, his eyes are droopy, and he’s wearing plaid pajama pants. His jacket’s zipped up weird and he yawns loudly, stretching his arms behind his head.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” you state plainly before he can speak up, picking at your shredded cucumber.

He slurps up a bite of noodles, broth dripping down his chin, which he quickly wipes off with a napkin. “You haven’t been answering your phone. I texted you, like, a million times yesterday.”

You scoff. “Yeah, right. You haven’t sent me anything at all.”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and shows you his texts. There’s your contact name, but you haven’t gotten any of the messages he sent you.

“Wait a minute,” you quickly snatch his phone and open your contact info. “The number’s wrong. You’ve been sending these to someone else.”

You must’ve mistyped your number when you were in a rush to leave for the library. You change the number and hand him his phone again.

“That explains why no one’s been answering. They must think I’m some weirdo trying to scam them,” Jungkook chuckles, “but I really have been trying to get a hold of you. I wasn’t ignoring you at all.”

It’s reassuring. You weren’t just ghosted by a really hot guitarist. Thank god. “So, did you come to a decision?”

“Yeah. We talked about it a lot yesterday,” he nods, accidentally drinking from your soda. He rubs his eyes for a solid minute. The anticipation might actually kill you.

“...and?”

He leans forward, resting his chin in his arms, eyes half-closed with a silly lopsided grin on his face. “You’re in.”

You exhale the breath you were holding, visibly relaxing. “Really? That’s- that’s great. Thank you so much.”

He shrugs. “We have a gig at a bar in a week or so, think you could swing by later today to practice?”

Practice? Gig? Next week? You blink. “Uh, I- yeah, I can make that happen. Absolutely.”

“Great! I’ll see you later then,” he smiles cutely, “I’ll text you whenever you can come over, now that I actually have your number now.”

Jungkook leaves a few minutes later, you’ve got a bit of free time, so you decide to go bother Ciel. They open the door the second you’re about to knock. “Good morning, darling,” they yawn, “what’s new?”

“I’m in!” You grin at them, and they blink slowly, unsure what you mean. “I got in the band,” you clarify, and you get to watch in real time as they finally understand.

They nod knowingly. “Fab. So are you playing any music today? Or are you just going over for a shag?”

“To play music, you weirdo,” you roll your eyes, “we barely even know each other.” They mutter something along the lines of “that’s never stopped you before” and you stick your tongue out at them.

They shoo you away some time later, “what are you still doing here? Go impress that bloke,” and so you do. Jungkook sends you a quick text “hope you actually get this one, come over whenever you’re ready”. You grab some pastries from a nearby café, put on your coolest outfit, touch up your makeup, and you’re on your way to knock his socks off (and maybe his pants too, you wouldn’t mind that at all).

On your way up the stairs to his dorm, you wonder what songs you’ll practice together. Probably some songs that he and Yoongi wrote. Shit, they probably have their music online somewhere and you didn’t check it out at all. You should’ve looked for them and listened to all their songs. But now it’s too late, you’re knocking on the door and he’s answering and holy shit he looks so hot right now don’t panic.

“You didn’t have to get these,” he gladly accepts the box of pastries, “but thanks anyway.” While he’s looking at the contents of the box, you subtly observe what he’s wearing. White ribbed tank top, hand-bleached jeans, shiny chains, hair intentionally mussed.

“So? What are we playing today?” You take off your shoes at the door, already making your way to the living room.

Jungkook hands you a bottle of beer and sets the pastry box on the couch. “Well, since we have a gig coming up soon, I was thinking I could teach you a few of our songs. How does that sound?”

“You better not be getting started without me.” Yoongi appears from the bathroom, startling you only slightly. His attention quickly shifts to the box. “Ooh, are those danishes?”

“Raspberry,” Jungkook adds, licking some jam off of his lips. “__ got them for us.”

Yoongi nods, taking an unreasonably large bite from a danish, before grabbing his bass guitar, a gorgeous matte black Schecter Stiletto Extreme-4. Again, your jaw nearly hits the floor. Where on Earth are they buying their instruments? He catches you ogling his bass, but just laughs. “Try not to drool on the floor,” he teases.

You sit down behind the drums again, picking up the drumsticks with confidence. This is it. The opportunity you’ve been waiting for.

And you’re so ready to take it.

