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What if the universe was a being of its own? A living thing–Breathing and thinking and creating. And oh, could it create the most wondrous things. The stars and galaxies and each living being to the smallest speck on earth; Creating the beauty of nature and humans meant to guard it. And in this creation, it deemed a collection of stardust to be created into one–one soul, one being. Perhaps the universe is a them. A set of weavers. There are so many things to weave and keep track of after all. And not every weaver could be perfect for creation was not, so nor must be the weavers, right? To have that one soul split apart and search desperately for its other half by the weavers' red thread, invisible to the human eye...surely that is not perfection. The universe makes mistakes.
The universe...makes mistakes...
2009 (PRESENT DAY)
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The dark pavilion Seokjin comes to each evening is a sight for sore eyes after a long day, a warm hug of loneliness that greets him like an old friend. It's clouded over, threatening to rain in the midst of a cold breeze, nasty weather, but the pavilion would shield him. It always shields him. From life, from the people he's too tired to deal with... It's a place he can finally take that mask off of "I'm fine" and lay it to rest while his features finally slump in exhaustion. It's a place he can be alone despite being outside, surrounded by city-goers passing by on the street not far away and the one plum blossom tree that grows next to the pavilion.
It's curious, however, when he's found himself in front of the same bench he sits at every day under that pavilion to be occupied by another man, his nose in a book with such focus. It's empty, always empty, should be empty. Seokjin grimaces. Luckily he's far enough away to run without being seen.
He thinks long and hard perhaps to turn around, not deal with the energy of social interactions tonight when he's much too mentally exhausted and this man is very much (although unintentionally) invading his private hiding space. Skipping one night on his nearly decade-long streak to the pavilion to cool off wouldn't be the end of the world.
That he does. He quickly turns around, head low to avoid being caught, and yet his feet wouldn't seem to move another step. It was a dispute with his mind about the desire to run and hide in introversion—his feet instead urging him to look, speak to this stranger in curiosity after never seeing another soul here before.
