2021, autumn
The bell rings as Namjoon enters the building, an art gallery that he's been frequenting the past few months. There are new pieces, he's been told, and one of the curators that he's become friends with informed him that some of the artists are in town.
He nods in greeting at familiar faces - employees, artists, casual visitors. He walks around, taking in the new paintings and sculptures displayed. As he turns towards one of the smaller rooms, a piece catches his eye.
It's something he'd seen before, a piece of ceramic sculpted in such a way that it looks like a flower in one angle, a seashell in another. And, dare he say, a vulva from a little farther away.
He reads the label. Untitled 56, Samantha Lee.
Namjoon goes through the photos on his phone, knowing it was a trip to LA over 2 years ago where he'd encountered something similar.
And there it is. Untitled 48, Samantha Lee.
He took the photo from an angle that looked like flowers, thinking about the simplicity and beauty, the choice of colors, and how they hung on the wall as part of the installation. It was one of many pieces he documented, but was the only one he didn't get much story from. There was no description, no background. He wasn't quite sure what to feel.
"Find something that interests you?"
Mr. Hong is one of the founders of this gallery, and he spends much of his time getting to know the regular visitors and the artists. He's definitely someone who knows when something strikes Namjoon, like right now.
"Samantha Lee," Namjoon responds. "Are they a local artist? I think I saw their work in LA some time ago."
"Ah, yes Ms., uh, Ms. Lee. She's a local and has her pieces displayed in several galleries. She's here, actually," Mr. Hong excitedly shares, noting how important it is for the Kim Namjoon to meet one of the artists. "She was supposed to come yesterday but decided to drop by today instead. Would you like to meet her?"
"Ah, that would be great," Namjoon smiles back. "If she is fine with that, of course."
Mr. Hong is never sure if the said artist is, but Namjoon is a special guest, he thinks, so the older man nods. "I'll lead you to her."
Namjoon is led up a small flight of stairs and out to a patio with more installations displayed. He spots several people outside, and he tries to determine which one of them is the artist he wants to meet, perhaps ask why she'd untitled all her pieces, and why there's nothing of her at all that she chooses to share.
He stops in front of two women as instructed by Mr. Hong.
"He's a fucking asshole, that's what he is," a familiar voice spits out. "The next time he harasses you, I'm going to impale his dick with my heels and—"
"Ehem," Mr. Hong clears his throat, prompting both women to look at him. "Ms. Lee, one of our patrons would like to meet you."
He shares a look with the woman before she nods and smiles. She turns to Namjoon where he's met with familiar tender eyes, eyes he's been yearning to see since that cold winter night.
"Blue?" He asks, surprised.
"My favorite color, yes. How did you know?"
You look at the man in front of you, tall and broad with caramel skin and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. You've seen this smile before. Even behind a mask, you could tell it's him, the man who'd saved your ass that one cold winter night with his extra hot packs and his calming voice.
You thought you'd see him again, seeing as he seemed to want to, but he never came that spring. You even left a small, ridiculous note at the corner where your signature usually is, asking when he'd come, thinking he'd communicate with you there. But the response never came.
The universe is tricky sometimes. You passed up on coming to the gallery yesterday because you felt dizzy when you woke up. And of all days that your winter night man visits, it's the one where you're here.
"I just figured," Namjoon smiles, picking up your hints. "It's one of mine, too."
"Perhaps we should talk about the complexities of the color, then," you smile back, nodding towards one of the sections in the large patio.
You lead him there, leaving Mr. Hong and his warning gaze and your assistant, whose smirk and teasing laughter makes you glare at her.
"I'm guessing they don't know about you being Blue?" Namjoon asks, feeling a little jittery standing next to you again and being able to see your face much more clearly, your hair tied loosely in a bun and your clothes a nice fit for the cool weather.
"Minji does. She helps me find materials," you respond. "Mr. Hong doesn't. He's not much of a fan of street art."
"That's a bummer, especially since one of the artists creates amazing pieces on buildings and posts and then signs them, then abandons them, and leaves spectators like me to wonder where they'd gone," Namjoon replies, hoping you don't find offense with his tiny jab.
Your chuckle tells him you don't. "You never came."
"I didn't know when to," he defends. "Well, more like, I stopped having the time. That place is so far from where I live and I only walk from my office because I like that time alone and I haven't had that, but then I came back in the summer but you—"
"You don't have to explain," you assure him. "That was a chance meeting and I didn't really expect I'd see you again in the same spot weeks later."
"Did you expect to see me this time?"
"Oh, not at all," you shake your head. "Why are you even here?"
"Why are people ever in art galleries?" He counters. "To check out the art. Maybe chance upon the artists if they're here."