••• to be continued. •••

“Alright, now put your ring finger on this string.” Yoongi gently directs your fingers to the right places.

You strum the note a bit harsh and the sound comes out strange. Yoongi flinches, but doesn’t raise his voice. “Maybe try strumming it a bit softer.”

When you texted him saying you were on your way to his studio with some food, you didn’t expect him to ask you to stay.

But here you are, two hours later, curled up in a chair sitting next to him, with his favorite guitar in your hands, learning chords from songs he’s still working on, months after having come up with their melodies.

He takes his time when he writes music. You can tell he respects and appreciates his craft. It’s partly why you wanted to learn the guitar.

Also, you wanted an excuse to see him more.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Okay. Softer.”

It’s quite dim in the studio, the only real bright light coming from his computer, that’s currently playing the screensaver animation. The whirr of the computers serves as ambient sound as you try strumming again, with less force this time.

“You got it. Do you want to try a few more chords?”

You nod rapidly. “Yes, please. Only if you want me to stay longer, though. I’m not the fastest learner.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you if I wanted you to leave. Besides, no matter what speed you progress at, you’re still progressing. Take as much time to learn as you want.”

You can hear the rain start to patter outside while Yoongi teaches you some more chords. Your eyes dart from the neck of the guitar, making sure your fingers are on the right frets, to the body of the guitar, where your other hand waits to strum all the strings.

“You’re getting a lot quicker with your chord transitions, maybe I’ll have you do the lead guitar on my next album.”

You stare at him with wide eyes. He can almost see the big cartoon tears welling at the corners of your eyes. “I’m not ready yet!”

“I was just kidding, love. I wouldn’t put that much stress on you all of a sudden. That’s why I have my guitarist.” He chuckles, his hand rubbing slow circles on your kneecap.

You try a chord progression you heard him strum last night, so focused on getting your fingers on the right strings that you don’t notice Yoongi smiling at your effort.

It’s the little moments like these that he cherishes the most, quiet times spent together.

“Did I do it right? I think I got it right.”

He hums, gazing fondly at you. “You remember chords well.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment. “Thanks. I try my best.”

You feel content sitting with him tonight. It’s a nice contrast to the busy lives you both lead.

Then Yoongi’s phone buzzes. He picks it up and swipes the notification away.

“Is everything alright?”

He nods. “Yeah, it’s just work. I have some songs to finish for my album and one of the guys on the production team just sent me a little melody.”

“Cool,” you grin, “are you allowed to share details about the album, or… do I have to wait for the release date like everyone else?”

“Uhh…” he scratches his head, clicking through files on his computer at an insanely rapid pace. “Well, I could show you this song. It’s almost done, there’s just a few little things I need to perfect on it.”

You sit up, intrigued, and watch as he clicks open a file. “What’s the song called?”

“It’s called AMYGDALA.”

The audio starts up, the guitar and melody smoothly melding into Yoongi’s verse. You listen attentively, eyes glued to the screen. Your head bops slightly to the beat while you process the lyrics, and when the final notes fade out and the last Save me out of here, please get me out of here echo into silence, you gasp. “Wow, that was- that was really good.”

“Yeah? You like the song?”

“It’s fantastic. It’s really… open. Deep. Vulnerable, in a sense. It’s- I really like it.”

Yoongi’s smile grows when you share your feelings on the melody and the lyrics. He appreciates all the nice things you have to say about his music, he always has.

You take his hand in yours and give it a gentle squeeze. “I’m happy that you’re happy, you know. It’s nice to see you like this. Sometimes, when you’d come home from the studio, you looked sad and angry, but you don’t look like that anymore. You look… satisfied, I guess. Like you’re free.”

“I am, in a way,” he squeezes your hand back, “I’ve said everything I needed to say. I used this persona to get all my rage out, but I don’t have that rage in me anymore. Now I can move on to another side of me.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying each other’s presence, the feel of his warm hand holding yours tightly, the sound of the computer fan whirring quietly and its dim light as it goes back into its screensaver animation, the smell of the lit vanilla candle on the desk.

“Did you want me to show you a sample from another song on the album?”

Your eyes widen. “You would?”

“Yeah. I think you’ll like this one. I wrote it and I thought of you.”

Yoongi opens another file. “This one comes before the pre-release single on the album. It’s called SDL.”

