Epiphany: A quest for love

6. The art of letting go

MIRAE

I regret wearing heels on my first day of work! I wish I had better judgement. Seriously, what kind of moron does this when as a journalist you're always on the move? Compared to other coworkers of mine whose asses rot on the chair everyday, my work requires me to go out and collect information. Investigate. And like an idiot, I let it slip my mind. I just wanted to make a good impression, but I guess I only gained blisters on my feet and a generous amount of hate from my new favorite colleague, Mitch. I sigh in defeat as I sit down on a nearby bench, letting my bag drop next to me. I bend forward and remove the shoes from my feet to check the damage, grimacing at the sight of the nasty blisters on my toes. Usually, this wouldn't happen, but I walked too much today. After reading all the information I had about this story I was assigned, I realised I didn't have much to begin with. It was a car crash and unless there is a pile-up, where police helds a press briefing, they won't offer you much. I had to try though, and after a successful failure, I went to the next place where it all started: the crash site. Of course, someone from The Manhattan Journal already went there, as I took over a story already half covered by someone else, but I was lucky enough to find another witness that was able to clear out for me how the incident happened.

I check the clock on my phone. 2 pm. The day isn't over yet and I should be back at the office, writing my story. I decided to rest for five minutes and finish the hot dog I bought from a food van across the street. This is my lunch for today. As I am about to take a bite, something drops on my blazer.

"Oh, for fuck sake!" I curse, looking down at the huge stain of ketchup on my chest. I grab a tissue from my purse and violently wipe it away, then take that damn bite from the hot dog. With my mouth full, I stare in the distance, wondering why Mondays are such shitty days. I mean, a lot of people say this is discrimination, that a Monday is a day like any other and we're only in a bad mood because the weekend is gone. But haven't they figured out that all shitty things happen on Mondays? This isn't a coincidence. Mondays are evil and they can't change my mind.

The sound of my phone pulls me out of my inner rant and I reach out for my phone. A text message. From Seokjin. For some reason, my heart becomes more alert and I hurry to read it.

"Hey, ugly!" the text says. I quickly reply back, keeping the tone of the conversation flat and bored.

"What?"

"What do you call a fake noodle?" Is he messing around with me again? This really isn't the right time. I'm already pissed off at everything.

"Seokjin, I'm not in the mood for games."

"Come on, don't be a joy killer. Take a guess." He insists. I roll my eyes, even though I know he can't see me, and write him another text.

"I don't know! What do you call a fake noodle?"

"An impasta." I burst out laughing, spreading bread crumbs all around me.This is so bad it's actually good.

"-_-" I reply with a poker face emoji instead. If he knows he was funny, he'll never shut up about it.

"I know you laughed."

"I didn't. What makes you think that?"

"Because I'm hilarious. If I didn't become an idol, I would've made a great comedian." Actually, he is a funny man and it doesn't feel unrealistic for him to have success as a comedian, but I can't see Seokjin as anything else than an artist. He was born to sing. I am not a huge fan of the pop genre, being raised with rock and indie music, but BTS has something in their music, making you come back for more. I would lie if I said I didn't enjoy their art or Seokjin's voice. They are more than good. They are brilliant. Again, he doesn't need to know that.