In a world full of people...
Seo Moon Jo is a lonely man who saw darkness and corruption in everyone.
Yoon Jong Woo believed he could never be anyone of worth or mean anything to anyone.
But when these two broken souls cross paths, they will both re...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
— Oscar Wilde
"Well see, that's quite the predicament, because I like looking at pretty things."
Jong Woo was speechless. He didn't even know this man's name, and yet he said such a thing!
Jong Woo was shocked, to say the least.
The stranger chuckled. "But I'll do what you want this time, and I will not look at you alright. This makes you happy, dear?" Jong Woo tried to say something, but couldn't get a clear word out. Instead, he just huffed and thought—what a creepy guy, then finally he turned back to his sketching.
It was a drawing of a hummingbird landing on an amaryllis flower. The sketch was coming along well, but mistakes were evident everywhere. A line out of place. Proportions a little off. A patch shaded darker than the rest. Lines crossing where they were not supposed to. Something that just didn't look as well as it could have.
They frustrated him to no end, the flaws.
They were what defined him as a person, as a failure.
And he hated it.
Walking home from his late-night part time job, Jong Woo pondered over the day's events. He'd failed yet again to successfully finish a single art piece, something that had become increasingly normal as time went on. He had met a stranger—a good looking man, who had flirted with him for seemingly no reason. Certainly, that was an odd occurrence, but it did not bother him much.
The moment was past.
All was said and done.
Finally, he found his apartment building—with his meager earnings he hadn't been able to afford a house or a dorm in his college—and slowly made his way up the stairs to his floor.
The warmth of the place was a blessing, as the night air had been beyond frigid. It didn't help that he did not have very thick coats. He spent most of his money on art supplies.
He moved across the hall to his apartment, number 206. He reached into his schoolbag, fumbling for his keys. Which he promptly dropped when he found them. Cursing under his breath, he bent and picked them up. He could already feel stress bearing down on him. Dropping his keys certainly did not help with that, no matter how trivial a thing it might have been.
So he did as he always did. He unlocked his door, shut it softly behind him, threw his bag on the nearest table, gathered his supplies, and painted.