You listen attentively to the drum beat and the smooth synth, and when he presses pause, you give him a thumbs-up with your free hand, the one he isn’t currently holding. He hasn’t let go of your hand the entire time, and you doubt he will.

“I like it, it sounds a bit more romantic than your usual style. I just know when you add the lyrics it’s going to sound even better.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, sounding a little flustered.

You love showering him with praise, because his reactions are always silly. You recall the day you announced your feelings for him and he simply started yelling.

Also, he deserves every single compliment in the world.

He clicks at the screen for a bit, distracted, still holding your hand.

“Have I told you that you look really handsome with longer hair?”You watch with amusement as he avoids the statement entirely, his eyes darting to the wall.

“‘Cause you look really handsome with longer hair,” you continue with a playful grin.

He still doesn’t reply and instead squeezes your hand again.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” you chuckle, “but you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Earth started falling apart because of greed less than two hundred years ago. The greed of mankind depleted Earth's resources in less time than it could regenerate itself, which led it to become nothing but a barren, desolate wasteland. The air, once pure and refreshing, turned thick and gray with carbon dioxide and toxic gases from the big corporations' smoke stacks. Less money spent, more money made, billions of lives at risk. Expansion, destruction, deforestation and pollution. Rinse and repeat.

With nowhere to go, people tore each other apart for the last shred of hope: finding another planet to live on, a task as daunting as finding a thin sewing needle in an immensely vast, continuously expanding haystack that's never even been seen from one end to the other.

Scientists spent billions and billions of taxpayer dollars on creating eleven shuttles to search for a possible second home. Eleven missions that spanned over twenty years. Eleven brave astronauts who sacrificed their lives to save everyone else's. The Fisher missions, named as such in reference to the desperate fishermen of the day, who cast their nets over water to try and find any last fish they could. Back before the water turned to polluted wastelands, before all the sea life went extinct, that is.

Over time, these missions, none having been successful, drained finances until they couldn't afford any more. Earth was on the brink of full depletion, people starved and suffocated, and the last resort was created: Selene. Seven space stations that could each carry millions of people. They were built, launched, people were evacuated, and then set off. Only after this did scientists start saving up every last penny to continue the search for a new planet.

The latest of these crusades started up no less than three years ago. The twelfth Fisher mission, led by a team of tired scientists with no hope or dollar to spare. It might be the last for a while, if it doesn't work out. These missions don't come for free, and government funding only goes so far.

"You're aware of the risks, Kim," Professor Sinclair drones, a grim expression on his face, "there's a chance you won't find anything. There's a chance you might never come back."

"I know that, Professor," Kim replies firmly, "but if there's something... more, out there, somewhere for us to start over, I'm not just going to sit back and watch that opportunity pass by. I'm ready for whatever might happen."

There isn't much more to be said. They've wasted far too much time trying to wrangle a small team of explorers and convince them to put their lives on the line for all of humanity.

Professor Sinclair nods, expression unreadable. "Very well then, take some time to tell your family you're going, and we'll start preparations for your shuttle to leave. Launch is only in a few hours anyway."

Kim fidgets with his bracelet in his seat as Sinclair keeps talking, expressing his eternal gratitude on the behalf of humanity for Kim's willingness and selflessness. The beads on the bracelet around his wrist are smooth under his fingertips, round glass beads in various shades of blue and grey.

On his way out of the office, he walks by the pictures of each Fisher mission leader. Eleven brave astronauts who went out into the great open abyss of space, never to be seen again. They'll probably hang up his picture, too, as a reminder of who he was on this station. And if he manages to come back, as a reminder of the sacrifices he made. The time he spent out there. The time he lost, far away from the only place he called home.

The door behind him closes with a soft click, and he takes a moment to listen to the sounds around him. Footsteps. Clack, clack, clack, on the tile flooring. It's probably someone wearing high heels. Distant chatter. Someone's laughing. Actually, multiple people are laughing in a group. The hum of various pieces of equipment: air conditioning, ventilation, refrigerators, engines. It'll all be too quiet alone on the shuttle, so he tries to appreciate the cacophony surrounding him before it's gone.

