Art Gallery ~ minsung

17th April

Jisung's POV

Until this morning, I've felt on cloud 9. Minho was attracted to me and no one could tell me otherwise. I felt butterflies every time I thought about him and sometimes my fingers would still press on my lower lip to fill the void that the absence of his kisses gave me. 

I probably had never felt as happy in months. The greek sculpture felt the same way about me, or at least I thought so. He trusted and admired me, I felt safe near him. Maybe he found me cute. My heart fluttered and my cheeks flushed at the thought. 

But then, this morning I woke up to an email, directly from him. I thought he would give me an explanation for that kiss. I didn't pretend a love confession from him, just an explanation. Instead, he begged me to forgive him for the inconvenience, that he felt overwhelmed at that moment and didn't actually want to kiss me in the first place because he didn't feel anything for me. Mostly, he had a girlfriend that he loved and cared about.

I felt my heart physically breaking. I had hoped not to fall for him and I was right, but now it was too late. I did fall, and now it hurt more than hell, because this wasn't the first time something similar happened and I should've just continued considering myself stupid, because I was. I believed in a beautiful lie for four days straight. In the past, I did worse.

He was another apparently perfect guy, handsome from head to toe, three years older than me, gentle and caring, creative, patient and trustworthy. I fell for him easily, like I always did, and didn't bother holding myself back around him. Everytime we went out together along with Felix - his boyfriend was still not in the picture - and other less relevant friends, I would openly flirt and joke with him as if there was no tomorrow. Though, I was completely oblivious. Felix had told me that he clearly didn't like me in that way, but I kept insisting. Until one day, he rejected me harshly after I tried to kiss him. Not only he had a girlfriend, but was considering marrying her. My world fell apart.

I was stupid, and young, but still my heart crashed in million pieces. If I have ever talked about a certain "Can't be with her", it was dedicated to him and to the massive heartbreak he gave me. After all, I was seventeen and still couldn't read between the lines, nor understand even a bit of body language.

So when I read that mail, I felt the same, but worse. I wanted to run naked in the snow and feel my calves hurt to the point I would faint and be forever forgotten, surrounded by pure and watery white, even if all I could feel now was black clouding my vision. 

I felt fragile like a bunch of glass in a carton box. I spread on the floor of my bedroom like dripped sauce off a hamburger. 

I started crying stupidly. I felt my ribs shaking, the muscles of my torso becoming jelly, my toes going numb and my brain going desperate. I was not working properly anymore.

I thought I had learned something as I grew up. In order to avoid love-related breakdowns, I studied and tried to understand people like a normal twenty-years-old guy would do. I stopped being reckless and irresponsible. Since I started living on my own, I felt better about myself and about my way of approaching others. But apparently, all my efforts were just meant to take me back to the start.

I wanted to tear my hair away from my scalp and choke myself down against the floor. At this point it was not even because of Minho, but only due to the delusion I felt towards my own self. I was so sure that kiss meant something, so sure. I believed it to the core, and look where I am now. Laying on a bedroom floor, rolling up on myself as I desperately didn't want to believe what had just happened.

I was a complete idiot. I got up from the floor and kicked my cushion off the bed. I looked outside the window, it was plenty of sun and I loved sunny days, but at that precise moment I hated the fact that the rest of the world was effortlessly going on as always instead of falling apart with me. 

I felt alone and not even my covers helped to fill the complete emptiness I felt around myself. I was never close to Minho and would've never been.

After having repeated myself I was imbecil and not worth living along with the rest of the society, I got out of bed in a rush and my thoughts only focused on painting everything out. I suddenly had a palette in my mind, a white canvas ready in front of me, clean brushes and clean fingers.

Dark red and gray soon filled my surroundings. I was messy as hell but couldn't help it. Anger and pure sadness. Yeah, that was probably it. 

I looked at the still fresh painting and its dripping colours. It was horrible chaos. I myself was horrible chaos. No one would ever accept me, and I was part of that no one. 

I didn't feel like eating. I felt like doing absolutely nothing. I didn't even want to think, but I couldn't stop my destructive thoughts from running around. I just wanted someone or something to acknowledge how much I hated myself at the moment and sympathize with me. Something that wasn't these walls, my colours, my dirty fingers or my bed. Something new, but I didn't even want to step into the living room. 

I let myself loose on the floor and had a second round of bawling my eyes out in a harrowing cry. All I could think was that I was the complete failure my parents had told me I would become if I didn't follow their advice. I had a weight on my stomach that felt more like a series of punches aiming always at the same spot at the end of my ribs.

It was afternoon by now, but apart from wanting to destroy my own self, I didn't feel any other need. I crawled in bed and waited for the day to end. I got up and turned the newly made painting towards me, so that I could see it while laying under the covers. I stared at it, intently. 

I turned away and looked at how the light slowly disappeared outside. If I sat up, I could see part of the sunset, but I didn't even have the strength to get my cushion, still miserably laying on the floor, right where my mood was. 

When it turned dark and only the dirty orange of the street lamps lit up the night, I turned around and continued staring at my painting.

It was the best and the worst I had ever painted. It was all I felt as I felt nothing. It was the only colours I could see that day even though I wasn't colorblind. It was my own contradiction, my everything and my nothing. I would call it "All that I wanted" if I had to add it to my exhibit. I would bring it to Minho and yell straight at his face that it was his fault, even though it wasn't.

Minho was all I wanted at that moment. Minho would understand, I was sure about it. Minho would look at it and apologize for something he didn't even do. Minho would glance at me sadly and embrace me in the safest hug of the universe. Minho would at least try to put my pieces back together and cheer for me. Minho would wipe away the boiling tears from my cheeks and tell me no one is perfect. 

Or he would just run away as soon as he sees me. He would throw hate at me for being so weak and fragile. He would laugh at my despair. He would brag about how he broke my heart to his girlfriend, and she would tell him he did the right thing to an idiot like me. He would finally judge me, even if he said he doesn't judge. 

I hated him, at the same time I had the impression of loving him. In any case, I hated myself more. 

I spent at least two hours staring at my painting. I hated it more and more as the seconds went by. I finally stood up and decided to destroy it. The canvas fell so weak under my punches, my kicks, my yells. I had gone mad, for what? For hating a painting? For hating myself? 

It was no longer existing. Dark red and grey were no longer in my head, on my skin, dripped on my surroundings - well, they were still on my bedsheets and I needed to wash them tomorrow, but that didn't matter. Anger and sadness didn't need to take control of me anymore. I would go on without Minho. Who needed him? His girlfriend, not me.

I didn't need Minho. Minho was nothing to me. Minho was just an exhibit offer. Minho was just a nice person I would never see again. Minho was going to be a married man soon as well. Minho was just one of those people that only have a background role in your life. Minho didn't have to stay. Minho didn't need to stay. 

I sighed. I felt stronger. I went downstairs and ate three quarters of a yoghurt. I watched a video on youtube. I had a shower. I went back to my bed, between infinite traces of paint, and drifted off into sleep as soon as I layed down, exhausted by the day I spent in the name of despair.