U Know Me? ; Minsung

rekindle the flame? or let it die completely?

(he's so beautiful i'm crying my eyebrows off) 

Minho was in... yet another taxi, and yet another crisis. 

He had the Han Jisung's number in his palm. Crumpled and re-crumpled, analysed and re-analysed. 

This time five years ago, he probably would have leaked it to the public— allowed him to be harassed, discussed about more— but that was purely because he was petty. And... absolutely fuming, at the time. 

Now, the fiery tempest of anger had quelled. Its' embers had been given time to simmer. Yet, like smouldering coals awaiting a breath of air, those feelings remained susceptible to reignition.

Along with other feelings. Ones that his little heart winced incessantly about. 

Time elongates, stretching into an eternity of deliberation. More memories, both tender and heart-wrenching, flood Minho's mind, blurring the boundary between past and present. The post-it note is a testament to their forgotten liaison. Minho questions whether reaching out will rekindle a spark, or extinguish the faint glimmer of hope that still flickers within him. 

It's a merciless game of tug-of-war between doubt and desire. Perhaps a little chat wouldn't hurt—after all, he had questions. Questions lacking answers. 

He seemed to be forgetting how emotional he could get over such things. Naturally, such contemplation eluded him entirely as he retrieved his phone. Again. 

Finally, after an arduous battle waged within his conflicted heart, Minho musters up the courage to make the call. The keypad pops up on his screen and he draws in a breath. Then, he dials the number. 

The resonant melody of dial tones cascade through the receiver, rumbling like a distant solo piece, carrying with it the weight of what could've been. An expectant hush envelops the space until, at last, a voice crackles to life, laced with equal parts: disbelief and intrigue. 

"Hello?" He's picked up. 

Minho's voice confines him. For a few seconds, he hesitates to speak the name that has tortured him for years. "I- Jisung, I found your number—" 

"Sorry, who is this? How did you get my number?" Minho can practically hear Jisung's frustrated expression from down the line. 

"You gave it to me. Sorry— I mean, I'm the guy from a couple nights ago. You know, from the Ivory Royale?" 

There is a tiny pause to recollect. "Oh shit! You! I thought that was the last I'd ever see of you. I was waiting for a call, you know." Jisung's tone is much softer now, more settled. The black-haired wishes he could feel the same. 

"Yeah, there's a big problem though— well, it might not be a big problem to you—or, I mean- it might be, you could feel differe—" 

Jisung cuts him off. "Mhm. You're cute, but just go on." 

Minho decides not to utter a word about constantly being cut off. "I searched you up. And I found out why you were so familiar, and... I suppose I'll just say it. It's me Minho, Jisung. Your ex." 

There's a breath-taking crescendo of glass shattering on the other end of the line. "W-what?! Fuck—" 

Instantaneously, it sounds as if Jisung covers the mic of his phone, as when he speaks again, the sound is muffled. The only thing that is clear is his authoritative tone calling out to someone else. 

Then, he hangs up. Just like that. 

Minho blinks rapidly. A frown creases his crimson lips. Was it so awful to even hear of him again? "I literally split his ass in two the other night..."