Dance to This [kth]

t w e n t y • s e v e n

ミ★
twenty-seven
❝strained thoughts❞
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For the size of the room we are in, Joon's voice is insignificant; the words escape him almost too low for me to hear, and I somewhat wish I hadn't heard him. The panic that overcomes me wants so badly to physically present itself through my cheeks and trembling mouth, but my subconscious is fighting for me. I bite on my inner cheek, and make a small fist in my hand to hide my reaction from him.

"W-What?" I ask, just as lowly, blissfully clueless.

The strength to not forfeit myself is coming from my peripheral vision. Behind Joon are the various full-length reflections of myself; my reflective presence is doubling the feeling of the towering stature he has over me, and I find solace in pretending that I am a one woman army standing against him.

Chills plague me at the feeling of his fingertip trailing up from my shoulder, over my collarbones, and to my neck. He furrows his eyebrows down at my skin, rubbing his pointer finger gently against the concealer that was supposed to hide my other reality without him. I feel like I am losing control of the narrative I'm creating.

His touch is all over me as he inspects his discovery. I squeeze my eyes closed and turn away from him to ignore the feeling. It doesn't feel right. Just an hour ago it was Taehyung who was touching me like this. . . his soft, delicate, meaningful skinship knows no bounds in contrast to Joon's lustful upon. The mere shift in pressure and caress significantly changes the intent of such touch. . . I scrunch my nose and try to turn away from him, but his fingers dig down into my shoulder to force me at his will.

"Your neck," he repeats himself forcefull. "You've covered bruises with makeup."

His observant words are almost sinister the way they fall from his lips: fragile, sincere, conniving.

I open my eyes and fight a swift tug of my shoulder away from his grasp to take a step away from him. His touch against my skin was beginning to burn me from the outside in, threatening my insides to induce vile. The feeling of his fingertip continuously against my exposed skin gives my throat a burning sensation, but I swallow away the urge to become sick at the thought. When I look back at my many selves in the reflections, each one has irritated skin and discoloration adorned on her neck. I catch my glimpse a bit delayed in each reflection I turn to, encouraging myself to take control of the paintbrush.

I have no choice but to confirm what he has already seen. I fall small, gentle, scared. . . for him.

"Y-Yes," I breathe.

I'm looking at the ground as if I'm ashamed. I'm not. I mean, I should be since he caught me, but he doesn't deserve the satisfaction of thinking he understands me. I'm not done painting the picture for him— my fine lines, contrasts, shadows, and intricate details have not yet finished the composition. Joon is trying to paint with his own brush, but I won't allow him to control anything anymore.

I take a sheepish peek at him. Joon's eyes are following my every shift in stance and change in expression. His stare, unlike Taehyung's, is not to appreciate nor adore me— he is surveying me as if I'm his prey. I cross my arms over my chest to sink into my body. I have a role to play.

"Why do you have them?"

His voice does not dance with the fragile air in the room. It pierced through it like an unwanted intruder; he questions me not because of curiosity, but of intrusion.

I present confusion to him. It's meticulously planned the way I furrow my eyebrows and look up at him innocently. I bring my hand to my own neck and start caressing my skin with concern.

I stutter, "t-these aren't from you?"

"What?" he is taken back, but he also is not giving me the satisfaction of a reaction. "Me?"

"From Wednesday. . ."

My tone of voice is growing more scared. I want Joon's cocky aura to diminish rapidly as he realizes what I'm trying to suggest. I need him to feel wrong. I can't quite tell from the look in his eyes if he believes me, but I want him to. I so desperately want him to believe that what I'm saying is the truth. It is the truth, I tell myself. I was with him and Yoongi when they were kissing, touching, sucking on me.

That's what happened.

Joon brings his hand to his chin for him to think deeply. Is he trying to remember? I don't know why his expression is almost impossible to read right now, but it is. He is overthinking everything it seems. . . but what is he thinking about? Surely this cannot be the first time he is trying to recollect the night.

The silence is frustrating. It doesn't last long, because my phone begins to buzz again loudly in the otherwise quiet air. It is only a few steps away on the bench where I changed. I don't gaze over towards the sound, but Joon does. His eyes blink away from mine to my phone. He takes a step away from me, and I panic slightly. My father is most likely calling me again.

"J-Joon," I tremble to stop him. It takes every ounce of self-hate inside me to reach over and place my small hand on his forearm.

The smallness I portray is threatening the fine line between coercion and reality.  It must be the dress that is giving me the confidence to completely distort my feelings and emotions because I am beginning to believe myself as each word drips so thickly out of my delectable palate, enticing Joon's persuasion. I tighten my fingertips around the smooth material of his jacket, trying to employ some secret language through my eyes to entice him to stay with me.

The buzzing stops. I blow out an incoherent breath unnoticeable to him. He challenges my soft, importing gaze with a determined, hard frown towards me.

I don't recognize his tone when he asks me, "you don't remember being choked because you were high?"

"We," I correct him. "We were high. . ."

"Right. . ." he trails.

I don't think he is convinced. Joon pulls his arm away from my grasp before becoming the control in the situation. His eyes are on me again, intensely staring at the hidden discoloration on my pale skin. It's then that he does it; he places his hand on my shoulder before sliding his fingertips down my arm. My skin grows chills at the feeling of him against me, his painfully slow touch like an irritant. He feels like sandpaper against me. His trail leads down to my palm, where he entwines our fingers to hold my hand. He then pulls me towards him. I stumble over my own feet, and the gown, when my free hand is placed on his chest to steady myself.

I bite my huff. His hands don't feel right as they dominate me into a position more comfortable for me to stand. This guy is trying to hard to control every aspect of our predicament right now. It is just like the life I suspect of him: controlling everyone around him. I can't get the image of his blackmail out of my head. He is such a shitty person. . .

My phone starts to buzz again. Joon doesn't take lightly to the sound this time. His fast twists as if his time is being interrupted.

"I think. . . I-I should go answer that," I shy.

I assume it is my father, but right now, at this very moment, getting away from Joon's embrace is worth checking my phone for what my father has to say. I am expecting Joon to be compliant and understand that I should retrieve my ringing phone, but he isn't as forthcoming to release me. I pull at his touch, just gently, to free myself, but Joon only budges at my second attempt.

I gather my gown in my hands to assist me to walk freely. Joon follows me when I step down to return to the dressing room. The bright lights of the room feel as hot as an interrogation lights the way the heat is getting to me. I'm losing breath with each stride I take to distance myself from Joon, but he continues on my tail, presumably wanting to know who could be calling me so earnestly while I'm out with him.

I grasp my phone. It is still my father who is calling. This is his third call within minutes. Why?

"I-It's my father. . . I don't want to answer it."

My confession does not garner the reaction I want from the man beside me. Before I can lock my phone to end the call, Joon whisks my device from my hand. He is smug with his attitude towards me as he outwits my efforts.

"Your dad?" He challenges me knowingly. He thinks I'm lying.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm answering it," he states as if it's obvious.

"Do not," I demand harshly, my timid facade taking the backseat. "Joon."

I try to reach over him to grab my phone, but he forcibly pushes me away. His stiff forearm hits into my chest and I grouse in my pain. I don't have enough time to react, because the deplorable man beside me answers my phone, bringing it to his ear without permission. My eyes go wide.

"This is Namjoon. Eunha is preoccupied at the moment."

"J-Joonie," I grit my teeth at him, trying not to act too forceful in fear of ruining our reality. "This isn't funny."

He doesn't glance in my direction. The smugness astounds me. I can feel my heart as it loses rhythm against my chest, pounding harshly as the realization sets in. Joon is answering the phone as if marking his territory towards whomever he assumed would answer the phone, but it is to my father.

Joon is smirking to himself. "Tell me your name."

Not wanting to react brazenly, I lean my head closer to try to make out any words, but if there are any, they get lost into Joon's ears. I suppose it is also hard to hear anything with how loudly my heart is thumping against my chest. The two worlds of my life that I never wanted to meet are colliding. . .

I lose my breath and find myself wanting to lean down onto the bench. The old me would've done that. I'm not her.

"Reveal your real identity," Joon continues, "coward."

It's at this point that I realize this is actually happening. He is threatening my father under the pretense it is another guy.

My timidness ceases in an instant, and I don't allow this to continue. I force myself onto Joon and snatch his wrist into my hand, digging down into his skin with my nails to get him to release my phone. I can feel it as I pierce his skin; he hisses in surprise at how painful my touch is, allowing the device to tumble softly into the carpet. I push at his chest as hard as I can with my elbow to get him away from me.

When I do pick up the phone and end the call with the lock button, the feeling of Joon's hand entangled in my hair causes my eyes to open and my body to get pulled. He pulls at me harshly. . . the roots of my hair on fire with the swift tug. I scowl when he pulls me into him; my body meets his chest but he doesn't move. I grimace when his lips meet my ear. It's difficult to turn my head away from him. Consequently, I begin struggling to break free. Our deep breathing blows into one another's faces as my struggles continue. He is too big. . . too strong. . .

"This is fun," he chuckles menacingly.

I furrow my eyebrows at the twisted words and tone I'm hearing. I squeeze my eyes closed before I jolt my head back into him. Our heads meet harshly, the impact causing a ringing sensation to erupt in my left ear as I break free. I bite down on my lip to control my pain before I grab my phone from his dazed condition.

"What the fūck is wrong with you?" I yell. "Who are you to answer my fūcking phone?"

It is as if Namjoon has found the only loophole to my madness. I can't control my reaction when it comes to my father. I want to hide somewhere and be alone, away from the world, at the very thought of my father infiltrating the life I've built here at Loomis— away from him. Joon has just broken that wall. The words that escape me are the product of my inability to accept who I was. I tried for many months to bury her, but Joon simply took a shovel and dug it back up with the swift click of a button. This inability to expose my thoughts has shown itself as rage.

I can barely keep up with how hard I'm breathing, and Joon does not react heavily to how loudly and aggressively I'm speaking. He is leaning back against the wall with his hand at his nose— it's gushing blood.

"What did he say?" I demand him for an answer.

Joon is silent. I watch him, expecting his eyes to gaze over me like I am someone entirely different than he has ever seen before, but instead there is a small knowing smirk that threatens him. A knowing smirk covered in the gushing blood running down from his nose. I grow unbelievably uncomfortable at the sight. It turns my stomach into knots.

I fist my fingertips to stop myself from reaching over to smack the smirk from his face. I exhale the cries that want to spill from my tingling lips.

"This is over." I break the silence. "I'm going home."

He doesn't answer me nor react. He is simply standing there, looking at me, as if he has accomplished something that he wanted. I gather that he is staying silent to get more of a reaction out of me, but I can play his game better than he can. I don't need him, and I make this an apparent fact when I begin to gather my clothes. I carry my belongings to the adjacent dressing room and roughly pull the curtain closed behind me to change out of the dress.

My hands are shaking as I undo Jodi's clothes pins from the gown. My fingertips can only just reach them behind me, but I'm grateful that they do. I can just merely take hold of the zipper on my side as I peel the expensive material away from my body. The show is over. I return a bit of my sanity, and bury the grave, with each article of clothing I return to myself.

My phone starts to buzz again. I pick it up with the intent to throw it against the pristine white walls of my confinement, but I stop myself and calmly click to silence the call.

I don't bother to pick up the dress. I leave it there to fall victim to the receipt Joon will have to pay for it. When I pull open the curtain, he is gone. I don't waste a moment to make my way towards the exit. Jodi and Clara are behind the door when I pull it open hastily. I don't even bother to say anything to them when I pass them.

