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ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏʀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ғᴏᴏᴛᴘʀɪɴᴛs ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʟᴇғᴛ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ
ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀsᴀᴛɪᴏɴs
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Groaning, you crumple to the floor in a heap, right next to the incarnation of the devil. Haechan scrolls haphazardly on his iPhone and you catch a peek at what time it is. 11:27 PM.
You're too enervated to even complain about the soreness you'll feel tomorrow morning from the day-long practice you just suffered through with Haechan (who's also just as insufferable).
Shrinking into the thin material of your feeble shirt, a shiver runs across your skin, kindling the unkind goosebumps from the chilly touch of the room.
It's normal for the school to turn off heating for the night since most people are back at their homes. Howbeit, a duo (who would've never been paired together in a million years) accommodates the dance room. The duo being you and Haechan. Both of them dancing away until twilight when the clocks strike twelve. Yes. Also you and Haechan. (But you gave up when it hit 11:25 PM.)
The hating and the hated.
The sight is nothing to be compared to the collision of supernovae. Type Ia supernova—widely accepted as thermonuclear explosions of white dwarfs. This phenomenon is rarer than type II.
A white dwarf—the dead remnant of a star (a main-sequence star like the sun). The 'companion,' if you will, can be any other star.
And... Collisions can result in supernovae.
Stellar for speculation, but an issue when closer to home.
As your mind falls into deep physics and astronomy, something quivers your mindless philosophical session within your brain.
A sweater.
It's draped benevolently over your slim shoulders and encompasses your body. It smells like a familiar scent; a perfume (or cologne) of peony, rose and lychee. There's a merging potion of another fragrance of guaiac wood, frankincense, and cedarwood. (Arguably, a pleasant mixture of muskiness and wood.)
The fabric is warm and retains your heat well. A hand eases your arms through the sleeves, acting as if you're three and don't know how to take care of yourself.
When done, Haechan sits back against the mirror and continues scrolling aimlessly on his gadget. Completely dismissing the red flush of your face, you copy his posture, sliding closer to the mirror. You push yourself using your hands and lean your spine back.
Your thighs are a mere few centimetres from brushing each other's, but you heed no mind to it.
Instead, your head is abundant with lassitude. You bite the bottom of your lip, playing with it as you debate on when to go home. Your bed has your name metaphorically written across it. But now it feels too far—like a whole trek across the universe to reach it. You can't fathom the all-knowing fact that you'll have to eventually get up and scurry your way to your humble abode.
Sighing, you give in. You sag into a prostrate position. Your limbs feel as if they're 10 tons too heavy, and your thought process has worn down over the long day.
Lying down, you ultimately capitulate to the proceeding sleepiness. Nudging his elbow out of the way, you recline your crown on Haechan's thigh (obviously unannounced, though that's beside the point). You're too drained and drowsy to fight your consciousness; yielding and acquiescing to it.
Surrender is never your likely choice, but your comfort comes first.
Even your hate succumbs to fatigue and a jaded ego. (Undeniably, unmistakably, unquestionably, you were full of pride yourself. And you're keeping your self-dignity intact for the sake of it.)
An interlude stretches, blanketing your ending thoughts. It forms a reverie that you can't tell if it's reality or your imagination.
As your eyelids flutter shut, the beaming smile Haechan has on as he gazes at you, is enough to reassure you that perhaps it's okay to 'loosen up' a little. To allow the ever-growing inactivity in your game of enmity with Haechan to come to a halt—unwinding like the soft strokes and caresses as he plays obliviously with your hair with his free hand. Oblivious to the aspect that your feelings and attitudes may be shifting with the tides. Metanoia as it's called.
That maybe, just maybe, you do like your bitterly sworn enemy more than just as an enemy.
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