𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 || JJK x READER

𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎

Y/n's pov
Dear diary,
I hate a man.
I hate an artist and his art.
Maybe the problem wouldn't even be his art, I mean everyone interprets a work according to their own subjective perceptions, perceptions that are not applied to the artist though.

Jeon Jungkook.

The first time I heard his name.
Everyone at the college and at the museum were raving about him.
Superficial, in my opinion.

He let me ramble on, criticising his art without any hair on my tongue, like I was a spoilt brat, only to finally reveal to me that he was the author of those works.

Impertinent and sadistic.

He must surely have enjoyed making me look bad. I would have liked to sink into the emptiness emanating from the painting in front of us, and I will never stop thanking that girl who enthusiastically drew his attention, driving him away from the miserable scene i had made.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

I felt an uncontrollable heat, drops of sweat ran down my forehead, down my neck.
I was running breathlessly along that narrow path, feeling as if it were a dead end.

Your thoughts don't count.
You cannot decide for yourself.
You are just a nobody who wastes time chasing her dream.

A voice interrupted my running, increasing my desire to run further, to flee.

A voice that haunted me and gave me no rest. There was no peace I could reach.
That damned voice would find a way to break my wings.

I barely continued along that linear path, narrow and dark, not at all familiar to my senses.
Every door was barred.
Every house in ruins.

You were destined to be alone.

Now my legs gave out and my vision blurred.
My lungs no longer allowed me to breathe as I should have.
There appeared a tattered doormat with the barely legible word 'welcome'.

A door ajar invited me to enter and take refuge from the oppressive darkness.
I could finally stop listening to that voice that was suffocating me.

The entrance was pervaded by as much darkness but the voice, here, did not seem to arrive.
It seemed distant.

Albeit with some fear, I made my way through the deepest darkness only to glimpse a candle in the distance.
It gave the impression that it had been lit for hours, as the wax was now also dripping onto the table on which it was resting.

It gave a gentle glow to the room, which seemed empty.
Suddenly that feeble flame grew thicker, bursting into a blinding, scorching flame.

I had to back away on impulse, ending up against a hard, rough surface.
The curiosity to turn around, albeit fearfully, was stronger than me.

In front of me a canvas, disproportionately large, towered proudly above me.
But it was no ordinary canvas. It was Jeon's canvas.

I could see a white vortex painted in the centre, against a black background. It was so deep and distressing.

I could see my soul at the bottom of that vortex and the vision was horrible.
I was scared, cold, surrounded by rubble and despair.

I had to flee from there, too.

I stepped back without ever losing sight of that picture. Now there was no fire to illuminate those walls, darkness again and the sound of my trembling breath.