It's been a while since I felt like this. . . I am scared. I am fearful for what is awaiting me on the other side of the phone. I'm trying to listen to the subconscious that tells me that he can't control me anymore, but it's so hard to trust her right now. With each step I take to the exit of ANJO, it is as if I am repeatedly stabbing myself in the chest with commands to overcome this fear.

This fear is swallowing me. I can't hear anything else when I make my way into the parking lot. The cold air doesn't have time to sting my skin because I am preoccupied with everything else. My eyes scan the area, focusing on nothing and everything at the same time. I have to find a bus route.

A car horn blares through my eardrums, and I turn quickly at the sight of headlights to my right. Tires screech against the pavement, and my palm falls atop the hood of a car. It's then that the atmosphere returns to me, my awareness back and my thumping heart no longer overcoming my senses.

I don't acknowledge the angry driver when I walk away; frazzled.

"Eunha!" I hear Joon calling for me. His voice is angry, not worrisome.

The fear that I feel towards my father is squashed by the vile hatred that rises within me at the sound of his voice. This is how I should feel. I'm not scared. I am mad. I am so angry. These two men are trying desperately to control me to the point of intruding on my everyday life. From a phone call to a physical intrusion of my privacy, both Joon and my father know no bounds.

"What are you going to do? Walk back to campus?" he shouts condescendingly, his voice nearing me.

I can't stop myself. "I have a phone, dumbass."

I jump in surprise when I feel his hand at my shoulder. He pulls me back harshly, my body jolting in a spin to look at him. It is obvious that he rushed to change and follow me. The collar of his jacket is tucked inward, and his jeans are not fitted nicely into his boots. His hair is disheveled from hauling his shirt over his head so quickly. Blood has dripped all over him.

"Dumbass?" he grits, pulling me into him by my forearm. He overpowers me. I feel weak.

His wrist is bleeding from my nails. It smears against the dark material of my jacket as we struggle against one another.

"Let go," I demand.

"You aren't in a position to ask me for favors, Eunhie."

The nickname is like a summoning from hell. I have no recollection of taking in nor understanding his words towards me. Not in a position to ask for favors? I swallow hard, his breaths hitting my face. His eyes are narrowed down at me; my nose is only inhaling the pure smell of him. The gray sky above us feels as though we are alone in an inescapable cloud of asphalt and ruin.

"You don't know me," I seethe. "You think you know me, but you fūcking don't."

He laughs pathetically at me. The passionate words are escaping me without any hesitation. I really can't stop myself. The feelings I have inside can only be expelled using the fitting language.

"I don't know you?" he continues in laughter.

He isn't talking to me. He is talking at me. The way his eyes are looking at me are as if he can't see anything ahead of him.

"Get off," I grit.

Joon does not react to my thrashing movements. We are in public, out here in a shopping center parking lot, but no one is acknowledging us. I am helplessly falling victim to his grasp, and no matter how harshly I struggle beneath him, he doesn't move. I'm clenching my teeth to stop myself from crying in frustration.

It's then that I spit in his face before stomping on his foot. I feel as the heel of my boot digs down his bones. I break myself from his hold and stumble down to the ground. My tights rip against the concrete as I attempt to crawl away before regaining my stance. My backpack makes it difficult to gain balance, and my intake of breath is a sharp as I feel my skin scrape along the hard surface, but there is no time to think too much about it. I am distancing us as if he is an imminent threat to my well-being. It feels as though he is. . .

"Stop with the theatrics for once. Let's go," he says calmly. Too calm. He wipes my spit from his face, walking towards me as I walk backwards away.

I can't take this anymore. Joon has crossed many lines— one after the other— but this line is my breaking point. The line became officially crossed forever the moment he intercepted the call with my father. It has made every plan I had diminish within seconds.

I'm done.

"Fūck you," I cry of frustration.

"There we go," he taunts me, "say it louder."

My face grows in disgust at how much he is enjoying this. Joon is too close to me again. I don't hesitate this time when my hand connects to his cheek in a harsh, quick, slap to his skin. He brings his hand to his cheek and rubs his fingertips against the reddened sting. It is silent the moments following my hit. I don't react quickly enough when he grabs me again, pulling me by my jacket this time to make me follow him to his car.

"How do you think daddy will feel to know what you've been up to?"

His lips are at my ear as the words slip sensually. My heart sinks, and the knots in my stomach tighten.

"Hey!" a stranger from across the parking lot finally interrupts us.

I pull away from Joon the moment I have the chance. He doesn't follow nor taunt after me this time when I start walking briskly away from him, distancing us quickly as I guide myself towards the other end of the parking lot. I pretend that his threat doesn't affect me as I escape him, but deep down I am panicking.

His threat isn't empty; he is controlling whatever idea of a relationship we have by showing his trump card. Is he trying to use dance against me? Is that the only card he has? How could he know this about me?

I grab my phone. My notification screen shows the many missed calls from my father following the altercation in the dressing room. My thumb hovers over his glossy name. It doubles in my vision behind the tears that are threatening my eyes. I need to confront my fear while I have this adrenaline running through me. My palm still tingles from smacking Joon. . .

I do it. I fight the fear— it is the only way to find control. I dial my father and bring my phone to my ear. The obnoxious rev of Joon's car fills the air, and the small glance I take back to the parking lot confirms that he has decided to angrily drive away in the opposite direction of where I'm walking. I'm thankful.

The thankfulness ends when I hear his voice.

"Eunha?"

My father's voice is hoarse. It isn't quite as I remember it the last time I spoke with him in the library all those weeks ago, but it could just be the fact that I do not feel as small and powerless when I hear him anymore. He sounds like a foreign figure from a different life time. . . a mirage of the parent I have spent so many years cowering down to.

"Yes?"

I'm walking in an unknown direction. I don't have the slightest idea what direction campus is in, nor do I know any of the street signs I see. My knees sting with each step I take towards a freedom away from Namjoon. There is blood dripping down my shins. Is he going to come back? I'm unsure. I walk as quickly as I can; I pass a barbershop, a flower shop, an antique store, a tanning salon. . . It appears I am in a small strip of stores. This realization doesn't matter much given I am still lost. Walking is relieving me of thinking about everything that just happened, so I continue.

"Who was that boy?"

None of your fūcking business.

I bite my retorting tongue and subdue to him. I feel like a machine greased up and going through the motions.

"It was no one," I sigh sheepishly.

"Do you intend to court him? Without my permission?"

I don't need your permission.

"No." I say firmly.

I do not intend to court anyone. I am not lying when I say this; Taehyung is not someone I will ever court. I am already with him. The sound of my father projecting his ownership over my personal life is something I cannot believe I used to accept as the truth. My father made me so small. . . so insignificant. . . he truly made me believe my world started and ended with him. . .

"Do not lie to me."

You lie to me about everything. Who are you to talk?

"I'm not lying," I say.

"I told you, Eunha. I wouldn't mind if you found a nice fellow. I want to meet him."

I don't want you to meet Taehyung.

"There is no one to meet."

The conversation is giving me a headache. I furrow my eyebrows and pinch my skin with my fingertips to alleviate the feeling, but it is underwhelming in helping me. I find myself walking more quickly to keep up with my running thoughts. I can't catch up. The cold air is making it difficult to find a steady breathing pattern, and I am somehow sweating amidst the weather.

"Then what are you doing with this Namjoon?"

Fighting.

"Studying," I lie. "In a group. A study group. He was just fooling around when he answered the phone."

"Put the young man on the phone."

He is a monster, not a young man.

"I left," I tell him. "I'm walking back to my dorm now. I didn't answer you because I was packing away my things."

The lies escape me easily. I don't care what I have to do to create the reality for my father, but it will not include Joon. Namjoon tried to paste himself into my novel, but this memoir I'm working on has no room for the likes of him. He will be redacted as many times necessary.

"Very well," he concludes the discussion, but it's obvious he doesn't believe me. That doesn't matter. What he says next, however, will echo in my mind for hours to come. "I have a flight tomorrow. I'm coming to see you."

I don't want to see you.

"What? Tomorrow? You're coming to Loomis? Tomorrow?"

I can't gather my thoughts coherently. I have to stop walking to compose myself. It's only been a few minutes of walking, but yet I am quite the distance away from wherever ANJO was located. I still have yet to recognize anything around me. People walk busily on the sidewalk, passing me without much of a second look. Focusing on the strangeness of the people and location surrounding me is enough to calm myself down from the words I am hearing.

"Yes," he confirms my fear. "You received my letter, yes?"

I received your money.

"Yes."

"Yet I received no call?"

You are so observant. . .

I'm silent because I'm tired of making up excuses. I want to tell him I couldn't be bothered to talk to him, but I would never recover from saying such a thing. He continues when I stay silent:

"I have a faith convention up North, and I decided to spend the layover with my daughter. Is that so bad?"

Yes.

"Father, I don't want to keep you from your convention—"

"Nonsense. It has been months since I last saw you. I pray for you at my services every week, and now it's time I check up on you. It will only be for half the day, darling."

My eyes stumble upon a familiar bus sign. It is the same bus I had taken to visit Taehyung at his art gallery. I know that I should want to take this bus back to Loomis in order to make it to my class, or even get to practice, but I can't stand the thought of Namjoon conveniently appearing at my class, my dorm, or my dance practice to patronize me further.

"Eunha?" my father calls for me.

He is calling for the distant mind of mine that falls so easily to thoughtfulness as of late. It consumes me.

"What time?" I ask.

"Noon. Will you be available at that time?"

It wouldn't make a difference. You expect me to cater to your every need.

"Sure," I reply lazily. "I have to go now. I have class."

"Your priorities are commendable, darling. I will see you soon. I love you."

Fūck you.

I don't say anything more before ending the call. I'm still mad. I'm mad at myself. I'm mad that I allowed my father to so heavily control my feelings towards Namjoon today. I ruined everything I had been working towards creating for Joon, and now it's all over: my facade. The painting I was trying to create has been kicked in— the stretched canvas is broken, ripped by a knife with no limits. I suppose that maybe it was meant to happen eventually. How long was Joon holding on to that information? How long has he known about the secrets I was keeping from my father? Does he know more?

As much as I don't want to admit this. . . I know that Jungkook must have said something. What is the extent of all that he has told Joon?

I let out a scream of aggravation. The handful of people around me only glance at my madness from across the street, but I don't care. I clench my teeth and grunt at myself. . . the anger. . . I let him get to me.

I sigh to myself and look across the street again at the bus sign.

Don't go to campus, I tell myself again.

I feel conflicted about what direction I want to take anything. There is an immense pressure on me now, and it weighs me down. I feel heavy and sluggish; I want to forget about my altercation with Joon, and erase the conversation with my father. It is mentally exhausting me. Tears want to run down my cheeks as each second passes by that I'm able to reflect of what has gone on. I need to suppress it. . . push it to the darkest depth of my subconscious. This anger that is spiraling out of control inside me is threatening to come undone.

I take a seat at a bench on the corner of two streets unknown to me. I find comfort in this, however, because the strangeness of my location assures me that no one will disrupt me. I need this mental release. I need a break from thinking.

So, I sit. . . with an enraged, racing mind, and no where to go. . . trying to become blissfully thoughtless. My mind wanders along with the soft wind.

◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎

An inexplicable amount of time has passed since I've settled down both mentally and physically on this bench. By the time I decide to blink out of my thoughts, the cold air is much more consuming and wretched. The sun is lower in the sky, and the light grays have become darker. I can feel the dried tears of frustration that stream down my cheeks, frozen in the grasp of the chilling wind.

