What do you fear the most?
To your left, the ticking of the clock deafens you pale.
To your right, sweat-decorated white walls. Ahead, embossed windows with specks of thunder and rain.
Rejection.
On the first day of your exhibition, three people come. One of which was a good friend, two great mentors from your school.
Now on the fourth day, still three visitors in total.
"Life sucks, Y/N." You murmur to yourself.
At this point, all the artwork you mothered to life seem to stare back at you in shame.
Am I not good enough? The feeling of discourage is so evident in you that you feel it in ripples. You know your confidence is wavering...
Suddenly, the clock next to you makes its hourly trip, and its bells chime. Outside, echoes of thunder rumbles once more.
With a deep breath, you tell yourself that it's not you. This does not define you as an artist. Maybe people are bothered by the rain and want to stay inside. Maybe it's just the wrong timing.
But up until today, Jersey had such beautiful, clear-cut skies.
In your head, you try to justify why people didn't show up. You followed the procedure so meticulously. You wanted people to come see your work, critique you, celebrate with you. You worked so hard on the invitations, social media. But, you are zapped of coming up with any reason why other than your own self.
You shut your eyes in disbelief and scrunch the fabric on your heart. Rejection sucks.
A whistle stops you at your tracks. It's the receptionist, a big burly guy with a too-apparent receding hairline and a thick jersey accent. He was all leather and nails at first but his soft eyes and caring words tell you that he's just a misunderstood marshmallow. A sweet, misunderstood marshmallow.
"Two more hours until we lock up," you hear him say as his head peeks in from the corner of the gallery. "Good work today, Y/N." He gives you a sorry look before glancing at his watch once more and pulling back away.
Tick tock...
The clock ticks on, and you sit on a lone chair. You rearrange the flowers on the vases on display. From time to time, you nudge the corners of your artwork, realigning them back into a perfect corner-to-corner ratio.
Tick tock...
You pace back and forth. In the distance, you hear Mr. Marshmallow's keyboard tapping away.
And there goes the annoying squeaking of your leather shoes...
Wait.
You look down at your square-toe heels. Your suede, square-toe heels. You're not wearing any leather shoes.
It's a visitor! You feel your whole body perk up at the sound of footsteps.
It's a tall, darkly dressed, drenched man. You notice his height and dangling earrings. He's shaking his teardrop embossed umbrella dry and patting the rain off of his ribbed beanie.
There's a slight pull to his dark eyes and you're aching to see more - but it's a bummer that you can't see his whole face because...he's wearing a mask! That's not something you see often here.
Then you notice his curly hair bounce with every slow footstep, while his dark eyes trail around the small gallery. He seems very hesitant and careful. His eyes make a round trip of the space a second time, as if looking for someone.
To your disappointment, it's highly possible that he is just taking cover from the rain.
But, a visitor is still a visitor.
You feel strange. There's something about his aura.. like he's someone of importance. There's the glaring Gucci satchel and the perfectly fitting, unique pieces on his tall figure. You almost bite back a whistle at the sight of his charisma.
Although his face remains hidden, you can tell that he is as handsome as he dresses.
Amidst your spying, your eyes catch his piercing ones.
You jolt slightly and awkwardly smile in response. "Hello! Welcome." You squeak. He caught you! You internally scream into a pillow from embarrassment.
Before tucking his umbrella under his arm, he gives you a tiny nod.
"Hi," he belts, words slurred and thick like honey. You're surprised at the sultry, deep tone of his voice.
His steps make its way towards your corner of the small gallery, footsteps slightly creaking.
As if giving hims personal space allowance, you take a step back as he slowly peers at your first artwork; titled "Anywhere, everywhere."
You were very young back then; remembering the painting's roots and how you began to paint it after your very first date, and then finished it shortly after your first heartbreak. It's a ricochet of colors and shapes - embossed with shellac and different mediums and layers. Parts of you and feelings that were "anywhere, everywhere", layers and layers of a relationship that seemed to build up until it was time to seal it. With a top coating of shellac, of course.
You take a deep breath. When he stares for that long at your pieces, it's like he's looking into your soul. Like being naked to your lover for the first time.
Heart drumming against your chest, you eye his movements nervously. It feels like a decade before he assesses one after the other from your collection.
