we’re not dying, we’re trying - shn & smn.
She does not unpack.
In her room are shadows. Its constant occupant is a lingering absence that haunts the four corners of the narrow room, the bed smells like bleach, there are suitcases at the side but they are gathering dust. Anywhere else is peppered with slivers of Sehun - the living room, the sofa, the kitchen, his bedroom. Anywhere else belongs to Sehun but this room and yet the bed still smells like bleach.
Perhaps it is her tendency to prefer convenience that creates this dissociation -- designs the rift between her and whatever surrounds her, she lacks the attachments and it makes it easier for her not to stay. It has been more than six months since they’ve relocated. Sumin does not unpack.
She lets the warmth of her 8 o'clock cup of tea bleed onto her fingers. They surround the cup’s circumference, lissome fingers tapping against porcelain to an inaudible beat. There is a loud rattle behind the door, keys jingling boisterously behind her as the door opens and closely with a thundering clud. The drumming of her fingers stop. Something feels wrong. She turns around to look at Sehun and it doesn’t take long for her to know she’s right.
“What did you get into now?” Exasperation sits heavy in the tone of her voice. It has been months since they had decided to stay under one roof for the sake of convenience and it did not take long for Sumin to realize that maybe discretion was a concept the younger had failed to grasp. “We’ve talked about this already,” there is agitation now, Sumin places the cup down on the table before she folds her slender arms over her chest. Gaze demanding for an answer. “Which part of stay discrete do you not understand, Sehun?”