I wipe at my face, but the tears are hard to make dissipate. I lick my thumbs and scrub them away. My eyes feel sore, like I hadn't been truly focusing on anything recently. It then that I check the time and choke on my breath.

One hour has passed.

An hour? I feel strange. I have been sitting here as if not existing. I can't recall a thought I had. I remember staring off aimlessly without much of an idea of what to think about. . . but it feels as though that started only minutes ago, What do I do? Why do I still feel aimless?

I take out my phone and open my navigation application with the intent to find campus. I mean, I do. . . I find campus. When I zoom out, I can see that I am quite a few kilometers from Loomis, but I swipe my fingertip across the screen until I find something that speaks to me. I am too tempted when I see Vante's Art Gallery. It's in the opposite direction, but it is still closer than I had assumed. From the information online I can see that it is closed today.

"Fūck me," I grouse.

My heart sinks at the thought of Taehyung. I thought I was past this; I thought I was done wallowing at the hands of my father, but when it came down to it, just a mere phone call had spun me up and taken me captive. I'm so foolish. I'm foolish to think I was making progress.

No. I'm gritting at myself now in my thoughts, fighting against what my mind is saying and what my deepest, inner subconscious begs of me. There is a part of me that knows what happened with Joon was inevitable; he destined for me to break. It was only a matter of when.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I grit my jaw at the thought of it being my father again. Instead, I am not disappointed to see that it is Taehyung who has messaged me.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Is it selfish of me to want pictures?

I swallow my feelings before replying. Calm down. . . be calm. . .

You:
I wish I could've...
the dress was really nice 😢

♡ Taehyung ♡:
You're done shopping then?

You:
yes

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Are you on campus now?

I glance up from my phone. I've been stagnant on a bench for an hour that I have no recollection of. Do I tell him this? What do I expose to him? It is hard enough to confess my deepest thoughts to myself, but to tell Taehyung. . . I'm conflicted.

It doesn't paint a pretty picture.

You:
no

♡ Taehyung ♡:
You're not shopping...
and you haven't returned to campus...

You:
I'm not with him

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Okay.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Where are you then?

I told myself it was time to trust my subconscious, yet I am fighting with her more than I ever have before. I know I should tell him. . . he has been so forthcoming with me. . . but he will think I am crazy. I clawed and drew blood in a fight in a parking lot.

You:
I am sitting on a bench 30 minutes from campus

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Send me your location.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Please.

You:
I'm okay
please don't start this
don't u ever just sit in ur feelings?

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Often.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
But I've discovered it is liberating to share my feelings with someone else.

My cheeks feel flush from his text; he is talking about all that we shared with one another thus far. But does he know the real me? The me that even I refuse to recall? He texts me again:

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Someone special...

You:
tae...
you have class

♡ Taehyung ♡:
My 3:30 class could use a break.

You:
Please no no not for me
I will be back on campus for practice at 7

♡ Taehyung ♡:
And if I want to see you now?

You:
ur just saying this to make me agree 😤

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Is it working?

You:
a little

♡ Taehyung ♡:
We can cuddle on this bench you speak of.

I glance around me. The corner I'm sitting on is quiet, but since the sky is becoming dark, the weather is becoming colder. I sink into my jacket to find warmth.

You:
It's too cold 😖

♡ Taehyung ♡:
You tell me not to start this...
and then you tell me you're sitting outside in the cold.

You:
you're reading too much into it

I bite my lip in contemplation. He will show up here, and the first thing he will comment on is my bloody knees. The scrapes bled down my legs. I can see the dark crimson red behind the sheer material, and Joon's blood is also all over my left jacket sleeve. He can't see me like this. I would never hear the end of it.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Eunha.

You:
Taehyung.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Fine.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Why are you sitting out in the cold?
Do you plan on leaving?

I feel like I've trained him to stop dictating me. He is asking so many questions because he can't tell me what to do. I find it. . . endearing.

You:
i don't want to be on campus

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Did something happen?

I can't find it in me to reply or lie. I don't want to do either of those things. Consequently, I sit with the bright screen shining in my face and hovering thumbs not knowing what to say. Taehyung is talkative right now; he sends another text.

♡ Taehyung ♡:
I cancelled my class.

I grumble under my breath. I have no choice now since he did that for me. It occurs to me in that moment that the only person I can tell is him. He is the only one here for me. . . the only one who sees me— who I want to be, anyway. He deserves the truth from me. I just. . . don't want to be so angry when I tell it. I don't know if I can calm myself down enough.

He won't think I'm crazy. . . right? He didn't think I was last time. . .

You:
fine.

You:
[Eunha's Location]

♡ Taehyung ♡:
Thank you.
I'm leaving now.

I lock my phone, clutching the device harshly in my grasp to project my slight frustration on to. For the first time in an hour, I stand from the bench and engulf myself in my jacket. I can feel the cold breeze hitting my bare knees now with each step I take. I know that I will need to clean myself up before seeing my boyfriend— it will make it easier to explain what happened without his panic.

There is a discount store across the street from me. I walk across the vacant four lane street, jogging a bit to make it to the sidewalk before the bus pulls into its stop. I press both my hands onto the glass entrance of the store, pushing myself in. A bell rings, and the warm gust of air hits my body like a relaxer. . . I find myself pausing for a moment to take it in. It smells of vanilla scented car refreshers.

It's a small store. From what I can see, there is only one employee standing behind the counter. She appears to be near my age. Her dark hair is long, and I can just tell by the way she presents herself that she wouldn't have taken Namjoon's bullshīt either. Am I being too hard on myself?

I blink away from my stare before she can sense me and walk to the farthest right aisle before I grab a box of bandaids and a small travel sized bottle of rubbing alcohol to clean my bloody knees.

The low, distant sound of a TV buzzing somewhere beyond the counter fills the warm air. It is some game show, and every few seconds there is a buzzer and cheers. I can hear murmuring coming from the back as well. Since I am somehow taller than the shelves, I can see the entirety of the store from every position I'm in.

I hurriedly walk down the aisle, to the left, and up towards some socks. The floor gives in slightly in some spots with each step I take. It's there that I grab a pair of opaque stockings to change into.

I am about to place my items on the counter when I set sight on boxes of condoms just a half meter from the cashier. The feeling I get while looking at them is indescribable. I'm frozen as I stare at them. . . they hold some figurative sense of power over me. It's a stupid thought, I know.

The worker's voice breaks my stare: "they're cheaper than Plan B. Trust me."

Her friendly chuckle relieves me. If a woman like her has no problem proclaiming such things to a stranger, then why should I care so much about how she perceives me? How do I perceive myself? I want to be the girl who careless buys condoms in public. When I reach forward and take the box that looks the most similar to the one Taehyung had, I become that girl.

I place my items on the counter. The worker scans my stockings, my bandaids, the rubbing alcohol, and the box of condoms. The scanning sound echos in the tiny shop. I reach into my backpack for my wallet, but I stop myself. My fingertips grasp onto the envelope from my father. . . he will pay for the condoms. It is the least he could do after everything that has transpired thanks to him. I sneer lowly at my thought.

"Where did you get your earrings? They're so pretty," the worker asks me.

My hand raises instinctually to touch my earring. It's then that I remember they're the shimmery ones I excitedly put on this morning.

"Oh, thank you," I shy. "My mom gave them to me a while ago. . ."

The worker nods as she places my items into a bag. I'm surprised by her apathetic reply. "Lucky you. My mom's a cūnt."

I reply to the grotesque language she used before I can stop myself: "my father is too."

I stare at her after the confession leaves my lips. It's a peculiar feeling that I get when she chuckles along with my comment about my father. Did I lie? No. Confiding in this stranger has proved to be something I needed. I needed this reminder. My father is a cūnt. Yes. He is a big. . . cūnt.

This stranger relates to what I feel; it is a bittersweet sense of validation.

I give her the cash from my father's envelope to seal the deal. Every small step counts in regaining control over the life he left me in shambles with.

"Are you alright?" she asks me with furrowed brows. Her hands motion to her neck, where she points as if mirroring me.

Clearly I underestimated how much product Taehyung had taken off with his mouth and hands in his office earlier. . .

"Oh. . ." I tighten my scarf uncomfortably. "Yeah. My boyfriend likes it rough."

My boyfriend. I love to say that out loud; the stranger loves that I said it as well. She smiles widely as if congratulating me, and then hands the plastic bag with our shared expression.

"I aspire to have your sēx life."

I hesitate to respond right away because I'm thrown off by her words. Never in my life would I have thought someone would say this to me. . . to be jealous of the sēx I'm having. I was under the impression that sēx would send me to hell only four months ago. . .

"Thanks," I reply because I don't know what else to say.

"Well, have a good one," she laughs with a pleasantry as I gather the items. I am about to put them into my backpack when it occurs to me that I need to fix myself right now.

"Do you have a bathroom?"

"Sorry," she shakes her head, "not for customers."

"No problem," I reply. "Thank you."

The door rings again when I pull it open to return to the chilly air. My teeth are shuttering and I'm contemplating what I should do the moment I hit the pavement. Taehyung should be here in about five minutes, but given he is probably speeding his way over here thinking I'm going through a crisis, I can't be so sure.

The people who were waiting at the bus stop are gone. I decide to step into the glass confinement to hide from the wind and set my backpack down.

Reaching into my backpack, I retrieve the box of bandages and small bottle of rubbing alcohol I purchased. I don't hesitate this time when I pull my ripped stockings down in public, although I am alone, and I step out of them while standing on my shoes. My hands are shaking from both the weather and my nervousness to get this done before Taehyung pulls up across from me.

The bottle cap to the rubbing alcohol bounces against the cement and runs out into the street when I open it, but I can't focus on that as I pour the liquid down my leg. I forgot to buy tissues or something similar, so I resort to using my fingers to wipe and clean the mess. My skin is frozen, and the rubbing alcohol is freezing against me. It feels as though I've poured ice water onto a popsicle. It dries quickly, though, and I place two bandages over the scrapes on my knees. My legs are shaking now as I rip open the new box of opaque tights I bought. An old woman joins me at the stop while I'm doing this, and she shoots me a glare.

I glare back instinctually, and don't look up at her again as I pull the new pair on. I make sure to hide myself with my skirt all the while, watching as the black material covers every imperfection on my legs. The material is stretchy in my fingertips as I pull. . . covering my ankles, my shins, then my knees, and up my thighs. This is better than makeup— it will not disappear so easily.

I scramble to put my shoes back on. I throw everything lazily into my bag, zipper it, and swing it over my shoulder. I'm hoping Taehyung will not notice my frazzled state, but it's difficult to stop myself from feeling like this with how rushed and anxious I'm becoming.

Unfortunately, I cannot even say I am relaxed by the time I sit down at the bench again. Each minute I spend sitting here, waiting, does not thin my patience— it thickens my irritation. What do I say to my boyfriend? He will know something is wrong, I just know it. He always does. Even when he doesn't, it festers up like guilt within me when I try to hide something.

I need to push this all into the back of mind, never to be found again. It's hard to. I failed. Every time I attempt to reflect and get over how I reacted, I only grow more resentment towards myself.

◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎

Taehyung arrives after only two more minutes. I'm holding back my scowl when I enter the car. The heat is blasting.

"Christ, Eunha," he observes, "you look freezing."

