. . texting . . \hansol vernon\

my same

"~~you've got mail~~"

the pillow hansol was currently lying on smothered his moan. blinking in the darkness, his eyes met the glaring light of the digital alarm clock. 3:15 a.m. it read. 

"it's too early for this," he mumbled, covering his head with a pillow. 

late night mails were not unusual for him -- given the fact that he lived with 12 other 17-21 year old idiots. he was often messaged random "memes" or drunk selcas and texts. seriously, why was he even friends with these guys? oh yeah, the bastards were his band (family) members. 

suddenly, the memory of the day he found out he would be a part of seventeen slammed into his mind. 

closing his eyes briefly and exhaling, he reached for his cellphone, squinting at the bright light it was making, he frowned at the unfamiliar number displayed on the screen. curiously, he opened it.

'hi i'm evan. got your number by scrambling mine. i'm extremely bored. who are you? :)'

slowly reacting to the annoyance building up inside him, hansol quietly breathed, "what the hell?" he couldn't believe the nerve of this guy.. he had practice tomorrow (or was it later today) and he needed his fucking sleep. 

was this a prank?

// an.: ayyyy lemme knooooow //