The sights and textures as well. Artificial blue skies. They remind him of Earth, pictures he saw before the sky turned grey with smog. People walking around, some with notebooks and clipboards, some with bags. The cool metal of the railing under his hands as he looks over most of the Selene. He can make out people all the way at the far end of the cylindrical interior, minuscule silhouettes that move up and down. It's built like a cardboard tube, with enough gravity to hold structures all around the inside of the station. The perpetual smell of something fresh in the air. Something like clean clothing and the wind on a warm summer night. A warm hand on his shoulder. A soft voice, sweet like honey and just as perfect. It sounds like home, more than anything else on this station.

"Namjoon," you squeeze his shoulder gently, lips in a tight line, "I heard you're leaving."

He knew this part would be the hardest. He's being sent on a mission that most likely means certain death, but having to say goodbye to you is the most difficult aspect of this whole ordeal.

"I'll miss you," is all you can manage to say, already getting choked up. You knew this would be hard, to say goodbye knowing you'll probably never see Namjoon again, but you didn't expect him to be as teary-eyed as you. He's usually the collected one, calm and cool, never this broken down.

"Yeah," he nods, trying to blink away the tears that are already rolling down his cheeks, "I'll miss you too." He swallows down the lump in his throat, pulling you in for a hug that neither of you want to end. He holds you tightly, arms around your waist, face buried in your shoulder. One of your hands is on his back, right between his shoulderblades, and the other is in his hair, ruffling it softly.

But you can't stay like this forever, as much as you wish you could. Namjoon has a mission, and as a part of the team, you have to make sure everything goes smoothly from the Selene. Communication, directions, protocol. All in a day's work as a part of Mission Control.

You both pull away regretfully, taking his warm, trembling hands in yours. "You can call me on comms whenever you want, you know? I'll keep my line open. All day, all night."

"All day, all night," he echoes, voice too soft, too quiet, too vulnerable. The days will be long and short out there, time passing by so quickly yet so slowly. When faced with the infinite abyss of space, one's view of time warps. Days can be as fleeting as a few hours, or dragged on, feeling like months. Especially when one is alone with their thoughts and the vast expanse of starry sky surrounding them.

But at least he'll have memories... and his extensive collection of plants that he insisted on bringing. Small seedlings and flowers, plants that bear little vegetables, he even managed to sneak a basil plant on board. He made sure to pack as many pictures of you as he could, snapshots of you posing in random locations on the Selene, sometimes in front of the sole window in the station, passing by different planets. The one with the both of you standing in front of Saturn and its large rings is his favorite. The Earth, nothing but a dull gray speck in the background, nearly invisible.

Neither of you had ever been down to humanity's former home, both having been born aboard the Selene. You sometimes daydream about what life was like there before it became too dangerous to live there. The clear, sometimes cloudy blue skies, the warm sun, the fresh wind, the green grass. Concrete and brick, wood and plastic. The smell of fresh rain and the salty smell of the ocean. Winter snow and spring showers, summer skies and fall breezes. Wildlife and nature.

Nothing like the polished gray space shuttle, modern and sleek, that you'd grown up in. No, not at all. It must have been something awe-inspiring, something like home.

Something like what he needs to find out there. Home.

"I should... I should probably get going," he hesitates, frozen in place, "the... the shuttle leaves in less than an hour."

You nod, letting go of one of his hands to gently wipe away the tears on his cheeks. "Okay."

"Walk with me to the shuttle?" He offers hopefully, hand extended.

You chat about casual topics as you walk across the station, hand in hand, trying to distract your mind from the inevitable. The airlock looms before you, a heavy weight in your chest. You try to ignore the feeling entirely, ignore the memories that linger in your tear-blurred vision. First date, first kiss, first everything. Professor Sinclair, accompanied by the team of scientists aiding the mission, stand near the airlock, ready to send Namjoon off.

It's time.

You all wait as Namjoon slips into the bulky space suit, having already packed his essentials in the shuttle beforehand. You don't want to look at him, but you know you'll regret it if you don't. So you send him a glance, he pulls you in for a hug, you tell him you love him one last time, and he's off. The airlock opens, a small corridor that leads into the shuttle's interior, and the reality of it all sinks deeper and deeper. This is it. There's no turning back. You know you'll probably never see him again.

You follow the group to the control room, ready to start the launch sequence. Be it through some divine karma, it has to be you who initiates the countdown. You take a deep breath, willing your voice to be calm and composed, and speak out the commands for takeoff.

