#wxminjun

life feels different when she’s standing on the balls of her feet. the ghost of the classical song begs her to curl her toes en pointe, to fold her arms into a pretty bow, and to spin as though she is the earth and all its inhabitants depend on her to keep twirling on its axis. this time, she ignores the piano concerto, stays her heels close enough to kiss the ground.

and life, on the balls of her feet, feels a little like this: the gust of wind against her cheeks, the haphazard sweeping of chocolate locks across her face, and always, constantly feeling out of breath.

that is to say, these days, bitna feels like she’s always running from something. there’s a ghost on her heels and her path forwards is an unlit void, and she’s always running into it. even now, as she’s standing lifelessly in front of the academy’s bulletin board, she feels its gale sweep her strands of hair onto her cheeks. but she pauses at the dramatics, tries to blame it on the students breezing past even though the sensation churns something vicious at her core.

“hey—” bitna turns to the call, doesn’t even think to question if it’s addressed to her, but suppose it’s all a moot point because now she’s staring into another fairy’s gaping eyes. bitna shakes her head reflexively, “what?”

“wait— you’re that girl, aren’t you?”

and there it is again, the running out of breath. confusion rests on her brows, but her eyes dart haphazardly around in panic. she spots the fairy’s phone in her hands. from its speaker, the classical song plays.

“yeah, you’re that ballet dancer who puked and fell—”

and there it is again, the burning lungs. these days, bitna feels like she’s always running from something.

🌱 —— ALTERNATE UNIVERSE

it’s peculiar, isn’t it? that song bitna finds this need to attach her worth to her craft. that without it, she is nothing more than the speck of dirt to be caught in the groove of one’s shoe. in this way, she had found sanctuary in the academy, for ballet had once held her lazily in its mouth and spit her promptly out, only because she had tasted so bland on its tongue. it, who posits perfection as the barest minimum. so had the academy not existed either… well, is there anything left for her retribution?

in this way, she’d lie in bed for a few months, stare at the ceiling and pray for a time fairy to come into existence, that she may undo the day of her fall. and perhaps bitna would spend so much time praying, she’d actually be a little more spiritual. would learn to visit maruhan’s shrine every now and then. and she’d like to think maybe, just maybe, one day she’d move on, when she’s well into her thirties and the wound heals like an amputated limb. that is, gone is the acute pain and the chance of infection, but its absence is still too glaring to miss, so maybe she’ll learn to lean on her left side. and the day that happens, well… maybe she’ll enrol into maruhan university, take up music or composing. after all, who can claim to know classical music better than her, when she’d once danced to it in all her waking moments, let it sing in the background to lull her to sleep, and when she’d left ballet, so too did it follow her like it was a ghost and her, its haunted home?

and what of minjun? she’d known him her whole life, had always viewed him as the limb attached to song byeol. and like everything that comes from her sister, so too does he exist as the embodiment of perfection. that is, too inviting to touch. that is, too far to grasp. in the moments when she’s stuck in limbo, in the stages of grief still fixated on her bedroom ceiling, she thinks he’ll forget her. in fact, she almost wishes him to, because what they shared was innocent and innocently flirtatious, and she wanted nothing more than to immortalise that memory, if only because she fears the way he’d perceive her after she… well. but maybe, when she’s in her thirties and she’s a student of maruhan university, and learning music is her latest obsession, maybe she could finally excel in something he—with all due respect—lacked. she’ll promise to teach him a thing or two, even sneak him into the university’s music room and she’d grab onto a trumpet the way a driving instructor has their own pedals. she’ll play, he’ll follow, she’ll try not to laugh, and somewhere… well, everything will fall back into its place. bitna knows best, after all. there is no one to understand the laws of gravity and fate quite like her.

🌊 —— LAST TEXT

[ ✉️ ↷ 김민준 ] we need to talk strategies [ ✉️ ↷ 김민준 ] i know my last plan didn’t work out but that’s also because you hesitated [ ✉️ ↷ 김민준 ] also sorry i let you die in the simulation

💧 —— UNSENT TEXT

[ ✉️ ↷ 김민준 ] are you home? [ ✉️ ↷ 김민준 ] i need to talk to you

💦 —— 2AM DRUNK TEXT