He clicks a button three times between us. It is my seat heater that he is putting on the highest setting. The back of my thighs instantly begin to feel relief from the cold. I pull my scarf off and throw my bag into the backseat more aggressively than I would've liked.

"Talk to me," he insists. He is always insisting this.

I can feel his eyes watching every movement I make. I don't sneak a peek at him because I know that will only make me break even worse than I am now, swimming in the depths of my own consciousness. I don't need to see what Taehyung is seeing.

"I'm an idiot," I grumble lowly. "I fūcked everything up. I. . . I just. . ."

I trail off into my own grievance of myself.

My boyfriend doesn't drive off like I had suspected he would. Instead, he puts the car in park and leans back into his seat. I cross my arms across my chest. Don't look at him.

He is calm in contrast to my vulgar language. "Baby, let's take a breath."

"No," I refuse. "Don't talk down to me like that. . . please."

It is so quiet in the car that I don't need to look at my boyfriend to know how softly he is breathing. My sniffles from the cold seem to blare like an alarm each time I scrunch my nose and remedy myself. I feel a mixture of anger and sadness at the fact that Taehyung cancelled a class due to my inability to handle my father. It's pathetic. I'm pathetic.

I'm not supposed to be that girl anymore.

"Okay," he replies easily. "Tell me what you're talking about."

"Everything was fine, okay? Joon and I had unbearable small talk in his car, and then we were shopping. . . right? It's fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine. And then. . . and then—"

"Did he touch—?"

"Stop," I interject Taehyung's attempt at cutting me off. "You don't speak. I do."

The words come out harshly, but I didn't mean them to. I exhale a sharp breath before I look at my boyfriend. I'm unsure if he is speechless due to the fact that I just commanded him to shut up or because I commanded him at all, but nevertheless he doesn't say anything. Our eyes meet and I blink away quickly. The intimidation of his stare is the last thing I need right now as I gather my courage to explain what happened.

I continue, "We were fine up until. . ."

I'm trailing again because I'm fearful to tell Taehyung exactly what happened. Do I tell him that Joon found my bruises? Do I say I fought with him because of that? Do I mention my father? The physical fight we had because of that? I'm fighting my mind again. . . the many selves within me don't know how to properly approach this.

"Until what?" Taehyung snaps impatiently.

It's the first time I've ever heard him like this. It has escalated the conversation abruptly, and shifted the tone in the car. My body jolts at the whip of his voice and tears instinctually start rushing down my cheeks. They are tears of frustration that I involved my boyfriend into this mess of my life: my inability to just be.

"I can't be what he wants!"

I had attempted to match his tone, but my voice breaks into my tears. I bravely turn in my seat to look at Taehyung with my body. His eyes are alert yet narrowed at me as if expecting me to tell him the worst case scenario. I can sense that he wants to ask me a million questions, but I don't let him get the word in.

"I tried to just be. . . feeble and meek. I know that's what he wants," I cry. "But I can't."

I don't know who I'm talking about at this point. I tried to be the vision of Eunha these men had of me. They want me to be compliant, timid, soft-spoken, afraid. . . I can't do it anymore. I just. . . can't. It isn't a matter of just going along with who they want me to be because it makes life easier— no. It isn't even a matter of me pretending to in order to get Namjoon to believe in lies. It is a matter of my sanity and self identity. It's eating at me. They want to hold the paintbrushes; they want me to be their canvas.

I continue softly in my cries, "I'm not a canvas."

My boyfriend is struggling to maintain a calm tone at my figurative language. "Don't use metaphors. . . please."

I choke out in an elaboration, "my dad called me while I was shopping."

The mention of my father instantly shifts the air. It feels as though I've brought up an forbidden topic the way it falls silent after I speak. I would much rather the topic of my father be forbidden, but he is difficult to escape. Today has proven that. The mention is still delicate between the two of us since the last time I spoke of him was about how much he manipulated me.

"Namjoon answered the phone. . . he took my phone from me and answered it."

I blow out a breath to stop the rage from returning. I clutch my hands into fists.

"T-Taehyung, it is like everything I had worked towards disappeared in that once instance."

The moment I decided I was not going to sit idly by while Joon talked to my father is the moment I let both Joon and my father take control of my life again. The rage I feel grows from something deeper than just that.

I let myself down. I betrayed myself. I wish I could say this to Taehyung, but there are just some things that are too harsh to say. Once they leave my lips, it will be real. It will mean something to someone else. I can't allow that.

"I'm scared," I admit. "I'm scared of the way I act when I don't feel in control. . ."

The confession feels as though I have been holding on to it for too long. I'm clenching my toes inside my shoes to overcome how badly I want to close my eyes and pretend none of this has ever happened. It is painful to express these things to Taehyung, but I know that it will overcome me if I don't.

My boyfriend reaches over to grab my hand, pulling it from my lap. His fingers encase mine and I already can feel my lip quivering at the feeling. 

Something is wrong with me.

It is a line I have said to Taehyung before. Although he was able to convince me last time that nothing is wrong with me, today has proven to me that I continuously allow this darkness to plague me. First with Hana. . . then with Yoongi and Joon. . . now with Joon again. . . who will be next?

I'm searching Taehyung's eyes as if pleading with him to save me from this darkness. I need to be convinced I can be saved.

My boyfriend brings my hand to his soft lips. He kisses each one of my digits before glancing up at me. He exhales, "I shouldn't have snapped like that."

"I-I just couldn't get my thoughts straight."

"I was impatient because. . . you are wearing different clothing," he comments lowly against my fingertips.

There is a certain level of knowingness to his voice. Is that why he snapped? Was he impatient for what I would say about Joon? I swallow hard at his observation. I'm in awe that my boyfriend noticed that my tights are different. I purse my lips at my recollection of the few hours ago that he had me in his hands.

"He didn't touch me like that," I assure him.

"Like that?"

"Please," I sit back into the seat. "I-I can't. . ."

I'm losing my breath. I close my eyes and try to pull my hand away from my boyfriend, but he is persistent and rough with his grasp. With my eyes closed, the darkness is swallowing me; I try to push away the recollection I have of completely losing control and remind myself that I am here, with Taehyung, and safe.

"Eunha. . ."

His trailing voice forces me to open my eyes and look at him. I follow his stare down to our conjoined hands where Joon's blood is all over my jacket.

"You have to tell me," he insists.

I don't have to, I mentally reply. It is my shame that doesn't want to tell him. I'm scared of what he will say when he realizes how irrational I reacted to someone taking my phone from me. My mouth opens to confess to my behavior, but I deceive myself. Something else spills out.

"He saw the bruises," I explain. "H-He was basically calling me out for cheating on him."

"How did he react?"

"He wasn't happy," I explain. "I mean. . . obviously he knows they're not from him. . ."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat at the altering of the truth. I can't tell Taehyung the reality of the night at the party.

"Did he become violent?"

My boyfriend's leading questions are making it easier to express everything jumbled in my head. I feel as though millions of thoughts are fighting their way to the front line of my mouth. . . I'm cherry-picking exactly which ones to use. Taehyung doesn't release his touch on my hand; he is waiting patiently.

"W-Well then my phone started to ring. . . and, I guess he thought it would be you—like, another man. . . not that he knows about you."

I blink to stop myself from remembering what went on in the dressing room. The ugliest part of the painting is approaching, and I'm not sure if I'm going to cover it with more paint or let Taehyung look at it and evaluate it. I think I have to. Maybe if I expose this ugliness to him, he will be able to mend my aching resentment.

"So, he answered it. It was my dad. And, um, I. . . I was. . . the one who physically tried to take the phone from him. It's how the fight started."

"Did he fight back when you tried to take the phone?"

"Yes," I recall. My chest still hurts from the force of his forearm. "He pushed his forearm into me."

The heat is becoming too much in the car. I reach over into the console and turn it down before also shutting off my seat warmer. My face feels flushed and I'm beginning to sweat from nervousness now. Taehyung doesn't need to know the extent of how roughly I fought with Joon to retrieve my phone. . .

"He grabbed my hair and pulled me. . ."

Taehyung's face grows increasingly more disturbed as I continue. We don't break eye-contact, however. My chest is becoming heavier with each moment I replay, but I need to.

"What is wrong with him? Is he an animal?" he mutters, but mostly to himself.

"Yes, yes, yes," I cry. "He is, Tae. Y-You don't understand. While all of this was happening, I could tell he was enjoying it. He was smirking and-and threatening me like it's a game. He-He didn't stop until some stranger in the parking lot intervened."

It doesn't matter that I was fighting back. . . right? What else was I to do at the point when we got into the parking lot? I may have started the fight in the dressing room, but not in the parking lot. I glance down at my knees uncomfortably. Taehyung reaches over and urges me to look at him with his finger on my chin. He leans his elbow on the divider.

"Please. . . H-He is leading all of these people in QTF. . . and behaving like this. . . please, look into it. I need to stop him. . ."

"Eunha," Taehyung coaxes me.

I lean my cheek into his palm. I want to cry of relief at the feeling. . . his touch. . . his skin. My core shivers at the thought of Joon touching me again. I never want Taehyung's touch to go away. It makes all of my unsettled fantasies disappear.

I pout my quivering lip. "Please. He is blackmailing Jungkook. . . and-and. . ."

"Hm?" Taehyung pushes for me to continue gently.

"He threatened to expose my dancing to my dad. My dad."

Taehyung blows out a breath when I say this. I catch his hand in both of mine, taking it into my grasp and running my thumbs over the warm skin of his knuckles. I lean forward in my seat; When I open my mouth to continue explaining, Taehyung beats me to it.

"I think you should file an order with the police. He attacked you and in public nonetheless. You even have blood all over your clothes, Eunha."

It's not my blood.

"No!" I fright.

"No?" His tone is displeased with my adamance.

"He will expose Jungkook!"

"You and this fūcking Jungkook talk. What has he done for you, Eunha? Besides your silly photography assignments? Why do you continue to put yourself in these situations for him?"

"I. . ."

It's difficult for me to admit that the majority of my leap against my captive faith was due to Jungkook.

Taehyung is not speaking softly anymore. I'm relieved, though, that he doesn't pull away from my gentle touch at his hands. I grasp him tighter in case he wants to, but I don't feel him budge against me. I bite on my inner cheek without knowing how to respond.

"Stop using him as a reason," Taehyung huffs. "Stay away from Namjoon. Think of yourself, Eunha."

"That's easy for you to say," I mutter. "You are worried about me. Not Jungkook."

He sighs. I know he wants to roll his eyes at my comment, but he doesn't. He falls back into his seat and I'm forced to release his hand from my fingertips. I frown down into my lap. We sit silently for a few minutes.

After the silence, my boyfriend asks, "are you hurt? Physically?"

"N-No," I shake my head. Although my chest aches and my head is sore from hitting into Joon's, it isn't enough for me to warrant concern from my boyfriend. "Just my knees. . . I fell onto the concrete. . . I had to buy new stockings."

Taehyung's disturbed expression returns. He clutches his fingers into fists to control a reaction. I can feel his frustration; my angry boyfriend visibly seems like he wants to go and hurt Namjoon, but it pains him that there isn't anything he can do without risking exposure. That is the last thing I would ever want. The existence of our relationship is the only thing keeping me sane.

I'm gnawing at my inner cheek as more thoughts flood into my head. I can't report Joon to anyone. He told me that I'm not in a position to ask for favors. Was Namjoon talking about the blackmail he has on me and dancing? Does it have something to do with Jungkook? Will my blackmail on Joon be enough to do something to help Jungkook? Me? Why is there this feeling deep down that the pictures I have of him won't mean anything or help anyone?

