"Let me touch you, Jimin. Please. Please let me."
No. Hell no. Seven bloody hells, no, no and no. Absolutely in no friggin way!
Those are the things he should have said yet didn't.
Maybe it was the pleading, longing look in his eyes.
Maybe it was be...
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"Argh!! God damn it!"
He wanted to kick something, preferably himself.
He stood on shaky feet, his hands balled into fists at his sides, his teeth pressed together so hard his jaw hurt. His body was exhausted, as was his mind, his muscles trembling and his back aching from bending his body to the breaking point. His skin was slick with sweat and his white hair clung to his forehead as he slowly lifted his head to stare at his own reflection in the mirror. His expression was angry and frustrated, his mouth pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows drawn together in a frown.
Just like every other day, the practice studio was flooded with light thanks to the high windows, a foot long wall of mirrors and bright wooden floor. But all he could see in the mirror was someone who screwed up- again.
Maybe the people in the audience hadn't notice his small mistake, but to Jimin, it always felt like the world was falling apart. He knew it was stupid- knew his performance had gotten nothing but praises and congratulations, but he couldn't see beyond that mistake. He had to do it again. And again. And then one more time, until it was anchored so deep in his muscle memories, the mistake could never happen again.
"You still on it?"
His head snapped around to the boy standing in the doorframe. He smiled broadly at him, his brown hair slightly curled and his eyes sparkling with that positivity he always carried around him.
Jimin took an unconscious step back, lowering his head and felt how his cheeks turned red. He hated that about him too, but he'd never been able to change it. On stage- when he was dancing- the world no longer existed. There was just him and the music and the rhythm of his body. He wasn't thinking when he danced, he simply WAS.
So even though hundreds, maybe thousands of people watched him, it didn't matter.
But now he wasn't dancing- and that meant only a single pair of eyes could make him cower in the corner like a pre-school kid, his face turning into the shade of fresh tomato sauce and his ability to speak in coherent sentences lost to him.
He just wasn't comfortable with people looking at him. A thousand thoughts ran through his head. Had they noticed his mistake yesterday? Did they see how his lips were too big for his face and his eyes such a dull, dark color or how he had bleached his hair himself in the little, rusty sink at home? Could they see he was poor and living in a single bed-room with only one high-up, small window and barely anything but water in the fridge? Could they smell his cheap shampoo, see his worn-through shoes and the self-patched up tear in his trousers? Did they pity him for having no friends? Or had they perhaps seen him on his part time job as a waiter in a run-down highway diner, whose food sucked, but at least they payed well?
