"Sex on drugs is mind-blowing. Wanna try?"
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Kim Migyung, a former prima ballerina who had to give up dancing after an accident. Not being able to do the only thing she's ever known, her dreams stripped away, she...
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Migyung gazed at the potted plant Hoseok had gifted her. She had placed the little pot in her window, the perfect spot for it to get sunlight. It had finally sprouted but its leaves were not big enough to identify the plant.
Her lips were turned up into a small smile as she thought about him, that odd ball of sunshine. She could well understand why his fans called him 'sunshine'. He was just so optimistic all the time, loud and cheerful, he made other people desire to be like him.
But she hadn't talked to him in a few days after their little chat in the playground. She didn't know if it was okay to text him, moreover, she had a strange habit of never reaching out first. She wasn't like this before.
Steeling her heart and wiping off her sweaty palms on her pants, she looked at her phone screen, her thumb hovering over the send button. It was a simple message, asking him what he was doing but it was pretty late in the morning and she figured he must be busy. For all she knew, he might even be in another country.
Shaking her head, she pocketed her phone, picking her bag as she left for work. Tonight, she thought to herself, I will call him tonight.
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Entering the premises of the dance studio, she was hit with a wave of nostalgia. She stopped suddenly, her senses picking up the familiar sounds and smells in the hallway. She could hear music that was surely coming from the studio, the music that was used while doing warm-up. They hadn't changed it.
"Ms. Kim?" she heard Ms. Kang's secretary call her and she jerked out of her memories. Her toes still tingled, thinking about how those ballet shoes used to feel different in the studio. They felt tighter, more secure, a part of her body. The first day was going to be harder than she thought it would be.
Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself down and not run away, she followed the secretary, taking slow but sure steps. Her palms were sweating but she wiped them on her black trousers, making sure her blouse was buttoned up correctly. Not that she cared what anyone thought of her anymore but she didn't have to necessarily look bad, the cliche addict.