The only thing you can hear besides your rapid heart are the slight creak of his footsteps. You keep your eyes on the hardwood floor.
Some time passes and your mind ravels away from the man. To your surprise, you realise that he'd been staring at the same particular piece for a long moment.
It's the one you hold close to your heart. The plainest, perhaps most cliche, but to you -- most meaningful out of the hundreds. It's the most critiqued - for all the wrong reasons.
But you did everything in your power to make sure that it was up for your very first exhibition. Ready for the world to see.
It's a self portrait of you.
This is me. It screams.
As if he sensed you staring at him, he looks back at you.
He points at the small piece in front of him. "Can I buy this?" He asks, and you notice his slight accent this time...
You smile at hi-
Wait, what?!
Smile fading, you instead stare at him in disbelief before you can respond.
"Can I buy this?" He repeats, almost nonchalantly. You open your mouth to respond, but your words are trapped in the tip of your tongue.
"I .. y-you, what? S-sorry?" All you can do is stupidly choke on your words. You want to bury yourself right now. Goodbye.
He follows your reaction with a small chuckle and you notice his eyes curve slightly. "Please. I want it." He says it almost pleadingly. Your knees go jelly for that accent of his. You know it, but can't put a finger on it...
"My god, yes. Thank you..." You breathe in disbelief. Your hands find their way to your face, and you give him the cheekiest grin!
Your first sale. You can't believe it! "Thank you!" You say again, with more confidence.
Mr. Marshmallow is like a speedy tornado, already taking care of the process before you can even move from your frozen state of happiness.
You watch him pay with cash at the reception, as Mr. Marshmallow properly packages your work. You mutter more thank yous, not even knowing if they are loud enough to reach him.
When you eye the brown envelope tucked under his arm, your eyes seem to well in pride. Your eyes follow his hands as they reach into a ringing device deep in his coat pocket.
He takes a short phone call, and suddenly he's on all heels, in need of leaving as soon as possible.
He looks back at you one more time, and your eyes are red and ready to burst in emotion. Black eyes look at yours with empathy for a long moment before heels turn toward the door.
"Wait!" You run up closer toward the entrance. The rain continues to pour, and it drowns out the bustle of yellow taxis outside.
There's one thing you want in return for your artwork. "Before you go,"
"What's your name?" Your heart is pounding.
He hesitates slightly, eyes travelling away from yours for a split second.
And then you see the curve of his eyes again.
"I am Vante." He whispers,
but it's so low you can barely decipher his words.
And he rushes out the door, into the rain, before you can say anything more.
A big black van pulls over nth street in the pouring rain....
Jin fastens his tightens his grip on his seatbelt as the van screeches to a stop.
As soon as the door slides open, copious amounts of rain escape into their dry sanctuary. The rest of the members groan, with Jin making the loudest noise of disapproval, as Taehyung jumps into the closest empty seat.
"Safe!" He breathes. Tae buckles himself in and the car takes off.
"Hey, you're drenched." Jin sighs, "where did you go off to this time? How did you get lost?" He asks, like an old man, with his old man choice of words. His eyes pop as he spots a brown parcel.
"Before that, what did you get?" Jimin, on the other side of the seats, points at the rectangular shape in Tae's hands. "You weren't even gone for that long."
Tae eyes the carefully wrapped parcel in his hand.
"Just a little something." He says. His long fingers trace over the small engraved signature in the bottom corner of his package.
Jin stares at him. "Hey, you..." He begins, ready to give the man sitting next to him the biggest verbal beating of his life. But his shoulders ease as he remembers Tae's kindness — sharing his last sugared donut with him during their interview taping today.
"You... I missed you." He slaps Tae's leg and instead commences his daily rambles. This time, about a donkey he'd seen on YouTube and how amazing it was...
Tae nods along, obviously not listening.
But with a slight smile his eyes gather toward the tinted windows. His eyes twinkle in curiosity as the strong rain slowly dies down to a pitter patter...
And he feels his fingers trace the engraved letters again and again, as if never wanting the name beneath his touch to end.
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A/N:
Was itching to write this. :)
Thanks for reading! Please vote! it would mean the world to me. <33