"Ten."

Oh, God, why does it have to be this hard? Why couldn't someone else on the crew do the countdown? Your voice shakes against your will. Divine karma is a bitch sometimes.

"Nine."

The engines start up, rumbling deep, and you can feel the vibrations in your chest. Mission Control's various departments make sure the functions of the shuttle are functional, listing them off one by one.

"Eight."

You wonder if the shuttle makes the whole Selene tremble, or if it's just you shaking too much. You look around, blinking those tears away as hard as you can. The screen shows exterior views of the shuttle and a camera inside. Will that camera stay on and connected forever? Or will distance make the connection fizzle out? You hope not.

"Seven."

Namjoon seems to notice the little dash camera, because he waves at it, before going back to pressing some buttons. "All systems fully operational," he nods, glancing at the dash. He looks so focused, so in control of the situation. You have a feeling he's just as stressed as you are. He's just a lot better at hiding it. Always has been.

"Six."

His hand firmly grips the steering, ready to guide up and away from the shuttle. Assisted by the computer and Mission Control, that is. You take another deep breath. Halfway done. It's almost over. You'll be able to have a drink soon. You don't know what drink you'll have, just something that eases the tension in your chest. Something that loosens up the body and makes the mind feel at ease. Something that makes you forget, even if it's just for a little while.

"Five."

You can't cry now, this is important. If even one single thing goes wrong, the whole mission could be compromised. It could be disastrous. So you force those tears back down, focus on launch, listen for the various "system functional" from everyone in the room, and wait.

"Four."

The oxygen supply and food supply should last him a little over ten years. The usual crew on a Fisher mission was a team of three: a scientist, a pilot, and an engineer. Being short on astronauts, this mission has one crew member: the scientist, pilot and engineer, along with the dozen people in Mission Control. It's all NASA could gather with the meager funds they had left. With two less people on the shuttle, that means the resources can be stretched longer.

"Three."

The shuttle shakes harder now, thrusters at full capacity. It's like it's aching to detach from the station and get out farther into space. It claws at its bonds, knowing once it can break free, it'll be long gone into the vast abyss before anyone can reach it.

"Two."

Your heart pounds so hard you can feel your head throb in time with your heartbeat. Everything's a blur, sound's getting muffled, you can barely feel anything. Time moves so fast but the moment feels dragged on for hours. You're almost worried you'll faint. Don't faint, keep breathing, come on, focus.

"One."

Everything hangs on this moment. Your head whirls, dizzy, and it's almost a struggle to stand still. You plant your hands firmly on the desk in front of you, trying to stay stable. Everything's spinning, it's all too bright, too loud. Your voice comes out even shakier now as you breathe out a final:

"Liftoff."

It's not over yet, there's still things to worry about. Engines are working just fine, steering looks good, autopilot should be kicking in soon anyway. Breathe. In and out, like you usually do. The crew cheers and claps around you, liftoff was a success. But now the rest of the mission awaits. Space is an unforgiving sea of matter, dark and dangerous, where anything can go wrong. Months, years of travel and discovery. Even at light speed, space is big and wide and terrifying, it takes lots of time to get from point A to point B.

You watch the various camera feeds as the station grows smaller and smaller in the background. Eventually, it disappears, just another speck in the endless universe. There's not much more you can do but hope for the best. Hope he finds somewhere safe and that maybe, just maybe, he'll manage to make his way back, or be there when the stations arrive one by one with weary humans. Humans that have never known anything but the safety of the station, have never set foot on fresh earth, have never breathed fresh air.

•••

The shuttle reaches its cruising speeds and autopilot takes over. Namjoon finally lets go of the steering, leaning back in his seat. Stars and galaxies paint the surroundings like an intricate canvas. It's breathtaking but equally as terrifying. Nothing but vast open skies and no one to talk to but himself. And maybe you if the crew decides to open comms. He breathes a sigh of relief, glad that the launch was smooth and successful. He can finally take this large and inconvenient space suit off. Relief.

The map opens up as a digital projection, a detailed chart of the galaxy and its planets. There's a list of planets he's supposed to visit, five or six potential homes for humanity. They all have promising data, from images previous satellites had sent back while flying past. Especially that one with a stunning picture of what seems to be a beautiful ocean. That looks like the most ideal planet.