"I guess," you shrug, turning a corner to a small maze of an installation. "You wouldn't have known it was me, though."
"I didn't. I was staring at Untitled 56 and realized I took a photo of Untitled 48," he reveals, earning him a shocked look from you. "It was in LACMA. I saw it a while back. The name rang a bell because I don't know anything about you. You leave so much to the imagination, Ms. Lee. There's nothing about y—"
"It's Han," you correct him, feeling comfortable now. "I mean, Han ___. Samantha Lee is another pseudonym. Or like a stage name. You know, like you?"
You bite your lip at the slip-up, not wanting him to be uncomfortable at the thought that you clearly know who he is. But he just nods, affirming that he now knows that you know who he is, but he smiles right after, his eyes turning into the smallest, prettiest crescents and his dimples framing his strong-featured face that makes him even more handsome.
"I suppose you're right," he hums. "But why blue? And why Samantha Lee?"
"It's the simpler version of my favorite color. Aegean blue is too complicated to sign every time," you chuckle. "And Samantha Lee... Well, she was my roommate back in college and she once told me she wanted to be famous and the only way that could happen is if I used her name as a pseudonym. I had a crush on her so I agreed."
There's a long pause before Namjoon realizes that you're not joking, and he comments that it's interesting but he doesn't ask again.
"I'm Kim Namjoon, by the way," he reaches out his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise," you say, internally melting at the feel of his warm and large hand. "So why did you take a photo of Untitled 48?"
"It looked like a clam."
At this, you burst into laughter.
"I don't mean it in a bad way, just to be clear!" He insists. "It was beautifully made. It was of a neutral color but it somehow stood out the most to me in that section. And it was the 48th; I wondered why they didn't have titles. And your 56th, which looks like—"
"A vulva," you snort.
"Yes," he chuckles, "and a flower, yeah - something I've been into lately. And well, it was interesting. And seeing your piece here reminded me of that," he goes on. "And I just wanted to know... why."
"Why what?" You furrow your brows at him.
"Why those pieces? Why are they untitled? What prompted you to create them that way?"
"We'd probably have to tour the gallery 4 more times if you want to know," you chuckle.
"I have time."
"Do you?" You ask, eyeing the phone in his pocket that's been vibrating for the last 5 minutes.
He smiles shyly and excuses himself. When he returns, he has a disappointed look on his face. "Turns out, I don't have time. But I want to. I... uh, will you be here again anytime this week?"
"I will. I'm just not sure when."
There's something alluring with these coincidental meetups. Somehow you want more of those, perhaps to let the universe tell you that you're meant to constantly meet this man whose time you know you'll never have enough of, even if he makes it for you.
"Let me see you again?"
"You will."
You catch his eyes when he turns back as he walks away. There's a sparkle in them, and you're afraid to want to see it once more.
**
The walk to the site of the lost youth is a long one, but not knowing when you'd see the tall man with the prettiest smile again, you head there.
Your last piece was of a child at the brink of freedom, about to take the step outside the cage she'd been in for the past year and a half. You painted over it once autumn started; maybe the next time you'd paint over a building, you're no longer yearning for lost things. Maybe you'd paint something about finding something new.
"I'm gonna start believing in a higher power if we continue meeting like this."
The raspy voice is familiar, and you turn around to see Namjoon, clad in a hoodie and a baseball cap, leaning against one of the streetlights across the empty wall of the building you'd been staring at. It's been 2 days since you saw him at the gallery, about 7 months since the first time you'd encountered him here. You're unsure what this all means.
"Maybe you should," you head towards him. "I missed the last bus so I decided to walk home. I'm still far away but this is on the way. Why are you here?"
"Stayed up at the studio," he replies. "I'm incredibly exhausted but I don't know, I got the energy for the long walk. Then there you were."
"There I was, appearing so suddenly again, yeah?" You chuckle, leaning on the opposite side of the pole.
Namjoon merely hums before he nods towards the direction of his apartment. "I'm heading there."
"Me, too."
With his hands in his hoodie pockets and yours crossed against your chest, you try to match his long strides.
"Painting came first," you say, as if answering the question that he's been thinking of asking. "Painting was everything. We had so many pieces in our home, and it's as if they spoke to me. I mean, in a not creepy way, it felt like all of my parents' own pieces spoke to me. And they always told me I wasn't good enough."
Namjoon turns to look at you with empathy in his eyes. He lets you speak, and he finds out that both your parents are the artists he'd been researching lately. Your father is a classical painter, and your mother does contemporary. He can't imagine living in gigantic shadows like that.
