Death Switch | KTH ✓

Trois.

The school had become a paradise for me when she had kindled the young flame in my heart.

Nam Gyuri. That was her name.

Bold, strong and steadfast; a warm skin, glowing her under the blinding sun, eyes that withheld unexplainable craze, undaunting, daring she was an amazing volleyball player, a quick-witted girl so magnetic, so enthralling, I had never seen in my life. She was the popular girl that all boys died to mark theirs but she never stopped or spared even an unintended glance for the lovestruck foolish boys, amongst whom, unfortunately, I was.

I had met Gyuri on our field trip to a museum where she and I were made as a pair, instructed to explore the building and the monuments, secured objects that were named to be of some of greatest historical collections, we both had been the best duo. She talked and talked a lot and I listened, her voicing calming me. On that day, I realized Gyuri wasn't what she was rumoured to be—cold, uncaring.

In those two hours of strolling, I had deluded myself to believe that she and I had become friends, perhaps.

How wrong I was to believe so.

Nam Gyuri. Her most prized possession was her pride, swelled inside her like a giant beast capturing the entire space of her heart, leaving no place in her for emotions such as love, hate, regret or remorse that I was certain she was unconscious of, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, turned her into a doll, hollow from within, plastic from outside; a façade of fake demeanour draped on her as the cloth that she always wore and I was so fallen into the bottomless pit, blinded by the unrequited love that I failed to recognize until she broke it to me.

I remember it was Valentine's Day, all boys and girls donned in beautiful, striking attires, girls with an extra glow and boys with hairs slicked back, combed for the first time and of course, how can I forget , with a stupid boyish grin plastered on their stupid, stupid faces. Had I known I was one of them, I would've kicked myself, twice, no, thrice on my ass for being delusional, imprudent and blinded by some stupid infatuation which I, not even knowing the meaning of, considered was love—the sick puppy love—and trudged along like a soldier in their battlefield, chest bloated, head high, ready and confident of my coming victory which if only I knew was never going to come.

That day, the soldier in me had died.

I had died.

Chatting and laughing in the corridor with her friends, which were all boys, Nam Gyuri, that day had been cladded in her usual jeans and top, nothing extravagant, nothing unique for she was unique the way she was, plain yet beautiful, gorgeous. Dresses were never her thing, heels never fascinated her, a fancy purse was heavy as a stone for her so instead her ball rested in her hands always, ready to knock anyone out unconscious if they had decided to mess with her.

That day, with a pointless,  meaningless red rose, I had approached her to confess my love with cliché words.

I had gotten rejected.

And humiliated.

Mortified, undeniable obloquy searing through my veins, I had been slapped in the face with mockery and unsolicited, utterly uncomfortable remarks made by her friends and Gyuri herself.

"An orphan got the audacity to propose me? You think one day we spent together as partners in the museum and shared a few polite words, we fell in love with each other?" she had said.

With my heart torn from inside, shredded into pieces, I had walked away. The kindled flames roused ferociously inside me as the paradise then became the unmistakable hell for me.

One failure and then more followed suit; the once confident Kim Taehyung was then a pessimist, wretched loon who everyone despised.