He unbuckles his seatbelt and goes to his bunk to examine the plants he'd brought along. They're all faring well so far, looking healthy and a vibrant green. The soil is nice and humid for them. He's going to be spending a lot of time here, so he might as well get unpacked and comfortable. All the plants in his collection have been genetically modified to be raised in low-sun conditions, so it doesn't really matter where he puts them. They get arranged and rearranged on shelves to look as aesthetically pleasing as possible, along with some books and pictures. It's as cozy as a space shuttle can get.

The decor reminds him of your room on the station: very little decoration, but it's cozy and comfortable. Somewhere he'd like to curl up with a nice soft blanket, a mug of warm coffee, a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and a big old book. All that's missing is you, curled up next to him, with a mug of warm coffee and an equally big old book. That would be the perfect afternoon. For now, he's stuck with space food, freeze-dried rations in bulk, in a lonely gray shuttle on his own. Hundreds upon hundreds of portions of non-perishable goods that could last him decades if he organizes them well enough. Plus, with the little vegetable plants he smuggled on, that's even more food he can eat.

There's powdered drink packets in a huge plastic tub, instant hot cocoa and coffee and various types of juice. He picks out a packet of coffee and pours it into a mug of water, stirring it around with a stir stick. It's warm and slightly bitter, but it does the trick. The mug is stainless steel, a plain silver color. Not too shiny, not too matte. The only design on it is the initials of his name engraved into the side. N.J Kim, in a simple font that's easy to read.

This is only his first hour on the shuttle so far, and he knows it's going to get lonelier every passing week. No one enjoys forced solitude. But this mission could mean life on a new planet or life stuck on a space station, and it's worth the confinement.

A planet to call home. A real home. Not just a metal tube floating aimlessly in the sky. No, somewhere tangible and stable. Humans have always craved stability. Enough money to get by, somewhere to live, permanence and control.

The comms crackle to life, white noise filling the space, and Namjoon nearly runs into the cockpit. There's static, garbled voices in the background, but then it clears up. Someone clears their throat.

"Hey, we're testing the comms to see if they work," you finally speak up after a moment of silence, "what's up?"

"Nothing much, just unpacking my stuff," he chuckles, leaning back in his seat, "you know how moving day is. So? What's on the menu for you this week?"

"Making sure you don't explode in space," you quip, the sound of a keyboard clacking in the background, "gotta keep that trajectory all good. Don't want you drifting off and out into the middle of nowhere."

"Glad to hear it. I know I'm in good hands." Namjoon takes another sip of his coffee. "I know I pretty much just left, but I already can't wait to see you again."

There's a short pause on your end, followed by a long sigh. "Yeah. Me too. Be safe out there. Love you."

"Love you too," is all he can say, before the comms cut out, and he's sitting here, with his coffee, watching the stars blur into trails of light around him. The shuttle's going at speeds that would normally have a bigger impact on his body, but it's been built well enough for the speed to barely affect him.

The basil plant smells so nice in here. He's glad he brought it along. Mint would've been nice too, but it's one of the only few plants he doesn't own. That and fruit and vegetable-bearing plants. He only has a few veggies, namely peppers and a tiny carrot sprout he isn't sure will survive.

There's no real way to tell what time it is out here. On the Selene, there's a digitally created sky that gives its inhabitants a good general idea of when it's "day" and "night". He'll give it a few more hours before he heads to bed. There's still quite a bit of stuff to organize around here.

He decides to count all the food portions he has, a daunting task that ends up taking much more time than he'd previously imagined. There's about 12,000 individually-wrapped meals, which could last him over ten years. He separates them into breakfast, lunch, and dinner portions, around 4,000 of each. He even finds a small bucket of sweets hidden behind the tubs of food, with instant oatmeal, pudding powder and freeze-dried candies. They really made sure he wouldn't die of starvation. He might die of something else, like an imploding shuttle or asphyxiation on one of the planets he visits, but he sure as hell isn't going to starve.

He's been sorting rations out for the last two hours now. He left some time earlier today, how long has it been yet? It's probably late, he should get some sleep. The shuttle shakes slightly every so often as it cruises through the cosmos. Stars blink and fade away, galaxies and nebulas shine brightly like elegant strokes of celestial paint against the black canvas of space.