"When I was 15, my parents pulled strings to get some of my pieces displayed with theirs," you sigh, recalling the mixed emotions then. "It was exciting at first, but the patrons wouldn't mention my name unless they mentioned my parents'. And then one of my favorite pieces that I made was sold to a man who wanted it as a decoration in his summer home's living room."
Namjoon slows his walk and you match his pace. You meet his comforting eyes, and there's that warmth you feel from, technically, a stranger that you didn't expect.
"I made that piece at a time when I was frustrated living in my parents' shadows," you continue. "Someone once told me that art is meant to be shared, that there's humanity in the community we create when it's shared, that the meaning deepens when others make their own. That piece had so much of me in there; I felt like the meaning of that piece was stripped away from me the moment that stranger took home that canvas for a select few to look at. It wasn't mine anymore, it was his; it was theirs. I stopped painting after that."
There's a certain kind of pain in giving up something that matters deeply to you, in losing meaning in the thing that's given your life meaning for most of your life. Namjoon knows a bit about that pain. Many times, he'd found himself questioning all that he does, what he stands for, and what the world expects him to be.
He sees that pain in your eyes, of losing a part of you as the art stopped meaning what you wanted it to. But he doesn't think that all is lost.
"But your street art," he reminds you. "That's still you. That still has meaning. And that's something that you share."
"That's Blue, though," you manage a smile. "She's just a part of me."
"She's still you," he insists. "Can you tell me about her?"
And so you tell him - how you argued with your parents about quitting painting, how you were going to turn down the scholarship in a prestigious art university to take up sociology instead, so they shipped you to a foreign country to fend for yourself, and that's when you learned what loneliness felt like. But that's also when you learned about people in their rawest sense, what it meant to struggle to survive, what it meant to lose something that mattered, because you studied them - you studied how humans grieved and how they persisted. You studied how they lived and how they died.
"Blue wants meaning, and she still struggles in finding it," you explain.
"Does she?" Namjoon questions. "I'm in my late 20s but your lost youth series resonated with me. All those paintings of the man in the rain, the distorted face... they've inspired me in ways I can't explain. That's meaning, ___. That matters."
No one outside of Minji knows all these versions of you. Except Namjoon, the brightest star you never thought you'd ever meet. Hearing him speak about your work this way makes you feel something - a first in a long time.
"Thanks, I guess," you say shyly.
"It's a shame they're not displayed in galleries and museums, though."
"I don't want them to," you say, surprising him. "People intend to go to museums, but they pass these streets out of necessity. I want them to stop and look, to feel, to think for a few seconds before they go back to their routinary walk. And then I remove them, so they can forget what pain and sadness feel like."
"Looks like you found your meaning, then," Namjoon smiles, comforted by the fact that someone as talented as you had found purpose again, something he relates with at a deeper level than he imagined.
"The painter in me did," you reply. "The sculptor, not so much. "
"Untitled," he hums.
"Yeah. I don't think I can name something I understand, or at least, feel," you say.
"That's a lot of untitled works for you to not understand what you do," he chuckles.
"I'm prolific because there's not much of me I lose when I create them," you explain. "I just sit in my stool, craft something, then call it a day. Not to brag or anything, but it comes easy. They're shallow pieces, Namjoon. They don't even deserve to be in galleries but Mr. Hong insists they do for some reason. I wish this version of me, Samantha Lee, understood why it matters, why someone like him would believe in my pieces, why a Kim Namjoon would think that 48 stood out to him enough to keep a photo."
Namjoon processes your words. As an artist himself, he believes in the meaning of the pieces that he creates, whether it's a song or a poem or an album or a concert. There's effort put into them even if it's something created in 30 minutes. Your pieces are beautiful, and he wants to explore more - you and your meaning, you and your value.
"Then why do you keep making them? What about it makes you keep sculpting?"
"The feel of the clay on my skin, the way my fingers get to mold and create the details," you explain. "I get to touch it. I don't get to do that with painting, you know? It's the paintbrush and the canvas I feel but with sculpting, I get to mix the materials, I get to shape it, hold it."
"There's that intimacy," he offers.
"Yeah. And it's addictive because it's closeness I've never felt before." You turn to him before speaking the next words. "It's an intimacy I've never experienced before with anyone or anything."
"Isn't that your meaning, then?" He questions. "The piece itself might not have a story on its own but all these untitled works, the process of creating, of it being easy because you can't get enough of the intimacy you get from creating... that's meaning. That desire for closeness, for meaning... that's meaning."
No one's ever put it that way for you, probably because you've never let yourself be this honest with someone about your art. All your friends aren't artists because you wanted that world separate, you didn't want to have to talk about it feeling as insecure and lost as you are.
