Magnetic Eyes || NWJNS x F! Reader

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

The pleasant aroma of baked goods hits you long before you cross the threshold. Subtle, but clean and slightly sweet–a reminder of what home is. You see them staring at you, their gazes stern but commending along with their tender smiles. The sunlight filters through the eaves in the weekend morning, and the distinct smell of caramelized brown sugar and chocolate drifts through every corner of the house.

The moment, your moment with your friends' pride and joy. Eventually, the freshly baked cookies were taken out of the oven. You watch as your two friends handle the hot tray with both caution and delight. Everything had been fine–splendid even. However, the floorboards are cold under your feet more than it usually is; the walls are more forbidding than what you are used to.

Farther and farther, the room goes. The scenery begins to shift, and the friendly faces of the two figures in front of you cease to be visible. You couldn't hear any of them; not above the raucous voices and the deafening roar of sirens, nor the screams replacing the comforting delicate melodies. There is only the blinding fear and the numbing effect of trauma when your shoes meet the red sea, bitter and frigid. That wasn't your blood but theirs. However, the blood that drips from your cheek to your hands is sourly warm: it belonged to your crying, bleeding figure.

The walls tumble and everything goes quiet.

It takes a few moments for everything to fall into place, for your eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the room. Despite the pleasant chill the air conditioner brings, your oversized t-shirt is clinging tightly to you, and the woolen blanket that's been draped over your physique is a tangled mess around your legs. It's barely four in the morning, and yet...

"It's way too early for this thing..."

It's been long–too long since the last you've woken up drenched in your own sweat, head littered with thoughts that are gone as soon as your eyes open. All too often, only imprints and brief images of the incident are left to haunt you for the rest of the day, or until your mind forgets about it. But you would never forget that awful feeling from that unfaithful day.

No matter how vivid the dreams are, what little you can remember does not matter. Regardless, the desperation and agony still sticks–clawing up, pushing, urging you to relive every moment, every sensation. You sit and reach up to wipe the small beads of sweat away from your forehead before kicking away the heavy mess of pillows and blankets.

"What a fantastic way to start my morning."