After a moment, Namjoon heads for his bunk, grabbing a toothbrush. The space-designed toothpaste is safe to swallow and leaves a nice palatable minty flavor behind. He slips into some pajamas before climbing into bed, well, more like into the little one-man sleeping bag he's been provided. It's surprisingly comfortable, filled with nice, soft down. It takes a while for him to fall asleep, but when he finally does, he's out like a light.

You'd probably tease him about his snoring, but you're not here to hear it, so he just imagines you saying it instead. "Ah, you're so noisy. You should invest in those nose strips."

The shuttle drifts toward the first planet he's going to visit, a landscape with large rocky formations and lovely plateaus. The minerals to be found there must be splendid. He's already excited to study all the samples he'll collect once he gets there. But that's still a few weeks away. He may be travelling at the speed of light, distance in space is still colossal. What may seem inches apart on a photograph is actually hundreds of thousands of miles away.

These next few weeks will be all about preparing for landing on the first planet, making sure all his instruments for studying minerals and plants are all working perfect, and slowly getting into the daily routine of living all alone on a shuttle. It'll be a learning curve, for sure, but it's nothing he won't be able to learn. He's only been training for this mission for three years now.

Ten weeks until he lands. There's a big circle on the landing day on his calendar that's stapled to the wall, marked in bright red. Ten weeks. Seventy days. One thousand six hundred and eighty hours. A little over two months.

And that's if planet one is the perfect fit. If it isn't, that extends his mission much longer. Two, three, four, however many planets he'll need to visit. Months could become years. Years might even become decades. Time melts into a malleable form out here. It stretches and contracts at will. Perception gets blurred, smudged into something unrealistic and strange. Maybe that means he'll be back sooner than he thinks.

Or maybe he won't.

••• to be continued. •••

Patrons sit at tables with their coffees and desserts, some on their computers and others reading books. No two pieces of furniture in the room are alike. Some are antique and worn, some are new. Some are made of wood, some are made of metal. The light fixtures are all different too. Some are elegant wall sconces, some seem like handmade fabric lampshades. There’s also a shelf with different coffee mugs on the wall behind the counter. They’re all different shapes and sizes, colors and patterns. Even the floors are funky: different colored tiles in every shade imaginable. Some are patterned, some are a solid color.

Whoever curated this café’s whole aesthetic is definitely an art enthusiast. But despite the chaos, it’s all cohesive, like a meticulously-arranged abstract painting. The visual representation of the messiness of a Jackson Pollock piece organized like the swirls of paint in a work by Van Gogh.

The guy behind the counter smiles at you when you walk up, pushing his browline glasses up the bridge of his nose, and he’s got this vibe to him that makes you wonder if he’s the owner. He dresses snappy but his outfit’s giving plant dad energy, with his light brown dyed mullet and piercings on his ears.

Absolutely stunning. The type of guy who would make you stop dead in your tracks and do two double takes if you saw him walking down the street.

“Hi! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around,” he cocks his head to the side, a slight frown on his face as if he’s trying hard to remember you, “what can I get for you?”

You’re taken aback by the sound of his voice. You weren’t expecting him to have such a deep voice when you were looking at him earlier, but, then again, wow, no other tone of voice would suit him as well as this. Soft-spoken and gentle. He could narrate the worst book ever written and you’d probably listen to it just to hear his voice.

You peruse the menu, observing all the different types of coffee and tea you could order. All the options sound interesting, but you don’t want to idle uselessly in front of the counter. Everything looks pretty tasty… wait, how many people are waiting in line behind you?

“Uhh, I’ll have a vanilla lattè with, uh, an almond croissant.”

He smiles again, oh my God, wow, holy shit, those are the prettiest dimples you’ve ever seen, shit he asked you a question while you were gawking what did he just say.

“Can I get a name for your order?” He asks again, noticing the bewildered look on your face.

“Oh! Uh,” you splutter, trying to regain your composure and remember your name, “it’s __.”

“__,” he repeats as he writes out your name on a takeout coffee cup, brows furrowed in concentration, “alright, that won’t be too long.”

You fumble with your wallet for a few moments, digging through for your card, and you make sure to add in a tip through the debit machine. The machine prompts you to tap, and you do, but the reader doesn’t register your card, letting you know with an obnoxious beep. Rude.

