2020, early winter
A little boy with a bucket painting stars in the sky.
That's what this season's artwork on the side of the building is. Just this fall, it was a girl raising a paper airplane on this exact spot; in the summer, it was another kid on a swing, and in spring, it was a child with an opened suitcase, their toys falling out and drifting into a stream.
Lost childhood, perhaps. That's what happens when the world stands still, Namjoon thinks. He'd written a song about it - the things we lost during the time when time froze, and maybe just like these paintings, life continued to go on. The yearning remains, though, and he can see it on the piece that he's been looking at for minutes now.
Maybe the artist is young, mourning their own youth that slipped from their fingers. Maybe it's someone a little older, mourning it for others. Maybe it's just a person who's trying to understand the situation through a child's eyes - with innocence, confusion, trust. Maybe it's—
The sound of footsteps disrupts Namjoon's thoughts. It's 2AM and he's a little surprised that someone is in the area at this time. It's a busy street during the day and the crowd falls away early. It's completely deserted by this hour; it's why he likes taking this route from the office to his apartment. He's always liked walking home regardless of the distance, but it's at night when he feels most free, and it's become something he looks forward to everyday.
He's about to turn away when he notices a figure run up to the small building where the painting he was just admiring is. The individual lays their bag on the floor and retrieves a paintbrush and a pail, seemingly about to continue their work that Namjoon didn't even realize was still unfinished.
"Fuck," the voice curses out. "Fuck fuck fucking shit. Why do I always forget my hot packs!"
The person removes their mask and blows into their cupped hands, rubbing them after in hopes of sustaining the heat from the friction.
"Just a bit more," they continue, gloved hand now pointing ripples by the boy's legs as he stands in a body of water. "Just a bit more."
As chattering teeth and the blowing of air on hands continue, Namjoon decides to make himself known. The stranger is clearly trying to finish their work - and he's curious to see this all unfold, finding amusement in watching an artist in action - but the cold air is quite uncomfortable.
"Hey," he says, as the figure stops their movements. "I'm not a creep, I promise. I was just looking at your work but you're freezing and I... I've got some extra hot packs with me."
You slowly turn around with furrowed brows. This is the first time you've come across another person during the early mornings you paint on this specific building. You've gotten used to the emptiness of this street at this time, but somehow, hearing this man's deep, rough voice is giving you comfort. Especially since he's offering something you need.
"Sure, that would be great," you say, blowing into your hands again.
He slowly walks forward - clad in a thick hoodie and beanie, his mask covering half of his face. He looks familiar, but you don't have much time to place where you know him from. You take the hot packs he offers, squeeze one with your free hand while the other continues on with the piece that you want to finish tonight.
"Will it take much longer?" He asks, his voice kind. "I didn't know it was unfinished and it's quite interesting to see an artist complete their work. So, uh, can I watch?"
You turn towards him. On a normal day, you'd turn him away. You're not too keen on anyone on your ass while you finish something, but he doesn't seem like a creep and he was kind enough to give you hot packs at a time like this, so you nod.
It doesn't take long. It's just some ripples and a few strokes left anyway; you were freezing too much last night so you put off the final details for tonight. And then the last bit. You sign your name on the bottom corner, and a gasp leaves the stranger's mouth.
"Wait, you're Blue..." he says, the realization dawning on him. "
"Surprise," you reply, standing up from your squatting position.
"I mean, I figured since you've been painting children and their lost youth this past year but... the man in the rain, the distorted face on the mirror, the hand on the neck... those were you, too."
Namjoon can't believe he's finally face-to-face with the artist whose work has been haunting him since he first came across one on an electric post 3 years ago.
They were in other parts of the city. He remembers seeing them on walls and buildings during his walks home or when he was in the car, and then some weeks later, they were gone, either replaced with a new piece of work or just painted over, as if it never existed. He'd seen the signature a few times, and seeing it again reminded him that it was you, too. The one who'd created those masterpieces that got him thinking, feeling, wondering.
"You have a good memory," you simply smile at him, realizing at this point that you've left your mask off. You put it back on and take in his domineering form. "Those were years ago; I've almost forgotten about them."
"I haven't. I mean, sort of."
"Good. That was the point," you reply. "I mean, sort of."
