[Weak Hero] Ben Park X Reader: somewhere in that silence

somewhere in that silence

Cover Art: @merk-ury on tumblr, drop by and give her some love for her amazing work!
<https://merk-ury.tumblr.com/post/647651427143090176/i-am-in-love-with-this-boy-me-thinks-a-ben-park>

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You first hear the shuffling of snow in the late afternoon, on your way home from classes. It is when the sun is midway behind the horizon that you spot him, a hulking figure pushing an equally as sizeable snowball down your street.

You ponder the idea of approaching him, but he looks far too focused on doing whatever he was trying to accomplish.
Perhaps making the world's most disproportionate snowman?

You pull back your sleeve and check the time.
Just enough time to shower and then catch up on some work.

You tiptoe so you make less noise in the snow, and there's only a few seconds to give him a brief glance before you slip into your house. In those fleeting moments, you catch sight of auburn bedhead hair and flushed tan skin. And then you're past the front door, successfully avoiding an encounter with the strange man.

The event slips your mind as soon as you enter the warmth of your house, kicking snow off the bottom of your shoes.

"I'm home," You say. There's no response, which makes sense because no one is here. Shrug, and take off your shoes. Place them on the empty rack to the right.

You go about your usual routine with a head full of thoughts. When did your friend want to do a study-meet up again? How long will it take to finish those assignments? What kind of tea should you make before bed?

You're stepping out of the shower before you know it. Steam engulfs the room and fog eats up the mirror before you can see yourself in it.
Sometimes, you feel like a ghost haunting your own home. It makes you wonder if you really even exist, and you hate those thoughts so you wipe down the mirror and leave before it fogs over again.

Dinner leaves a single dirty dish and silver fork in the sink, the echo of china in a hollow kitchen urging you to deal with it tomorrow.
Instead, you trek upstairs to your room again, lining up more tasks to busy your night until you pass out until noon tomorrow.

Your neighborhood is quaint.

It is quiet, and that is what you've become accustomed to.
You loathed it at first, hated the way the quiet would ring in your ears and drape over your body, whispering into your ear and reminding you of the cold emptiness around surrounding your bearings. Through time though, you grew to stomach with it.

There was a routine. Everything that fell into a pattern no longer felt like a lonely task in a quiet place, instead becoming just a task in just a place. Motions were like clockwork, everything was to be expected, and so nothing was to be feared.

Usually, desk work is dreary, but easy.
Your desk is situated right in front of the window, so you keep the windows cracked to let a breeze in. If you're lucky, there is bypassing conversation, or a yodeling cat to listen to. These things keep you awake in fascination, lull you to sleep with it's comfort; a reminder that you are not alone in this world despite being ever-so-lonely.

But tonight, it is different.

The clock on your bedside reads nine o' three past midday. You look from the clock to the window, seated at your desk, work splayed on the table.

You're not quite sure if you're imagining it, or if there is still commotion in the streets.
You get up and draw the curtain back a bit, peering curiously out into the night.

Sure enough, it is the same red-headed man as before, still rolling the snowball and occasionally stretching his back, complaining into the barren emptiness of the night.