ᴛᴀsᴛᴇs ʟɪᴋᴇ ʏᴏᴜ // Minsung ✔️

Spring

Time skip

"So, there you have it." Minho concluded with a smile, chuckling at the way in which the child at his feet eye's widened. "That's the story of how Jisung and I ended up together."

"God, I've heard that story a thousand times but somehow I never get tired of it." A woman's voice uttered from the couch next to him.

"You and grandpa went through a lot together, huh?" The young boy asked. "How did you know you loved him?"

Once again the woman spoke. "Oh god, don't get him started kyong." She said jokingly.

Minho hushed his daughter and pulled the boy into his lap, holding his hand tightly. "For some, the world is dark. And to live, is so rare. Most people merely exist."

Kyong nodded, not entirely understanding the old mans words but trying nevertheless. Minho brushed the youthful brown locks from the child's face. "Always remember that there is dark, but there is also light. He was one of the lights, the brightest of all, and he helped me to see the glory in each day."

Standing up, Minho placed the boy back on his feet and kissed his forehead gently. "One day you will learn that it is the small things that take up the most room in your heart and you too, will find your light, little one."

He exited the room, reaching for his plaid sweater. Footsteps behind him caught his attention before he walked out the front door.

"Dad? It's freezing out there, are you sure you want to go out?" The girl questioned, Minho only sending her a reassuring smile in reply. "I love you."

"I love you too, blossom."

Minho looked around at the playground covered in second hand show, squeezing his knuckles tightly, the frosty tips of his fingers turning red from the cold.

Under this pristine layer of crystalized water was the ground he once walked upon as a teenager. This place seemed so foreign now. It had been years since the last time he visited.

Trips to Croatia and weekends in Paris, though it was beautiful, it could never compare to an old swing set that held so many memories, he traced his fingers along the chains that held him just above the ground.

9 years and 173 days. He wished he could turn back  the pages and re-read the fine details. The dimples under his eyes that deepened only when he smiled, how he always wore Minho's bath robe instead of his own because he insisted that the fluff was softer.
How he never deemed himself too old to dance in the rain and the fact that nothing in this world could ever convince him that home was where all his things were, rather than his heart.

Life was pulling Minho forward no matter how hard he tried to stay stuck in place. Days felt longer and as he continued to write the story of his life as each day went on, he couldn't help but feel as if the words behind him were getting erased.

At first, he hated that the planet continued to spin. The flowers of spring continued to appear, but the person they reminded him of most wasn't there to see them.

Minho was now stuck in an orbit of avoiding cameras at all costs. Photos, are frozen memories, but he didn't want to remember anything without him.

However life went on. He learnt it the hard way. Some days he accepted it, and others he didn't. He figured it humbled him however, he came to the realisation that the world doesn't revolve around him after all.

His letters, his photographs, his favourite novels. All cooped up in a pink box in his cupboard next to his favourite t-shirt in a zip lock bag so it never lost his smell.