not what you think

xliv: n

a/n: i'm finished with writing the book :) i feel a void

"Joonki, you need to participate in this," Minyoung prods Joonki with her elbow, as she views the computer screen, Joonki beside her on the bench after scrutinizing the gallery for speckless artworks.

"Minyoung, no. The D-2 one was a one time thing. I won't," Joonki voices, heaving a sigh, against his actual sentiment about the competition.

He perceives a brimming passion for painting. He'd tread to any sort of endeavor to get himself seen. But the cacophony of his father as he discarded his creations with no heed rings in his head in sporadic intervals, in many days or successively at times.

The conversance of such ferocity is prevalent in his psyche, albeit not in vast, but to some extent, and it impairs him those times to rumination.

As it is leniently doing right now.

"Joonki, please. Imagine if you place in it!", Minyoung voices in a whine, prodding out her lower lip in a softened, gleaming gaze.

"Minyoung, again, no," Joonki voices sternly, causing the female to falter her shoulders groundwards, a frown marrying her countenance.

"If you say so," Minyoung says as she clasps shut the laptop, "But think about it, Joonki, really," prodding him with her elbow again.

Joonki swirls his lips before viewing her in peripheral vision before getting up to view the gallery again, to overlook Minyoung's words blatant in his ears and psyche.

But think about it, Joonki, really.

Joonki sways his head to the sides as he glides towards the calligraphy from Taehyung's friend abroad, something he is made aware of through Minyoung.

Minyoung always seems to be cognizant of such information, which astonishes Joonki a bit, a contrast to his artless inoffensive persona.

He gazes over the audience, a few teenage boys viewing it in awe, the ornate details of the work lustrous under the afternoon gleam gliding through the glass walls.

He ponders what sort of ink was sketched over the aristocratic hue of the golden cloth.

The penmanship is as similar in hue as ebony, not a complete jet black, with flowers embellishing four fringes. Joonki hasn't deciphered it as well as the other artworks but this one manifests to him as one of the most graceful pieces of work he has viewed in his life, albeit written in a language he fails to fully understand.

He maintains a safe distance from the spectators, the latter gliding away to other works and fawning over the sculptures stowed sporadically around the enlarged space.

Joonki stands, immobile, where he is, viewing as the spectators glide by him, as his surroundings perceive to be laggard, whilst Joonki dwells in his own rumination.

Of what ifs. What if he wasn't what he is now. What if his father wasn't like this to him upon a reveal, albeit being forged. What if his sibling didn't have to suffer because of him all these years.

What if he wasn't so afflicted by something which was never a mistake in the first place.

His liking or disliking of people was never a mistake, yet he has been forced to tread a different path where the apprehension of such bears a slim likelihood.

He hasn't escaped his fears and afflictions yet. He's far from it. But the circumference of art, which weaved the ground to his passion causes him to forget such affliction, even if it's one third of the time of every weekday.