❛ Your whispers still haunt my skin, caressing my scars, nipping at my flesh. That's why it often itches.❜
[🌬] 𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙃𝘼𝘿𝙊𝙒𝙄𝙉𝙂
"I like your sketches." Felix hummed.
"I don't."
In which a stoner always finds th...
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━━━━⌜赤い糸⌟━━━━
°ꫝ•
It had been with rather reluctance that Jisung broke away from his trance, as if his body had been taken as a mere pawn in time's game, a prisoner. Time is purely independent by nature, it doesn't wait for anybody — not even for itself. Time is non-refundable. A warrior, one that only lurches forward in a war against space, and never looks back. It may leave behind it's companions, tear connections it once had, apart. But that is not something it dwells in; not something it finds relevant enough to grieve for, because in the end, time is always on it's own — whether it wants to be, or not.
Time could be so cruel, so vicious. It could be so selfish, so narcissistic. It wasn't it's fault, one would dare say. It has never been. Because, within the sequence of existence, it had only itself to turn to.
Maybe, it had been Hyunjin's annoyed aura, or Chan's anxious voice telling him to get into the car. Feasibly, the way Minho's eyes bore into his skin, almost too overwhelming that it made him think it stung. Perhaps it did.
As seconds passed by, just as the rushing wind did: caressing his skin, whispering things in an ancient language only spoken by Gaea, the lavander-haired's stare became heavier. Even if it was not physical, Jisung felt it's weight like a rock, accumulated to his own burden corrupted by Minho himself. And, even if one could not actually see it, the blonde could sense the ugly turmoil destroying Jisung's insides. Hyunjin knew his best friend too well; yet, he didn't know whether that was a blessing or a curse.
Time could be so cruel, just as love could be.
The taller was sure those got along well, even if they'd never become acquaintances. Since, remember, time could only count with itself, and love — well, love is as pitiful as it comes.
Hyunjin watched as Han finally moved, quickly stepping into the car and sitting in diagonal of Minho, by the window. To, what? Spare glances at him? It had been purely by instinct, in a vulnerable moment where his brain wasn't in charge, but his heart had taken control of the reins. And just as his friend had done, the pale-haired boy sat by the other window before closing the door.
Time has passed by, which meant they were arriving even later to class. He didn't know how much they had lost standing by the vehicle. Seconds, minutes? Probably not hours. Presumably. Maybe.
Silence reigned within the car, winning over the outside's muffled sounds knocking on the glasses, and the barely audible music the radio serenated them with.