Joon might be wondering if I am with Jungkook still. He did mention sculpting, painting, photography. . .

I furrow my eyebrows at my conflicting thoughts. I relay the things Joon said on the phone to my unsuspecting father. "Tell me your name. . . Reveal your real identity. . ."

Sculpting, painting, photography. . .

"So would you say you are interested in people who are good at those things?"

I glance at Taehyung. My eyes widen with an epiphany.

Vante.

"Oh my God," I cry.

Does Joon think I'm dating Vante? Not Taehyung specifically. . . but Vante? Could this be possible? How could it be? It's too oddly specific that he would mention Vante of all things during the car ride to ANJO, and then demand that the person on the phone reveal his real identity. . . It is just too convenient. The word choice. . . it is too convenient. . .

How would he know?

"Does anyone else know that you're Vante?" I ask hurriedly.

Taehyung is surprised by the sudden change of topic.  His face falls.

"What?"

"Y-You once told me that I am the only one who knows that you're Vante. Is that true?"

My eyes watch his expression carefully. My boyfriend, who was once very skillful at hiding his emotions, does not have such a guard up at the moment when he hears my question. He tilts his head as if puzzled about my intention, but I'm expecting honestly even if he doesn't want to tell me. He hesitates to reply.

"Does anyone else know?" I repeat myself.

"Yes," he reveals. "Seokjin."

Headmaster? I'm not sure if I should be relieved. What does this mean to me?

Taehyung speaks because of how consumed I am in my theories: "It wasn't a lie to swindle you."

I ignore what he has said completely. "Do you think anyone else knows?"

"No, I don't," he says. "But did you hear me?"

"Hm?"

"I want to talk about why I lied," he says forcibly.

I shake my head at him. Although the last thing I want to do is stop my train of thought about QTF, Joon, Jungkook, and Vante, my boyfriend is adamant to make me pay attention to him. I release my inner cheek from my teeth and soften my gaze at him.

"It's okay," I remark quietly. "It was the romantic thing to say, and-and it was romantic. I don't mind."

"No, Eunha. I didn't lie to be romantic," he corrects me. "There is more I need to tell you. Right now is probably not the best time with everything going on."

That is an understatement. Too much is going on, and I'm fearful that more is actually happening than I'm aware of. To be quite honest with my deeper inner self, I know that there is so much more than I am aware of. I panic only for a moment when I reach into my pocket and grab my phone. I need to contact Jungkook.

"What are you doing?"

"I need to call Jungkook," I reply hastily.

My fingers are trembling to open my contact list. This spark of panic within me is telling me that I need to get to the bottom of these answers quickly. The only way Joon can have any idea about the existence of Vante in the first place would be from Jungkook, right?

I need to start there.

I jump in fright when Taehyung attempts to reach over the divider. I shout, "don't!"

We stare wide eyed at each other after the loud volume escapes my lips. I blow out a breath. My hands are shaking as I attempt to hold onto the item that has caused so much drama today.

". . . I'm sorry," Taehyung mumbles softly.

"No," I dismiss. "I shouldn't have yelled. I-I just. . ."

Another silence fills the air. My boyfriend is hesitant to enter my stressed headspace, but he does.

". . .Baby, please stop worrying about him."

I'm worrying about you, I try to tell him with my sad eyes. I don't want to tell him the theory I have because it might raise panic from him. I don't even think my thoughts are correct. . . it seems far fetched right? How could Joon know about Vante but not Taehyung? How?

I lock my phone. I suppose Taehyung is correct in that I shouldn't contact Jungkook right now with how crazed I'm feeling.

I groan out an exasperated cry and fall back into my seat. I wince only slightly at the feeling of soreness from the back of my head. I turn and look out the window, focusing on the streetlight as it becomes a blurry mess of Christmas lights ahead of me. Tears involuntarily start rushing down my face. The adrenaline is done, and my body is starting to reflect and feel everything that happened with Joon.

"I will look into QTF, okay?" Taehyung offers gently as if trying to appease me. He can't see my tears.

I sniffle. "I-I don't think you should get involved with him, Taehyung."

I close my eyes when I feel my boyfriend's warm hand meet my shoulder; he rubs me gently and caresses my skin in a loving gesture. I lift my hand and place it atop of his, my eyes still looking out of the window and accumulating more tears.

"Oh, angel," he coos his nickname for me so sweetly, "that piece of scum will not get away with what he has done to you."

Angel. I roll my eyes at the meaning. What kind of Angel does the things I do? What kind of Angel falls so easily to this darkness? It doesn't feel like temptation anymore; it isn't something I'm yearning for. It feels like a reality I already have.

"Taehyu—"

"Eunha," he says less kindly, cutting me off, "stop involving yourself. I mean it. Next time, you're going to call the police."

I don't agree at all with what he is suggesting, but my head hurts too much to argue with him. If Joon somehow finds out about Taehyung. . . It makes my chest physically hurt to think about. I have to stop that from happening. I have to. I will do anything to protect the only sanity I have left. . . anything.

My boyfriend squeezes my shoulder before pulling his touch away from me. His fingertips linger on my arm before he drops his hand to pull the car into drive.

"Please don't go to campus," I beg slightly. "I just want to sit with you. . . and not be there. . . can we just be together in our feelings?"

I wipe away my stray tears as I ask this of him. I wish there wasn't a divider between us. My mind, although running around all over the place, needs to find refuge in his arms. I chuckle pathetically at my proposal to wallow in our anxieties together.

Taehyung's voice is soft and sweet in his reply. "Of course, baby."

"Yay," I mumble to myself through my tears, but I know he hears me. I'm relaxed but overcome by emotions.

I watch his small smile grow before he takes a glance at me. I'm relieved when he places his hand on my thigh right below the end of my skirt; with his palm flat against me, his fingertips press down lightly with another reassuring touch. Just the mere feeling of him on me has elated my mood. I flex my leg under his touch and giggle. He squeezes me again.

We drive for only a few minutes when he speaks.

"We can still go to the police—"

"Stop, please," I sigh.

Taehyung nods at my decision. He sighs as well.

"I'm sorry. . . that I can't do more. . ."

I frown. "I don't expect anything more. It was my fault. . . not yours."

My boyfriend's jaw is tense with this choice of topic. The boundaries and limits we face with the type of relationship we are in are more noticeable with each day that passes. Although it is unfortunate that we have some restrictions, it isn't anything that I am going to hold against him. I know he would do more if he could, and that's what counts to me.

"Eunha, it is not your fault. Don't ever say that," he scolds me harshly.

But it was. Joon and I both participated in whatever was happening, and I was the instigator. I don't find it in me to try to convince him. . .

"Okay," I pretend to believe him. "I love you."

"I love you mor—"

"Taehyung," I interject before he can finish. "No you don't."

I place my hand on top of his. We share a glint of knowingness at the small banter. It warms my aching heart.

"Fine, fine. I just love you," he forfeits. When I glance out of the window, I recognize some familiar street signs and buildings. He must notice my observation: "I thought we'd go to my gallery."

I want to protest against the idea, but I have a feeling there is a hint of paranoia plaguing me. My theories are starting to sound more crazy as I sit on them.

"I'd like that." If Taehyung thinks it is safe, then it must be.

He spreads his palm out for me to interlock our fingers. I smile. It's easy to pretend the world isn't falling apart when you have a man like Taehyung in your presence. He is that light in the dark for me. The way I feel right now compared to just minutes ago can attest to this. My Christmas. . . my lights. . .

◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎◼︎◽︎
❝the art of painting❞
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I'm consumed in myself, as per usual, during the remainder of the time we spend together traveling to the exhibition. Our walk from the car, to the rattling cold elevator, and through the double doors into the gallery, all feel like fragments of my imagination; a distant dream. I only felt grounded due to Taehyung's hand holding mine, but even now as I stand here alone while he disappears into a back room, I still feel unnerved and angry about all that went on.

I fold my arms over one another over my jacket as I stand next to one of Taehyung's paintings. It's freezing in the gallery at the moment, but I assume that Taehyung went to turn on the heat given the low rumbling that starts to emit from the floorboards. My eyes scan the painting with tedious care, trying to interpret every inch of what I'm looking at. I lean forward to read the small display information beside it:

Curated by Vante
Thirsty Fog, 2014
Oil on canvas
(11" x 14")

It is a beautiful work of art to look at. Somehow Taehyung was able to make all of the shapes and shadows and colors appear to be plagued by a mask of fog. The dark colors make me feel like I am walking down a damp street in the middle of the night as fog lowers from the sky. I can't quite make out what the shapes are, but they appear to be bottles of some sort. There's a dock with straying, fuzzy yellow lines that appear to be illuminance from a light source. The bottle shapes are scattered everywhere.

The ambiance of the painting is chilling. There is a sense of sadness from it. I bite my lip in thought of what this could possibly mean. . . how such beautifully sad art work could come from my boyfriend. As I continue to ogle at the painting, I hear Taehyung's footsteps approaching me from behind. He stops just behind me, gazing over my shoulder at the piece with me.

"I lived on a ship for a few years, you know?" he says.

I'm terrible at hiding my somewhat humored reaction at the information.

"I know," he acknowledges the randomness with a soft smile. "Uncharacteristic of me. . ."

The dock. I can see the wooden logs and planks now as he points out the theme; however, he didn't paint a boat in the picture. I'm tempted to reach forward and feel the strokes of the paint brush, but I stop myself.

Taehyung is better than any guide at a museum as he continues to explain the art work. I'm getting a personal tour of the map of his soul.

"My father thought my mom was raising me to be a spoiled brat," he chuckles at the memory. "He forced me to work as crew on a cargo ship with him for a little over two years."

My eyebrows raise. It's hard to imagine Taehyung as a laborer on a ship. The feeling of this painting tells me that he most likely didn't enjoy it. There are no people in this painting, and the fog creates an eeriness. The composition catches my eye to follow along a swirling path leading to the end of the dock. The amount of bottles slowly go away as the dock progresses. There is a single lamp glowing at the end.

"What was it like?" I ask just above a breath.

"Long hours, demanding labor, and smelly sea water," he explains lightly. "Although it was lonely, I think it's where I got my imagination from. Spending so many nights just. . . in my own head."

I know that feeling well.

"A beauty came out of the darkness," I say. I'm hopeful that will happen to me.

"Exactly," he agrees.

"Tell me about them," I urge my boyfriend, referring to his parents.

I can sense his hesitancy to say much, but I don't pry at him to say anything. The two of us stare at the painting only for a moment's pause more before Taehyung decides to share his mind.

"Well. . ." he begins, "my father became an alcoholic from all the drinking he did on the voyages. When we returned home, he couldn't function nor handle everyday tasks."

The bottles. There are so many bottles littering the painting that they are the first things to catch your attention. The brown and green glass have a tint of yellow reflection from the streaming lights. I can see that he went in with a small, tiny detail brush to add these small bursts of color to make the bottles visible.

"I should preface this with the fact that my mother has a lot of money— too much money. The freighter lifestyle did not mesh well with the life my dad pulled me away from."

Taehyung had told me he came from money. It's satisfying to finally hear more about him. . .

"It was a messy divorce, Eunha. My mother, she sent me across the country to attend Craciun School of the Fine Arts to shield me from the ugliness. To. . . protect me from him. . ."