But Namjoon - he's one of your generation's greatest artists. He weaves words and sounds so beautifully to create masterpieces that people consume and hold so closely. He understands.
"I've made songs that took me 30 minutes," he shares. "But I've also made songs that took me to dark places, that broke me as I wrote them. But once they came out, once I've shared them to others who've shared what it meant to them... slowly, I started becoming whole again. Isn't that an artist's burden? To break to create, to feel whole after that, and then to break all over again?"
"You are truly one of a kind, Kim Namjoon," you tell him. "I've lived with artists my whole life and they never let me understand art in that way."
"I'm still figuring it all out," he shrugs. "I still feel lost sometimes, but I think it's natural to feel that way, to be unsure or confused. I guess what matters is that we're still walking on some road to somewhere, even if we don't know where we're heading."
"Is that where you are right now?" You wonder. "On a road to somewhere you don't quite know yet?"
More than you know, he wants to say. He's in this period of experimentation, of figuring out his signature style, of figuring out who he is and what he means to his teammates, to the industry, to the world.
"Sort of," he shrugs. "It's hard sometimes. Walks like this give me a reprieve. Consuming other people's art lets me understand things a bit more."
"Yeah, I get it. I mean, conversing with strangers gives me time to breathe, too."
"Ooh, so I'm still a stranger, huh?" He chuckles, shyly looking at you. "Our third unplanned meeting, an hour of walking home... and I'm still a stranger."
"What would you want to be, then?" You turn to him, a little teasing smile on your face.
"A friend, for starters."
"My nighttime friend?"
"Not just," he shakes his head. "I would like to see you again, actually. And I don't want to put this up to chance this time. Like, something planned or—"
"And how exactly would that work?"
"I, uh..." he thinks. "I'd invite you to my apartment. And you can invite me to yours?"
"Why?"
"Because I want to get to know you more, if that's okay."
"Are you always this bold?" You giggle, not missing the way your cheeks start to feel warm at the mention of visiting each other's homes and him wanting to get to know you.
He's obviously handsome - you've known of him since his band made it to your TV screens, being young men who were around your age, singing songs that resonate so deeply with you. But he's more than that, as you're learning. There's this passion for creating that's refreshing, something you seem to lack.
"Not always," he looks away, the dips in his cheeks something you're sure you won't get enough of.
"You should be. It makes a girl flustered but it makes it so difficult for her to say no," you smirk. Sometimes, you also don't know where your own boldness comes from.
"You? Flustered? That's quite hard to believe," he teases.
"That's true. But it happens, believe it or not, when a gorgeous, brilliant man asks me over."
Your heart stops for what feels like a minute, but his sweet, child-like laughter melts away your worry.
"Did I make you uncomfortable?" You ask.
"Surprisingly, no," he replies. "I appreciate your honesty. About everything. I hope we can give that to each other."
"Okay then, your turn," you challenge.
"Hearing you curse was kinda hot."
You try to hold off your laughter, your defense to your true reaction, which is to smile like an idiot and feel like floating.
"That's interesting. I would've thought it's something to do with my looks or my talent, you know?" You arch an eyebrow teasingly.
"It is. I think you're beautiful. And I'm usually a forgetful person but I haven't forgotten your sweet smile since I first saw it last winter," he says, catching you off guard. "And your talent... there's a reason why I have 48 saved on my phone, and why I sought out your street art these past years. I want to know what intimacy in art is like for you. I guess I've sort of lost that in creating my own."
"Intimacy," you repeat. "I think we both lack it in certain ways."
"Maybe we'll find it," he says more confidently now, holding your gaze as your eyes trace his face.
"Maybe we will," you respond, feeling your whole body warm with embers of fire.
He insists on taking you home, another 20-minute walk away from his. But you claim to enjoy that time on your own, assuring him that you do this all the time and the streets are safe.
"Let me know when you get home safely?" He asks, and you give him your phone for him to input his number.
"I will."
It's 30 minutes later when you do. It's 1AM, but you and Namjoon spend the next 2 hours talking some more - about his songs and your pieces, about his plants and your collection of wind chimes.
You didn't expect to make him laugh as much as you did, and he said he didn't expect you to think his ramblings are adorable and amusing. You most definitely didn't expect your heart to beat as fast as it did when he told you, in his deep, raspy voice, that he's glad he took that long walk that winter, that he visited the art gallery when he did, that the hopeless romantic in him pushed him to go to the place you first met.
"I think I'm crazy but somehow I feel like I've known you for so long," he muses.
"I feel the same way," you assure him, as you hug your pillow and slowly surrender to sleep.
"Good," he hums. "That's all I wanted to know. Good night, ___. And I'll see you soon."