𝑬𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒍 | m.yg. ✓

다섯 :: rewrite the stars

Present

The female felt a sudden cold kissing her cheeks, making her raise the warm blanket higher to cover her entire face. She was still half-asleep but in the brim of waking up fully. However, when she raised her blanket higher, her feet became exposed and the cold transferred to them instead.

Byeol groaned in annoyance, consciousness finally seeping through her system. She opened her eyes and was met by darkness. She immediately bolted upright, looking around her surroundings. Everything was dark and eerily silent and the cold wasn't helping.

The woman's eyes fell on the clock on their wall. Even in the dark, she could clearly see that it was 1 AM, it was way past midnight and couldn't believe that she slept through dinner.

But that didn't bother her at that moment.

Yoongi.

She threw the blanket away and stood up instantly, meandering her way around until she was able to switch the lights on. Blinded by the sudden brightness, she scrunched her eyes as they began to adjust to the light. Once it did, she sleepily dragged her feet towards the kitchen, helping herself with a glass of water.

Then she immediately went upstairs to check their bedroom if Yoongi was there.

He wasn't.

Nervousness and fear began to gnaw at Byeol's brain. Where could Yoongi possibly be at this very late hour? He promised to be home early yet it was already the next day but he still hadn't gotten home.

It's probably work. He probably had to work overtime.

Yoongi, after all, was a producer in a company. The female knew how much he loved music and she knew that ever since he laid his eyes on the piano, he knew he wanted to be a producer someday, making his own music.

Byeol wouldn't be surprise if he literally worked his ass off to meet the deadlines of his company. Her husband's boss, Bang Sihyuk didn't tolerate tardiness after all. He was a strict yet kind man. Byeol knew that.

But she was upset by the fact that Yoongi didn't give her at least a heads up or called her through the phone.

Realizing that getting upset would get her nowhere, she left their bedroom, closing the door behind her quietly. Her feet led her to the next room, her own study room, where she wrote everything she wanted and thought. It was a private space only for her even though the two of them owned the house.

Yoongi, after all, gifted the room to her, saying that she shouldn't allow anyone inside, even him because he was aware that she was more comfortable in working secretly and only revealing things that she wanted to reveal.

That was one of the things that made Byeol fall for him, hard. Yoongi was thoughtful and caring, put others first before himself, which was sometimes becoming unhealthy for him.

Byeol opened the door and slipped in. She turned on the lights and the room was immediately illuminated. A few bookshelves lined up against the wall, half of them filled with dozens of files, papers, and books.

Her works.

At the end of the room, just by the window was her desk, where she wrote everything in her mind and where her imaginations worked.

Byeol stopped writing a few months ago back then she realized how much she missed writing.

But she couldn't seem to find the energy to do so again for every single work that she had submitted to a publishing company was declined.

She never told Yoongi, of course, for she didn't want to worry him. The woman didn't want to put another burden on him when he was already struggling with his work. She realized how secretive she was of what she's doing, contrasted to Yoongi, who shared almost every single moment in his work to her.

Nonetheless, the man never mentioned anything about her writing. He was aware that it was in Byeol's personality to be uncomfortable when it came to her writing.

Byeol slowly made her way to her desk, abandoned and old piles of papers sprawled on top. Nostalgia hit her like a truck and she unconsciously smiled to herself, caressing the papers with her hand.

Then she sat down, hesitating at first, but she managed to relax. The pencil that had been unused for god-knows-how-long found its way to her hand. She inspected it for a moment before lifting it and placing it against tha paper, the pencil hovering above.

The story that she had been writing months ago and was abandoned was stopped in a mid-sentence, like a cliffhanger.

She took a deep breath before writing her imaginations that slowly flowed out of her eunoia mind.