Where We Begin & End II K.N.J II

Chapter 13 - The Exhibition

A/N: I KNOW! It's been too long. *sigh*

When I started writing this, I didn't have college or work and I was living with my parents. Now I have work and classes and I pay rent. The writer's block was a bitch with this chapter and I am so sorry it took so long. So without further ado, please enjoy!

Love,

MsNoShelfControl.

-----------Namjoon's POV-----------

Books have always been my safe space. Between the inked words on musty pages is where I bury myself when I need to escape my reality. They spoke to me in silence and rid me of my loneliness. After a certain point, I realized I was speaking back too. Brimming inside with unspoken words, but no one to share it with.

So I turned to my sole constant companion, the musty pages. I spilled out the poems my conscience conjured, letting my soul bleed onto the thin single lined books that my mother bought for my English lessons.

In fifth grade, I found an MP3 walkman discarded in one of her drawers. Curious, as I'd never seen her own such a device before, I went through it.

And that was when I discovered books and their inked words aren't the only things I could seek comfort in. It was the first time I felt like there was something I could do in this world, something I could be good at and the first time I felt my heart race in positive anticipation. There weren't that many songs on it but only one had caught my attention. A song that taught me I could fly if I wanted.

It was then that I realised that poetry and music go hand in hand.

When my classmates spent their evenings sneaking out of their houses to go on dates and play at PC cafes, I stayed holed up in my room, hiding music and lyric sheets between my homeworks. The only place I snuck out to was my mother's room, to find the strange Walkman and play the song over and over until the words engraved themselves onto my memory, and my heartbeat synced to the melody.

In sixth grade, without my mother's knowledge, I started taking music and composing lessons from a man I had met just once in a record store. He'd said his name was Sleepy.

"You a listener or a creator, kid?" I was shocked that someone had even noticed my presence, "L-listener?" I had responded weakly, earning an amused chuckle. He picked up the Epik High vinyl I had been staring at, and flipped it over in his hands. "You got taste, kid."

I didn't like the way he was referring to me, I was already taller than most kids in my class. "What if I wanted to be both?" The sudden surge of confidence in my voice had shocked even me, and I had no idea where it came from.

His unreadable eyes turned to me and scanned me from head to toe, and I had to resist the urge to shift on my feet, "Normally I'd say good for you. But you... kid, I have a feeling about you." He gave me a sardonic smile before adding, "Let's see what you got."

I honestly thought he was crazy, why else would he assume that even if I was interested, I would be carrying around my work with me everywhere.

Years later, it did occur to me that it must have been a test. If it really meant that much to me, of course he'd expect me to keep it close with me at all times.

And I did.

Grudgingly, I took out my English notebook from my school backpack and handed it over. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he flipped through the pages, stopping towards the last several ones where I had scribbled down all my poems. I watched as his teasing expression grew serious as he skimmed through my childish scrawls.