Art Gallery ~ minsung

14th February

Minho's POV

I was once again going through the bills - Jesus, will they ever stop coming? - while sitting at my desk. I enjoyed the silence my work room gave me. It sounded so peaceful, being aware that everytime I opened the door of my office, loud sounds of chatter would drown me into a wave of anxiety. Just knowing that I had people working for me made me feel so out of place.

My father died two years ago. It hurt. He was never a present parent, but he had no other faults. I can't remember him treating me wrong once. We didn't share many memories together, but he was the best father I could ever ask for. He left way too early. One of his last wishes was for me to take over his position in the art gallery direction. I've always had a soft spot for art, just like him, and I was the only one that could replace him at least half as much. My brother was way too little to take over, so it was written in the stars that it had to be all in my hands. I hated having so many responsibilities, but my love for art was way too strong to give up visiting the gallery at least twice a week, free entry. 

And now, I barely had time to walk through the corridors. 

I removed some strands of hair that were occluding my view, placing them behind my ear. I loved my dark blonde wolf cut but sometimes it felt like my hair was way too long and a sudden, instinctive craving to have it cut at its shortest rose in my chest. I pulled my specs a little bit back up my nose. I only wore them when I worked on my computer, trying to avoid becoming blind. 

I sighed. The day was surely going to be stressful since I wouldn't really have time to take time - something that was crucial for me since I'd always been hopelessly undecided: it was Valentine's day and my girlfriend was surely expecting something from me.

Yoonmi was the most beautiful woman, brave, strong, independent. I was the one depending on her. And that was why I needed to rush or I would make her very, very mad if I showed up late at her house.

I tapped in some info on an excel sheet, waiting for my manager to come. He had informed me that a new painter was on the rise. Instagram had become the new way to share art, and that's where he found him. I was curious, not gonna lie, we needed a fresh entry in our gallery, currently hosting four different photography expositions.

And as always, he rushed in, panting, slamming the white door open, which made a little "swoosh" in annoyance. I smiled, it was impossible not to recognize him. I addressed him as the most stressed man alive. He had incredibly tired eyes, their corner falling downwards. His hair was always messy, a lighter blonde than mine.

"Sir, we need to talk about Han Jisung." He affirmed, putting way too much emphasis on that "need".

I chuckled, pinching my nose at the umpteenth sight of him gesticulating in the air that never failed to make me want to laugh my lungs out. "Chan, please, take a seat first." I said pointing at the chair in front of me. 

And as I foresaw, he rushed to the chair, pulling it back and sitting on it while starting to speak again, hands moving frantically in the air. "I see him everywhere on my homepage! He's not even that good!" 

I glared at him. He pressed his lips one on the other, he perfectly knew what that gaze meant.

I hated it to the core when people looked down on someone else. Of course, art is subjective, but that doesn't mean you can openly say someone is not talented. Everyone is talented, it's such a human thing to be. We can't escape it.

He cleared his throat, ignoring the silence that had filled the room for the last five seconds in which I stared into his soul. "Anyways, he seems to be a painter. But, to be honest, I don't think his paint will last that long..."