The ugly truth and sadness radiating from Taehyung's story is perfectly embodied in his artwork. It is as if I can feel the hurt from his conscious brushstrokes and color choices; the composition of detail comes together in a most significant fashion. The school his mother sent him to is very prestigious and highly acclaimed. . . some of the most famous artists have come from there— such as Vante, apparently. It is very far from where we are now.

"D-Do you still talk to them?"

"No," he answers honestly without missing a beat. "I cut my dad out, and my mother cut me out."

"Why would she do that?"

I don't turn around to look at him, and he doesn't step forward to look at me. We continue to talk in small whispers as we both take in the painting. Each word that leaves our lips fill the progressively warming air and vacant feel of the gallery. We fill the room with our thoughts and feelings. I can feel it in the tension in the air; this gallery holds so much sentimental meaning to him.

"Baby. . ."

"It's okay." I realize my intrusion. "You don't have to talk about it."

"I want to," he says heavily and heartfelt. "It's actually exactly what I've wanted to tell you."

Taehyung takes a step forward towards me. I glance to the ground, where I see him place two wine glasses and a bottle of what I assume to be white wine on the floor. Wine? He wants to drink with me? Right now? I can't say I'm too against this idea. . . I find my stare lingering down at the bottle; I have to admit that maybe Taehyung knows me more than I know myself. Never would I admit to wanting to drink alcohol at 3pm, but the sight of it is tempting. . .

Taehyung then brings my back into his chest before encasing my body with his arms, redirecting my attention back onto the conversation. I relax into him and his tall frame like a security blanket; it secures me in a place of existence with him. I place my hands over his.

My eloquent speaker of a boyfriend doesn't shy from sharing his mind. He is better than me at this.

"I had a skewed perception of the world, Eunha. I was an only child, I was alone at sea, and then alone across the country. I had no sense of identity. . . I started using the pseudonym Vante to express myself and make some money while at school. I didn't realize it would become what it is now. . ."

I glance around the room. If what I read online is correct, Vante garners millions of dollars each year. . . but he doesn't take the money: it is donated— all of it.

"After I returned home from college, the first job I worked was at the Paragon Art Program. . . where I met Dalia."

My heart stings that he has voluntarily chosen to talk about this subject again. Today feels like the longest day of my life, but I don't think I dislike this feeling. Although my head mentally and physically hurts, I am eager to know all of this information. I am eager to know both Taehyung and Vante.

"When my relationship with Dalia was exposed, my mother used her influence to ensure I would be able to work again. . . save my public reputation from shame and humiliation."

"She helped you?"

"Yes," he says. "She was able to cut a deal. . ."

He stops talking as if it is too much to continue. I don't say anything. I wait, in his arms, patiently for him to continue his life story. I'm invested. I want to love and know every part of him. I don't want him to cover the ugly parts of his painting with fresh paint. I place my hand on his forearm and drag my fingertips softly up and down his exposed skin. Comforting him in the same way he comforts me is my goal.

"Paragon agreed to a money settlement. . . but my mother refused to pay it. I had to sign a contract stating that I would donate a percentage of my earnings for the next 3 years to both Paragon and Dalia's family. . .

The guilt, Eunha. It was too much. I decided that I wasn't going to profit off of Vante at all. I. . . I continued to donate to all different programs as if it would fix what I did."

What she did, I itch to correct him. I don't.

"Taehyung. . . I. . . "

I stumble for a response that would suffice. There is nothing I can possibly say at this point to mend his feelings of guilt; I begged it from him last week during our most vulnerable conversation. The rest is up to him.

"Headmaster knows about Vante because that's how he found me. He reached out after the success of my first exposition."

"D-Does he knows about. . ?"

"Dalia?" he finishes my thought, "yes. He does, and he still gave me a chance."

I feel like crying for him. To hear of his background, the incessant loneliness, family dynamics, and the road to where he is now, is incredibly heart aching. I'm staring at this painting in front of me trying to understand how something so beautifully horrific could stem from such a beautiful, thoughtful, loving human who has me in his arms.

I snuggle myself into him to find a mutual plane of comfort for the two of us. Taehyung leans his chin atop my head with a deep exhale.

"I'm sorry for bringing this up after everything you've gone through today. . ."

"No," I refuse to let him feel pity. "You are intriguing, Mr. Kim. Thank you. . ."

I lean my head to the side and look up at him. He smiles down at me.

"Well, Ms. Boo, I suppose now you understand a bit more about me."

Even in his towering position above me he still manages to look breathtaking; my heart swells in admiration of him. He found his identity through Vante. He chose to create a reality he wanted for himself using an outer pretense separate from his own. I'd like to think that he has finally become Vante. I think he has found his identity in the same way he aided me in finding mine.

My eyes peer lazily at his soft lips. My boyfriend is staring down at me with a thoughtful glint of expression; he watches for what I will do. I grow to my tip-toes in order to meet his lips with soft peck. I linger as I pull away. Taehyung doesn't allow me to get too far; he dips his head down to kiss me back. Our lips move against one another slowly, progressing towards a yearning flame of untamable desire.

I lift my hand to latch around the nape of his neck, but the position hurts my sore chest. I turn around and meet my chest with his, growing more needy for his touch to cure my loss of control. When I'm kissing him, touching him, feeling him, I feel like I am controlling my reality. I have control. It soothes and protects me.

What I don't have control over, however, is how badly I want to adhere to the pleasure rising between my thighs. It is so easy with him. His touch against me overcomes me. . . Invades me. . . Our bodies work against one another so effortlessly that it's hard to believe that I ever fought against this. I spent so much time second guessing myself when it came to letting him in, and now it's all I think about.

My hands travel down from the nape of his neck and towards his torso. I slide my palms over the soft broadcloth of his dress shirt, where I stop at his abdomen to latch my fingers bravely on his belt buckle. His lips grow just as greedy against me, breathing more heavily, as he allows me to continue.

When I take a step forward to push him back in an unknown direction, my foot hits into something on the floor. I pull away from him with swollen, tingling lips to make sure I didn't accidentally kick the wine glasses. To my surprise, the glasses and wine aren't the only items on the floor. There is a large piece of what looks like cloth, bottles of paint, and paintbrushes. I don't recall this being here when we arrived; Taehyung must have gathered it while he was turning on the heat.

Taehyung follows my gaze. We are both partly out of breath. He answers my mental confusion, "I thought painting would help you sit in your feelings."

Oh my goodness. He wants me to express my feelings the same way he does?

"I don't want to embarrass myself. . ."

My boyfriend's low chuckling is a sign of his teasing, and I haven't even attempted to paint anything yet. He reaches down and grabs the bottle and the two wine glasses. He has already popped the cork, so he easily pulls it out before pouring the light liquid into both glasses. My cheeks heat as he offers me one.

"You want to drink with me?" I blink.

My chest is rising and falling quickly. I was so heavily wound up in our kissing, that it is hard to act like it didn't happen.

"I won't tell if you won't," he smiles so beautifully with faint redness of his lips and cheeks.

I need a drink. I haven't had wine outside of a church setting, but I know that enough of it will be able to soothe me from my chest and head pain. Alcohol will aid in pretending that nothing before arriving here actually happened. That's the goal. It's unfortunate that I have dance practice in a few hours, so I will have to keep that in mind as I take my first sip of the bottle labeled Chardonnay.

It burns my throat in a citrusy splash. When I pull the glass away from my mouth and swish the wine around my tongue a bit, I find myself actually enjoying the taste. I bring the glass back to my lips to take another sip. This time, it is much bigger than the first.

"Not too much," my boyfriend playfully warns, "we can't have a drunk Celeste running around the stage."

I don't mention my hesitancy to return to campus.

"I am a lightweight," I acknowledge. "You'll have to monitor me."

Taehyung has his back to me while setting up what I assume to be an unstretched canvas on the floor. He has covered the hardwood with cloth tarp to protect it from my presumable messiness. Taehyung then meticulously lays out all of the materials with organization. I crouch down to read the many bottles of paint, seeing as they are labeled acrylic.

He is actually expecting me to paint my feelings. I down the last of my glass of wine as if that will help me go along with this.

I don't remember it tasting this good during the Liturgy of the Eucharist. . .

"Eunha," Taehyung practically whines in his low, deep voice. "If you get drunk—"

"It will be more fun," I promise him teasingly.

I smile widely at him. I know that he is partially being serious, but I am able to crack his smile with my carefree attitude. It's helping that I feel extremely happy to be doing this with him. I'm extremely happy to be doing anything with him.

"I won't," I say more seriously. "Tell me where to start."

I place my empty wine glass down carefully in a safe place above the materials. My boyfriend has turned full Professor mode with the way he is going about this. Taehyung grabs an article of what looks like clothing and hands it to me. It's a light oversized shirt with some paint stains on the front of it. I assume this would be a smock— it protects you from getting paint on yourself.

"I don't want you to ruin your clothes."

Despite his efforts to limit my wine consumption, he refills my glass of wine as I take off my jacket. I hide my expression from him and kick off my shoes. It's the little things sometimes that just make my heart burst.

As I place my shoes over to the side I can't help but think about being back at ANJO again. I blink away the thought of being in the dressing room: I'm not in there. I'm here, at the gallery, with my precious boyfriend. . . not Joon. It's hard not to think about the dressing room as I pull my stockings down. I debate whether or not to keep them on, but when I freeze in contemplation, they are already down under my knees.

Taehyung is staring at me. I awkwardly decide that it's too late to stop now, so I step out of the thin material. The area surrounding my knees is now a bruised. The spots where I landed and where I slide are both prominently visible through discoloration. My pale skin bruises much too easily for the situations I've been in lately. . .

"I'm fine," I say.

I know he is probably angry with my inactivity to do anything about my condition, but he stays quiet and ignores my comment. I roll my eyes while he is busy putting on his own smock.

The sight of the two of us preparing to paint is heart warming amidst the subtle tension.

Not wanting to risk ruining my skirt, I end up taking everything off except my bra and underwear. I fold my clothes nicely and place them atop my backpack. The smock is way too big for me; the shoulders are at the middle of my upper arm, and the bottom is long enough to fit me like a dress. On Taehyung, however, it is fastened for his body.

It smells of him. I bring the overbearing material to my nose to inhale the familiar scent.

"Come here," he motions.

I nod before joining him on the floor. I crouch down, placing my butt on the back of my ankle as I watch him pour out some paint into a dish. I find myself staring at his face as he does this; the concentration, artistry, passion. . . it's so sexy. My cheeks heat yet again.

"I haven't painted in a while. . ."

"Baby," he shakes his head with patience at my continuous complaints, "there's no right way. It's your way. It's your painting. Don't worry about me."

Don't worry about him? He's a famous artist.

"Oh, Christ," I grumble in a whine, reaching over to grab the glass of wine again. I'm whining both because I'm nervous to attempt to paint in front of him, and because my head is aching terribly. I take a big gulp.

Taehyung thinks I'm trying to find courage to paint, but I'm actually just trying to metaphorically drown Joon.

The liquid stings my throat again when I drink it quickly, but I don't mind. I catch Taehyung's smirk when I place the glass down on the floor.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says innocently.

"Tell me," I insist.

My boyfriend is trying to hide a bashful smile at me. Maybe I should stop drinking so eagerly. . . or he should keep up with me.

"I feel like I'm drinking alone at 3pm on a Monday," I pout. "Don't make me embarrassed. . ."

My boyfriend catches my hint and reaches for his glass. I'm expecting him to take a proud sip, but instead Taehyung knocks his head back and downs the entirety of his drink as if to catch up to me. I don't know what it is. . . maybe his gleaming smile? His warm disposition? The rosiness of his cheeks? Whatever it is, it's swallowing me whole and not spitting me out. I'm willfully in his grasp.

