Jungkook p.o.v
You're not human.
--
"Jungkook", he breathed my name.
I nuzzled my head deeper into the crook of his neck. God, I am so tired.
"Hmm?" I responded.
"Jungkook."
I pulled away, hearing the stern edge to his voice.
"You know I could never hate you, right?" He asked.
Why did his voice seem so far away?
I nodded. This couldn't be good.
He licked his lips and started again.
"Jungkook," he began again.
No.
It couldn't be.
"Jungkook, please don't cry."
Why was he pleading? This wasn't like his usual self.
"Jungkook...Jungkook!"
I sat upright immediately, gasping for breath.
"Jungkook, you're okay, relax!"
That voice.
Jimin.
And sure enough, there he was. In that familiar, swept back black hair and groggy eyes.
I looked behind him at the clock.
3:00 AM.
It wasn't him pleading me not to cry. It was Jimin.
Jimin sat on the bed and watched me shiver from my dream.
Only it wasn't a dream. It actually had happened in the past, partially.
Jimin brought his fingers close to my cheeks and wiped away my tears.
I had been crying. But surprisingly, I didn't recoil away from his touch.
I basked in the pleasant feeling and let him wipe them away.
"I came to check up on you and when I did, you were whimpering and crying in your sleep." He quietly said.
Up close, I could see the tension creasing his eyebrows and the shadows underneath his eyes.
He hasn't slept a wink.
I remained quiet. So much for my armour.
I could see he was debating how to ask me what happened.
After a few moments of silence, he lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Which word describes this feeling?" He asked.
This feeling, huh.
Am I to name the person responsible for this feeling?
Am I to name the emotion clawing at my heart's door?
So after a few heartbeats and beeping of the monitors and the ticking of the clock,
"Heartbreak."
I didn't even want to speak of his name.
What depressed me even more was that I felt more pain than anger whenever I thought of him.
Jimin nodded.
"You have an art studio, right? You live there as well?" He asked.
I nodded.
His eyes lit up and whispered a quick 'I'll be back.'
Within five minutes, he came back with something behind his back.
He beckoned me to come closer and I did.
He presented me with a large sketch pad and a box of charcoal pencils.
"I don't know much about heartbreak, but I believe it can be soothed with the very things we love."
I was now in awe.
"D-Dr. Park?" I cleared my throat.
He seemed amused and--what else was that spark in his eyes?
It seemed so similar to the way he used to look at me.
Let go already, Jungkook.
"I-I'm glad you're here." I sheepishly said.
I looked at the slow smile forming,
the kind that made his eyes form into crescents,
the kind that made his teeth glisten in the moonlight,
the kind that made his lips look so achingly enchanting,
and I found myself, wishing,
hoping,
that I'd met Jimin,
instead of the boy,
that made me forget how to love,
that made me turn into the wrecked car crash,
the kind where you can't help but look,
and feel
pity.
So I chewed back down the words that had been working from my heart and up through my throat from the moment I'd met him.
I couldn't tell him.
I couldn't tell him that I'd fallen for him.
And that I was afraid he wouldn't catch me in love.
Because we shouldn't fall in love. If both of us fall, then there'll be no one to catch the other.
Just like how I had fallen in love,
And Taehyung hadn't.
》
For the next few days, my throat got better, but my flashbacks hadn't.
I kept dreaming about Taehyung and it tore me apart knowing, feeling the warmth I still had for him.
At one point, I had accidentally smacked the nurse because I was trying to get away from Taehyung in my nightmare.
I know nurses are supposed to be supportive, but I didn't blame her for calling me a 'freak' before she left.
Because after all, what do these scars make me?
A freak.
I looked at the sketch pad, fluttering from the wind flying in through the open window.
It was a cloudy day, the kind where I'd opt for painting water coloured sunsets and canvases of lush greenery or even the faces of the few customers that would wander in through my cheap studio.
I'd have to turn blemishes and large pores and scars and dark circles into the concealed portrait the customer would be happy with.
Until one day, came a customer like no other, one with no blemishes and no scars and no large pores to conceal.
Just a smooth, empty canvas for me to bring alive.
Taehyung, he'd said was his name.
I made many mistakes while sketching him because of such foreign beauty that I never had the blessing to draw.
Too bad that the beauty was only on the outside.
It's amazing how we can paint such beauties and have people delighted at your talent. But it's only because you aren't painting what's really on the inside.
If we were to easily paint such tiredness and greediness and awfulness of the soul, then painters like me would never be welcomed into society again.
So I flipped open the sketch pad, smell of fresh and raw paper, waiting to be tainted.
And I sketched him.
I sketched the one person whose face not only was beautiful, but his soul as well.
My inspiration.
Jimin.
Ever since that day, I still hadn't been able to answer the question - his colour.
I didn't know I was perplexed on knowing it. Maybe it was due to how, as a painter, I was able to know which colour suited each customer that would come in.
Jimin wasn't yellow. As much as how bright and beautiful his smile was, the pigment was not the right type.
Nor was he purple. His features didn't omit a pigment as that, one that delved and sprung to life from the aid of others.
As I stared at the half finished portrait of him, I thought of a pigment that was so in stark to him, but so in tune with him as well.
Blue - he was blue.
--
you're art yourself.