collisions.
jongin has gotten used to loneliness.Ā
loneliness has a sense of familiarity; it feels comfortable, it feels homely. loneliness is friends with silence, and silence is understanding. he was taught that loneliness was not to be associated with frailty: loneliness was a strength while people were considered as weakness, as something that could be used against you. loneliness made home in his bones, and stayed.Ā
but somewhere between the years of solitude and bloodstained memories and smell of gunpowder, loneliness slowly starts to succumb to the growing darkness.Ā
the door slams shut behind him with a little more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the apartment for a briefest of moments. the keys jingle as he sets them on the counter. he heaves a sigh, agitation still burning in his veins.Ā āi fucking hate drunken people,ā he mutters, words meeting the air with venomous edge. ( in his mind, alcohol is a poison clouding judgement. in his mind, itās a weakness. )
runs his fingers through the strands of his black hair, reaching for a pack of cigarettes lying on the coffee tableāunheeded are the prohibitions as he lights one cancer stick. inhale, exhale.Ā
he doesnāt bother knocking ( he never does ) as he unceremoniously opens her bedroom door, gaze automatically falling on the frigure of his roommateās. there are no words; he continues smoking, leaning against the doorframe.