"You look so cute right now," I giggle.

His eyebrows raise slightly at my comment. Even in a smock, my boyfriend is able to capture my refined attention. His hair looks even better now than it did earlier in the day; fallen out of it's styling cream and falling naturally against his scalp and face. The colorful pallet of colors arrayed on his attire adds to the allure.

"Cute?"

"Mhm," I nod knowingly.

I lean forward and peck his lips. He doesn't let me pull away quickly enough, because he presses into me before I can return to my position. I widen my eyes when I feel his teeth bite down on my bottom lip.

I bring my fingertips to my lip after I've pulled away. It isn't bleeding, but it's tingling and swollen from his rough action. I don't hide my pleased reaction from him, and it's quite obvious that the two of us are willing to keep going. My heart is racing.

"I still bite," he murmurs.

I swallow hard. I'm relieved he doesn't glance down at my clenched toes. They aren't the only thing that clenched. . .

Taehyung doesn't allow anything to transpire from the kiss. He hands me a paintbrush.

"Okay, okay," I take it from him. I'm mostly calming myself down.

I bite back another remark and decide to try my hand at Taehyung's coping mechanism. Typically dance had always been my way to deal with stress and anxiety, but since meeting Taehyung, it's become a partnership; a duo. I've only found dancing again because of him, and it's as though I can't think of one thing without the other coming to mind. They are two very beautiful inhabitants in my life, and this feeling I have while thinking of them is what motivates me to paint.

I don't use the dark color Taehyung poured out for me. He must be expecting my painting vision to be dark and enraged, similar to how I did feel, but I don't want to let that darkness overcome me in my painting right now. I'm with Taehyung, and I'm happy.

Joon will not be the foreground of my painting. I abhor it.

It's after I've poured out a bright lilac purple that I notice Taehyung staring at my knees again. I try to ignore him, and I dip the paintbrush into the paint, but he keeps glancing at the bruises and bandages as if he is horrified by it. The discomfort level in the air isn't ideal for a therapeutic painting session.

I don't filter my thoughts: "This is supposed to be relaxing."

"It isn't?"

"Taehyung," I frown. "It's a scrape. Please."

He doesn't want to talk about it, but I'm forcing him to. I much rather say what is on our minds than passive aggressively have it existing in the room. If I have learned anything during my journey of self-knowledge, it's that keeping everything inside and allowing life to pass by will only cause mental chaos. I don't want chaos between us.

"I know," he replies unconvincingly.

I purse my lips and look down at my knees. The lighting in the gallery amplifies every tiny imperfection on my skin, which at the moment is many tiny imperfections. The ugly picture I attempted to hide from my boyfriend is now the cause of subtle tension in the air. I take my paintbrush and decide to paint a prettier picture for him.

I swipe the purple paint over both of my knees, hiding the ugliest part of myself for him. The pretty light purple does just this.

"Eunha. . ."

"Shh," I shake my head.

I grab his wrist gently into my hand, and he doesn't struggle against me; my boyfriend allows me to dampen his hand with the paintbrush. Each stroke is gentle and even back and forth against his palm. Taehyung watches quietly, and I give a pained smile towards him before I press his hand down onto the canvas.

"There," I say.

His handprint is clearly visible on the canvas as my first blob of art.

Interpreting what I've created isn't as obvious as it seems. I stare down at his lilac handprint and think to myself for moment. Doesn't he see? It doesn't matter how many scars— both external and internal— that I have. . . when I'm with him, they don't exist.

It's silent as I grab another color; it's a bright pink. It's very loud, obnoxious, bold.

I squeeze the paint onto the dish. I do the same with my own hand; I coat my hand with the bright pink paint and lay my very much smaller handprint down atop of his. My bright pink handprint turns into a darker, more subtle fuchsia as the lilac and pink overlap one another. The lilac color of his fingertips stay untouched by the pink. . .

"It, um, looks like rays of lilac are bursting out of my hand," I laugh lightly.

"Hm. . ."

"And we meet in the middle here," I acknowledge and point at the fuchsia.

"What does it mean to you?" he asks— just as I would expect from a Professor.

I'm becoming overwhelmed with an emotion I can't find the words to explain. It feels like sadness because I feel tears wanting to accumulate, but I am happy in my chest. I wish Taehyung could realize how much he really means to me. I wish I was better at expressing this with my words. . . I was never one to take to painting, so I don't know how far I can take the imagery and metaphors to make him understand.

"I. . . I can't make a painting of how I'm feeling without you being part of it," I attempt to explain.

I stop him before he can explain to me that the painting is mine. I'm well aware, and that is the point.

"I know it's mine," I answer his thoughts, "but I'm not me without you."

The words are cheesy; the are a sloppy, gooey, string cheesy mess. I don't care how cheesy or cliche I sound when I tell him this, because it is how I feel. Wallowing because of what happened this morning will not make me feel better. I don't want Joon to have control over me, and that includes when I paint something. It is just the principle of it all. . .

Can I truly be freed from control? I keep telling myself that I refuse to be this, refuse to do that. . . yet I am being counterproductive in my efforts. An insidious swelling develops in my gut when I remember my father will be here tomorrow.

I reach over with my clean hand and down the last of my second glass of wine. It washes away the tears.

"Baby," Taehyung urges me to look at him. He touches my cheek with his fingertip, marking me with the lilac paint. I can feel it against my skin.

"My dad is coming to Loomis tomorrow," I confess. "I just. . . I don't want to paint about how he makes me feel. He doesn't need to control that too."

Taehyung doesn't say anything. It might be because he is expecting me to say more, but I'm nervous to say anything else.

"I sound stupid," I groan in embarrassment.

"No," he replies earnestly. "Eunha, when you told me before that you aren't a canvas. . . what did that mean?"

My metaphor not only made him displeased during that conversation, but now he is bringing it up again.

"I don't know. . ."

"Yes, you do," he challenges me. I shouldn't be so shocked by his challenges by now.

I sigh. "I guess. . . I just didn't want my dad to have that control over me. . . like a painter with a canvas. I don't want them to be part of the colors of my life."

"Eunha," Taehyung urges my hesitant self again. "He doesn't have to be part of your painting."

I'm slightly confused when he pulls his smock over his head after my explanation. He is only wearing his tight dark briefs, exposing his half naked body to me in the middle of the floor of his gallery. I don't look away from him as he does this, but I also make sure not to stare at his muscles for too long. He has too many to take in at once anyway. . . we make eye-contact.

"I'm your canvas."

My lips start to quiver the moment the words slip from his mouth.

I'm not a painter, but it's not necessary that I am one to understand how immensely romantic and thoughtful he is being towards my distressed feelings at the moment. A single tear streams down my face, and accidentally I wipe it away with my wet painted hand. I feel as more paint smears against my face, chuckling through my cry.

When I said I couldn't have a canvas of my feelings, or myself, without Taehyung. . . I suppose I was talking metaphorically about the colorful map of my own soul and body. The map that our bodies create, diminishing a barrier between our physical and mental realms with one another.

I draw a shaky breath when I too lift the material over my head.

I'm his canvas too. . .

This time, I don't feel the need to cover myself with my arms. I stay exposed in just my undergarments, feeling the heat of his stare on me. . . deep down I know that it isn't the wine that is giving me this courage. It is the real me living deep down behind all the fear, anger, and sadness.

My cheeks heat nonetheless given the intimacy of this moment. That is in the back of my head as I attempt to follow his creative vision. It's quiet when I dip my finger into the bright pink paint again. The low buzzing of the heat is the only sound filling the air when I look at Taehyung. I give him a small smile of assurance that I am comfortable with this, not wanting him to worry that I am doing just to appease him.

"Stay still," I whisper.

My boyfriend follows my instruction. I bite my lip as I lean over and place my fingertip to his chest. I draw a heart in his bright pink color to represent the love I feel for him. I drag the excess paint playful down his chest, feeling against every tensed muscle beneath my touch as I make my way to his abdomen.

The pink looks beautiful against his skin. I look beautiful against this skin.

I have chills when I look up into his eyes. He peers down at my artwork with a hazy stare, drowned in admiration for the feeling of my touch against him. I lift my finger before the paint touches his briefs. The goosebumps that raise onto my skin are proof of how thrilled and exciting this makes me. My heart is beating incredibly fast.

"My turn?" he asks me huskily.

I nod with a hard swallow of anticipation. My beautiful boyfriend pushes his hair back from his face as he looks at all of the tubes of paint. He opens a dark, forest green color and doesn't waste time to even pour it into a dish; instead, he pours it into his hand and coats every area of his palm and fingers.

Taehyung's eyes narrow down at my chest. The hungry, yearning eyes of my boyfriend slowly turn to slight dismay. I follow his eyes down to my chest. . . the area that was aching from Joon's forearm is red and already forming a bruise. I quickly glance at my boyfriend hurriedly to survey his expression. I already have inkling as to where he wants to cover me with his paint. . .

I reach forward and force him to look up me. The bright pink paint on my finger catches him just under his chin; I force a brave smile at him to distract from what he is seeing. Behind the anger of his hard stare down at my bruises from my altercation with Joon, is a sadness for me. I don't want him to feel sad or pity for me because of my actions. When his eyes meet mine, I pull my hand away from him.

My fingers are trembling only slightly when I use them to slide the straps of my bra from my shoulders. I don't mind the paint that trails along with my touch against myself. . .  I reach behind me and unclasp my bra, pulling the piece away from me and down my arms. I'm breathing heavily as my boyfriend watches me expose my sensitive, bare chest to him.

My mind is full of endless possibilities of what he will do against my skin. With the green paint lathered in his palm, he doesn't not lean towards me with the paint. I bite my lip to stop my sharp inhale when his mouth meets my chest gently, kissing over the soreness. I tilt my head back and hold in my verbal reaction at the feelingly his wet tongue running over my skin. He starts at the center of my chest. . . dragging his tongue under my breast. My dirtied hands fall to his forearms where I leave an imprint of where I am touching him as his mouth catches my nipple. He pulls the sensitive nub gently with his teeth before swirling his tongue around it.

I screw my eyes shut, squeezing my hands around his biceps to control myself as the pleasurable feeling overcomes me. Taehyung's soft breathing is barely audible under my stressed sounds; his mouth leaves kisses across the chest before he takes in my other breast. My hands slide up to the nape of his neck. He has pink paint all along his arms and up to his neck now.

The pleasure accumulating from his wet tongue and touch swirling around my sensitive area is making me bite back more moans than I had anticipated. My head falls back and my toes curl. . . I can feel my inner folds starting to throb as Taehyung presses his body into me, forcing my back down onto the unstretched canvas. He doesn't climb over me just yet.

He pulls away from me with flushed cheeks and a drowsy smile. His tongue is slightly sticking out from his lips as he concentrates on my chest again, only this time with the paint. My chest is rising and falling rapidly when the cold green substance smears down the center of my chest and to my belly button. Taehyung's careful slender fingers paint a steady, slow line across my skin. With each breath I take, my stomach presses up against this touch. The lightness in his expression is seductive in nature; he begins to make little swirls on my stomach. I cover my breasts with my hands: now there is pink and green paint covering me.

"Butterflies," he murmurs.