“Ah, fuck,” you hear through the sound of the coffee grinder, “that card reader’s been finicky all day. Hang on.”

The man comes back to the counter, picks up the machine and shakes it. “We’ll see if that works.” He sets the machine down and you try tapping your card again. It works and he quietly mutters a “yes” under his breath. The receipt prints out and you take it, shoving it in your pocket.

You step aside to let the person behind you order, and it doesn’t take much time for you to get your food. Your fingers graze the cashier’s as you take your coffee and croissant from his hands, and it sends a spark through you. You feel like you’re in a cheesy romcom from the 2000s. Cute barista in a cute café. All that’s missing is a love song in the background.

As if on cue, the playlist shifts to an R&B song, something smooth and romantic. Your cheeks feel a little warm all of a sudden.

“Have a nice day, __,” he smiles, and it takes a second for you to react. You blink once or twice before trying to form a coherent response. Your name sounds so nice on his lips.

“You too, uh, I don’t think I got your name,” you hesitate, “maybe I did, but it must’ve slipped from my mind.” He probably told you his name earlier, back when you were gawking at him like a total loser and nothing he was saying registered in your brain. He could’ve been saying absolute gibberish and you wouldn’t have noticed at all.

He chuckles, pretty dimples out and everything, and it takes all your strength not to swoon, “It’s Namjoon. Don’t worry, I forget names all the time too.”

You could stay and chat with coffee-making heartthrob Namjoon all day, but there’s a few people waiting in line and you don’t feel like slowing everything down, so you grab a comfortable seat by the window. It’s an antique wooden armchair with green velvet upholstery. Perfect to lounge in, with an old book and a cup of coffee, and to forget about all your worries for a while.

Speaking of books, you notice a shelf next to you. It’s stuffed full of books, from older classics to new releases. Short stories and long novels. Poetry and prose. Everything and anything you can think of. You pick up a well-worn copy of Convenience Store Woman, the pages dog-eared and the cover slightly bent. The story of a strange woman’s mundane and repetitive life as a worker in a convenience store and her relationships with other people. It’s quite the read.

The lattè is warm and comforting, with a hint of sweetness from the vanilla syrup, and the croissant is perfectly flaky and delicious. The almonds add a lovely touch. On the takeout cup, Namjoon wrote your name with a cute little smiley face on the side. Adorable.

You manage to read through about a quarter of the book before feeling a tap on your shoulder. You’re pleasantly surprised to look up and see it’s Namjoon. “So? How’s the coffee?”

“It’s fantastic,” you sigh contentedly, taking another sip, “you’re a coffee expert.”

He looks away, bashful, a smile on his face. “Not at all. I listen to my customers’ feedback and buy whatever coffee they suggest. This batch is a medium roast from Costa Rica.”

It’s got a smooth, almost fruity finish to it. Nice and pleasant to the palate. “It’s really good. And the croissant was amazing too.”

“Glad to hear it.” There’s a hint of relief and satisfaction in his voice. “I’ll make sure to tell my friend. He’s the one who makes all the pastries and stuff. This is his first batch of croissants for the café.”

You glance at the display of baked goods, all perfectly arranged by color. Cupcakes, macarons, croissants, ooh, even cheesecake slices. It all looks so delicious. You’re already thinking about what you want to order the next time you come.

Doesn’t really matter what you get, you just know you want to see Namjoon again. You’d order the entire menu if you had to.

“I gotta go finish up a couple orders, but I’ll see you around, yeah?” Namjoon almost sounds disappointed to leave. But maybe you’re reading into it too much. Maybe he’s just an outgoing guy who loves to chat with his customers.

“Yeah, I’ll see you around,” you nod. You’re definitely coming back here. The vibe is perfect, the food is perfect, the barista is perfect… How could you not come back?

You finish off the rest of your coffee and stand up, brushing a few crumbs off of your lap. You’re about to toss the takeout cup into the garbage when you notice some extra text scrawled in pen on the side.

‘I hope this doesn’t seem too strange, but I’d love to spend some time together. Here’s my number. - Joon’

When you glance up from the cup, you make eye contact with Namjoon, who’s handing someone a drink. He smiles at you. You smile back.

Yeah.

You’re definitely coming back to Café Indigo.

fin.