"The point being? That I find something that speaks to me and then the next minute, they're gone?" He says, quite defensive. It bothered him for a time that he never got to see those pieces again.
"What did they make you feel?"
"Desolate? Alone? Confused? Desperate?"
"Then you forgot about them, didn't you?"
"The paintings, sort of. Not the feeling, though," he frowns. "I still think about them but... I think I've forgotten exactly what they look like. Is that what you wanted?"
"Pretty much," you hum, starting to pack your things. "The stuff I leave on for a few weeks are mostly sad, and I paint over them because I don't want people to dwell on them. I want people... to forget, to move on."
"But they don't, not really. I'm sure they've taken photos if it spoke to them so much. At least I did, but then I deleted them because..."
"Because you got over the sadness," you smirk, knowing that somehow, he proved your point, and he lets out a chuckle at the realization. "It may be on their phones but it's not the real thing. The image may be distorted, the colors different, the strokes a lot smoother. It's not the same."
"They should be preserved," he voices out. "It's art. Those things are meant to be immortalized, no matter how they make people feel."
"Not always," you counter. "At least for me, I make those to forget. The feelings fade once the art does. I created them that way."
"Hmm," Namjoon hums, taking this time to observe you, as you'd rendered him speechless.
There's this softness in your eyes that contrasts the words you say. He doesn't want to imagine what you might've gone through to create hauntingly beautiful pieces inspired by feelings you want to forget.
Whatever those are, he truly does wish you've let those go. He knows he has. But he still disagrees - he doesn't think art ever fades. Perhaps feelings do, but he's come to learn that visual art is eternal.
"So how long will you keep this up?" He asks, wondering when he'd see you again; the allure and intrigue from your words makes him want to know more.
"Until the next season," you say, picking up your bag now. "It's been a tough year and I hope the spring brings more hope."
"But you also don't want them to dwell on this... the loss of childhood, of youth," he continues. "You want them to move on from this, focus on what's to be gained after losing something important."
"You're a fast learner," you wink, and Namjoon surprises himself by the way his heart jumps at the sight. "You must be a genius or something. Or an artist yourself."
"Neither," he lies. "I mean, I'm barely anything, really."
"I doubt it. A guy like you being affected by all this means you're something, whatever it is."
There's something validating about your words, and he smiles behind his mask, something you see, as you smile back.
It's odd, feeling a sense of connection with a stranger like this, something he's never really experienced, most times because he's always wary of who he meets, especially at this time of the night. But you don't seem to know who he is. And if you do, you don't seem to mind or want to make a deal out of it, something that he appreciates.
There's comfort in your smile, and he wants to discover what other things cause it. There's a dearth of experience in your words, and he wants to know more. There's a tenderness in your eyes that he wants to mirror; he wishes he can give comfort to someone just by looking at them.
Maybe it's the cold breeze. Maybe it's the fact that it's the end of the year and he's spending it alone again. Maybe it's spending an entire day cooped up in his studio only to go home to an empty apartment. Maybe it's knowing what a year it was and what's about to come. He didn't think that a stranger in a yellow puff jacket who cursed so crisply would be the one to make his walk back home not feel so lonely. That the woman who'd casually painted some ripples and splashes on the wall was the one who'd make him feel a little less alone.
"So, uh, do you usually paint at the start or end of the season?" He wonders.
"Are you trying to ask when you're gonna see me again?" You look at him with an arched brow.
"Maybe," Namjoon chuckles. He's also just trying to delay your departure, seeing as you seem to be ready to leave.
He doesn't want to ask your name, not ready himself to share who he is. But perhaps the next meeting won't be as serendipitous as this.
"It depends," you tease. "But maybe I'll see you again, either here, or elsewhere."
"I hope it's soon," he confesses. He's being bold, but his eyes light up when you reply.
"I hope so, too."
Namjoon walks the opposite direction of where you are headed, turning back once to look at you, and catching your eyes when he does.
Winter passes. His busy schedule doesn't permit him to take this route for a while, and it's mid-spring when he sees a new painting that's been completed - a young girl looking through a glass window to a world outside, her fingers holding onto the latch as she readies to open it. A small smile forms on his face; he at least sees something of you, even if it isn't you.
The next time he's able to pass by, it's the end of summer, and all he sees is a gray wall - empty, undisturbed, as if there was nothing there to begin with.