OUT OF TOUCH | TK SOON

CHAPTER ONE

Well, this shall be my next metanoia

***

"The shades all around aren't the colors we used to see
Broken ice still melts in the sun
And times that are broken can often be one again
We're soul alone
And soul really matters to me
Take a look around

You're out of touch
I'm out of time
But I'm out of my head when you're not around."

The page between his fingers felt like velvet and rough concrete at the same time, something which always made him wonder if the sense of touch was simply an illusion and things felt different than what people made them to be like. The pages of an old book could feel like concrete but people would always find beauty in them and something grotesque in the pavement they walked on which was, most of the time, smoother. People always found beauty in what appealed their eyes—butterflies, flowers, clouds. 

Were moths not as soft as butterflies? 

Were leaves not as appealing as the flowers people picked up just to stare at them for a few days?

There was something in humans that always reached towards aesthetically pleasing images—towards beauty and youth. It was their nature, to strive to stay that way forever. To live through other things and people around them even when their own hearts withered with old age and wrinkles.

They all wanted to stay young and beautiful.

They all wanted to pick up the pretty flowers, to cage the butterflies and photograph the clouds.

They all turned away from the nightime moths, from storms, even from the falling leaves of trees. Death, withering, was not aesthetically pleasing.

"Who do you think will reach the front page this month?" The woman in front of him asked, breaking him out of his trance.

Her voice was laced with that boredom he was already so accustomed to. Her azure eyes looked lifeless most of the time but he couldn't put the blame on her.

It was her curse.

Boredom.

Curses. People liked to call them that way but they've had many names throughout history. Sins, blessings, burdens—people had always searched for a way to define the one thing that tied them all together.

They all shared one fate. Each human had a curse of their own, whether it manifested or not was up to fate as well. Some people aged and never had a curse manifest in their lives whereas some had curses that didn't affect their daily lives. Some people were luckier than others—some people were loved by fate in different ways.

Some people were held in Fate's hands, because she loved them more, whereas some were cast away, just like the moths. Some people, in their world, were the butterflies—pretty, privileged, taken care of, whereas the others were left alone.

Fate herself had a keen eye for pretty things, he would know. Fate loved humans, but she only loved those that made her heart flutter.

He would know Fate's preferences best, because he was her favourite out of them all. The most ethereal, the most beautiful, the most astonishing — the most cursed.

Fate loved some.

Whereas some people were hated by it.

Glancing at the woman in front of him, the unnamed man couldn't help but wonder if she was loved or hated by fate.