He lifts his touch from my stomach. There are several small green spiral swirls overcoming my skin. I sit up to reach for a different color. I unscrew the cap to an orange tube of paint. The pink paint is all over the place as I attempt to squeeze the paint out into the dish, but it only adds to the colorful palette I want to make with him. The pink and orange mix together in the dish to make a warm peachy color. I'm smiling when I look up at Taehyung, and he is already looking at me with a similar expression.

It's intriguing to see everywhere I touched him while his mouth was on me. I can see where my hands first pressed against him, and where they slid. The bright pink paint maps the sensual feelings I have for him. The two of us are so involved; connected. . . invested. . . and I don't show apprehension to continue this with him with my breasts exposed. I feel appreciated and loved; Taehyung presses a kiss into my shoulder as I mix the paint with my fingertips. He bites at my skin playfully.

I giggle lowly, but the sound fills the empty space easily. Taehyung begins chuckling in response to the millions of giggles that echo away from us. I lean in and kiss him sweetly, resting our noses against one another.

"I want us both to paint on the canvas. . ." I whisper.

Taehyung pecks my lips. He replies, just as sensually, "tell me more. . ."

A knowing smile grows to both of our expressions. There is a burst of confidence within me at this very moment, and I know it is because of how utterly safe and right I feel while being intimate like this with him. I crave him. Each second I spend looking into his rounded brown eyes and lustful stare towards me. . . I fall deeper and deeper in love. I want to portray that on my canvas.

With the peachy color on my hands, I pull away from my boyfriend and crawl further onto the canvas. I leave a trail. . . Evidence of my actions as the color seeps into the pores, covering the barren white. Our two handprints are safely in the corner, untouched by the new ones I've made with my movement.

My body is now covered in a mixture of purples, pinks, greens and oranges. When I turn around and look back at my boyfriend, he is watching me with intrigue. I look down at my body art, and add peachy swirls over the green ones Taehyung did.

I feel the butterflies too.

My heart is pounding. I bite my lip and close my eyes. . . before I drag my fingertips downwards, where I place them atop my underwear between my thighs. The art I want to make with him needs to be a representation of us. Taehyung's hot stare is on me as I apply pressure to myself, overcoming a boundary within myself that I want to go to with him. Only him.

I lay down with my back against the canvas. My body feels so responsive, sensitive, overwhelmed by my own touch. My mouth falls agape, and I continue to touch myself slowly. . . with long, circular motions against my nub. I bite my lip to stop my moans. Although my eyes are hooded, shielded from Taehyung's reaction, I can feel him watching me. I know he wants to watch me.

I don't have to wonder of my boyfriend's wants for too long. My eyes open when I feel the coldness of paint against my skin. Taehyung has joined me on the canvas with blue paint on his fingertips. I feel his touch on my collarbones, and then my arm. . . down to my wrists. . . where he continues to my inner thighs. . .

My fingers continuously move against me without direction; thinking of how he touches me is how I start to get to that place. . . the place I only feel safe to go with him. His fingers trace back and forth against my sensitive skin.

I whimper just under my breath. There is blue paint all over me now, dominating the greens and pinks. When Taehyung leans his hand down onto the canvas, he leaves evidence of our time together. I don't have to beg him to touch him when I feel his hands grasp me, pulling my body towards him. My back slides against the canvas, where Taehyung positions himself in-between my legs. Paint spills onto the canvas from my movement.

I lift myself up from the canvas as Taehyung pulls my underwear down my legs before lazily discarding them. I don't care that there is paint all over them now. . . I can only concentrate on him when I feel his breath against my aching core

My hands fall to the canvas when he dips his tongue into me. "Taehyung," I cry.

"Mhm," he mumbles against my folds. His tongue swipes in slow movements back and forth and up and down over my sensitive nub. . . exactly where I feel those butterflies. . .

The sounds that escape me feel like a liberation; I call out into the empty gallery with my vulnerability on the table, my boyfriend's name, swears, moans and groans drifting away from us as a blissful memory. Taehyung's hands meet my chest where his palms cup my breasts harshly, blue paint cold against my nipples as he digs his mouth with more pressure against me. I stop my hands from falling to his hair.

My legs are shaking, and my body wants to squirm under him. As the pleasure begins to overcome me, and I start to feel the heat tingle up from my feet, Taehyung's arms drop down to my thighs, where he lifts my legs over his shoulder and hooks his arms around my hips to subdue me. My back arches against the canvas and my mouth falls agape. His mouth is all over me. . . licking, lapping, sucking on all the right spots.

"More, more."

My thighs tighten around him, but he doesn't fight against me. His hands hold me roughly to control the twitching and rash movements my body wants to make.

My head falls to the side as my mind escapes from the reality of this world. I don't feel as though I'm laying on the floor of my boyfriend's gallery; the plethora of sensation takes me to the very existence of the world our paint has created. I dissolve into the how good his mouth makes me feel. He knows all the right spots. . . everything he does is. . .

"Fúck," I breathe heavily.

I moan through my bit lip as my body comes undone. My hips rock against his face, and my fingertips start to tremble. Taehyung's lips linger to what feels to be every inch of me as I relax after my climax. I close my eyes and catch my breath for a moment.

I want more. When I peer my eyes open and look up at my incredibly sexy partner, there is paint all over the place. The beautiful stray colors of my roaming hands, and the imprint of his chest, has smeared beautifully on the canvas. Although I feel spent, I know that Taehyung has been waiting patiently enough all day for me to touch him. He would never demand this of me. . . but luckily for him. . . I desire to.

I whimper as I sit up. "Come here."

Taehyung's lips are moist, covered in the remnants of our intimacy. He catches his lower lip in his teeth as he does what I say, leaning in towards me for a kiss. I don't let him pull away.

My hands attempt to catch his bicep in my grasp to pull him down, but since my hands are too small, it looks as though I am just touching him. Taehyung understands my intention, thankfully, and falls beside me. When I swing my leg over his lap, his hands fall to the small of my back, his thumbs pressing in towards my belly button. Our chests meet when my lips meet his hungrily to close the gap between us. I can feel the paint on our bodies mixing; creating more vibrant colors.

I sway my hips into his hardness. I can feel how much it has grown in our time touching one another. Taehyung leans one hand back on to the canvas, and the other around my small frame as I pull him even closer to me. I don't break our kiss, and my body continues to move against him. . . torturously slow as he had done to me. I can feel myself becoming aroused for him again. . . the pleasure rising as I rock into him.

Our breathing is heavy against one another as neither one of us wants to stop. We sit here, basking in the kiss and intimate touch of one another for what feels like an eternity; my boyfriend is waiting for me to make the next move, for me to continue the strokes on my canvas. When I finally do pull away, he holds me at the nape of my neck, chest heaving to find his breath. His lips are swollen and pink, matching the feeling I have of mine. My chest is feeling sensitive as they press against him, just as the rest of my body.

I scramble beside us to reach into my backpack. I don't care that paint gets all over my clothes as I love them out of the way, or if the zipper of my backpack is now tainted orange as I pull it. I retrieve the box of condoms for us. The glimmer of a small smile I see pinch my boyfriend's lips is worth the hassle of retrieving them.

With one of the packets in my hand, pull him back into me and mumble against his skin. "Should I let you fuck me?"

My eyes flutter innocently to look at him. The hard, intimidated gaze of his prominent facial features soften only slightly in surprise at the sound of my low, tempting one of voice. My breath hitches when the hand that had been at the nape of my neck interlocks my hair into his grasp. I wince at the tug. I love it. Taehyung's eyes narrow onto mine with sly smirk.

"Have I been a good boy?" he teases my words from earlier in his office.

Our lips meet with lingering, breathy kisses.

"I don't want a good boy. . ."

My fingertips are pulling to open the condom carefully. I glance down at the slimy object, careful not to get the paint on it. Taehyung shifts beneath me for a moment to pull down his briefs. He quickly cleans the paint off of his hands just enough to assist me on rolling the condom down his length.

"I'm not going to fuck you like one," he grunts.

He is hard, his skin hot and sensitive to my touch as I bravely guide his member to my entrance. My knees meet the canvas where the lilac purple stains the painting as I guide him into me. My mouth falls open when he fills me. Taehyung catches my moan with his mouth, overcoming me both with a kiss and his length as he enters me. My small frame lowers down onto him slowly, taking my time to adjust to him. I can feel my inner walls clenching around his length, trying to take all of him and allow my thighs to meet his.

"Easy," he comforts me despite his naughty words.

I whimper softly for him when he fills me completely. I pause for a moment with my eyes closed; feeling him as his hardness hits against my pleasure points inside me. I move my hips slowly to feel for him, getting used to how he feels. . . how we feel. . . together.

My boyfriend's soft touches slowly get rougher. I begin to rock into him more quickly, finding a rhythm for the both of us. With our mouths still on one another, I can hear and feel every groan that my boyfriend is trying to hide from me. The deepness of his vocals vibrate against my mouth, motivating me to continue my movements against him.

I push him back against the canvas. I'm not gentle with the hard force I use against his chest; my palms meet his covered skin and he is forced to submit to my weight. When I close my eyes, I remember how good this felt in my dorm room. . . and now, it feels even better.

I cry, "oh, Taehyung. . ."

The entirety of my body is trembling. His hands clasp around my wrists as I rest my hands on his chest. The canvas beneath us is full of color, but when Taehyung's strength overcomes me and he switches our positions and slips from inside me, our dishes of paint spill onto the canvas. We don't stop. We don't care. I reach forward to reposition him to enter me again. My mind, my body, my spirit. . . are ablaze. I want him.

His rough hands control my body too easily. He doesn't say anything when he takes both my wrists into his hand. Taehyung uses the other to flip me over onto my stomach. My face hits against the canvas, my vision turning into only the colorful symbols of ourselves. I feel him as he leans over me; his lips meet my ear.

"Such a dirty Angel for me," he coos.

His lips press into my hair where he kisses me just behind my ear. I huff, not able to catch my breath, trying to convince him for a second time, "I'm not an Angel."

"My Angel," he reminds me again softly in contrast to how roughly he is handling me.

His knees separate my legs. Taehyung releases my wrists, pulling at my hips to bring them towards him. I'm unsure what is going on until I know exactly where this is going. . . with my hips elevated and my knees on the canvas, Taehyung spreads me for his length to enter me again. He shifts into me.

I cry as I feel him. Again and again. . . His body quickly moves against mine. I screw my eyes closed and enjoy the burn of my body as I shift back and forth against the fiber of the canvas. The wet paint beneath our bodies meshes together just as we are. My cries begins to spill from me louder and louder. I am grasping for anything near me, and I settle on the tarp just above me to fist.

"Always so perfect," I can barely hear him over my cries. "Always. . ."

The end comes without my anticipation. For the second time while hitting my climax with Taehyung, tears begin to stray down my cheeks at how intensely beautiful everything feels. I don't have time to worry about how embarrassing it is that I begin to cry, because everything feels too good. . . too much. . . too everything. It's the poetic justice of feeling complete control of myself while losing control with him.

I'm spent with wet cheeks and a feeble body. The two of us have done it— we created a visual representation of our art. . . our love. Taehyung falls beside me. He rests his hand on the back of my thigh as I am too spent to turn over. I close my eyes to relax myself.

It is this control— this feeling of control I have while feeling like I am losing control with him— that will be the only thought strong enough to remind me of who I truly am in the days to come.

The canvas of my life, or the map of our souls together, will be my beauty in the darkness to ground me for the time I will inevitably spend with my father.

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21k words?!? yes!! for you guys!! your patience is my everything. thank you so so so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed!! Hopefully i didn't make too many mistakes