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If Park Jimin wasn't so kind in his words towards you- nonchalantly ethereal in the way he carries himself, effortlessly beautiful, warm as the last rays of sunshine in the summer- you'd tell him to suck a dick.
Matter of fact -as you sit on your living room floor in front of the mirror, curling the last strand of your blonde hair, a glass of red on one side and a pack of Marlboro lights on the other- you tell him that.
He cackles, eyes on his phone as he sits on your living room couch, scrolling on his socials.
"Just hurry the fuck up, okay?".
With a roll of eyes, you ignore him as you swallow back the rest of your wine before applying a thin layer of lipstick. Like every weekend, you were getting ready for a night out. And like every weekend, you were counting on that pregame buzz to last long enough to save you some bucks at the club. Cheap wine often gave you headaches. Expensive cocktails always gave you headaches.
Jimin's eyes dart away from the screen to your reflection in the mirror only to see you stick your tongue at him.
"Nabi" the nickname rolls of his tongue through a sigh.
He's been calling you that since the first time he'd laid his eyes on you. Back in Uni, ten years ago.
You'd always wear a different butterfly hairclip in the mornings and he kept forgetting your name but desperately needed your (obsessively) organized notes. And 'Butterfly girl' somehow sounded less derogatory than 'weird girl'.
You can't pinpoint the exact time you two grew close. But you know it happened gradually. At first, you kept thinking how incredibly stupid he was and that you had better chances giving tutoring lessons to an untrained monkey and he'd snicker with his friends behind your back, often calling you names.
One time (you were pretty sure) he started a rumor that you had a collection of dead bugs back at home and that that's why you had an unhealthy obsession with butterflies (you may have had a weird butterfly obsession in your geeky years but he was going through it with his eyeliner-inclined make up choices at the time. And you make sure not to let him forget that. Ever.). You thought about calling the tutoring off but he kept flunking his exams and coming back to you. And tutoring pays well on campus after all.
And so, among late night study sessions, anxiety-inducing exams and eyeliner darker than the bowl-cut hair he was sporting, 'Nabi' was spoken into existence.
Lots of your best memories were tied to him. Lots of first too.
He had dragged you to your first Uni party because apparently 'who the fuck stays in on a Friday night to study?' and 'why the fuck would you stay in on a Friday night to study?' weren't good enough reasons for you to go.
Got you drunk, too. First time he had to hold your hair over the toilet.
First time you got a lower grade; it was because of him.
