Love is half

1

The drawings were abandoned on the box, as most of the others were, and the paper is wrinkled at the edges, old and used, forgotten. Against the yellowish rough materials, there rests thousands of different colors and shades of pencils, glimpses of memories and each tells their stories on their own.

Like the bench that is still sitting underneath the large cherry blossom tree of Jungkook’s old home. The tree is old: older than the memories of the painting of his old home, his childhood. His eyes shift away and move to the hidden paper one at the bottom, a sharp breath passes by.

He did not look away from the specific sketch of himself that’s on his lap. It is simple, the paper is wrinkly but recent, newer than other drawings that he drew when he was adolescent, more innocent and happy, happiest. However, the paper is wrinklier, the fragile material makes his skin feel as if it’s being burned alive. Each line of the drawing reminds him of those moments.

Naked. Brooklyn apartment balcony. Legs spread open. A boxy smile. Veiny sweaty palms holding the pencil so gently, tracing him on the piece of paper.

A sketch of himself on it, his face is shaded with the gentlest shade of dark and the muscle of his parted legs are heavily shaded with darkest gray, as if it was more observed, more detailed.

He can still feel those eyes lingering on his skin, his cock, thighs, his eyes, the mole on his thighs and neck, underneath his lips–making him feel burned, naked, everything but nothing at the same time. He wonders if it will ever go away.

if he hides, rips off, burns the damn paper alive, will the memories will still haunt him, fuck him up like always?  Like the sun does, always burns his eyes, too bright, cruel and beautiful–the sun. Him. His heart.

It’s been three years. Three years of not seeing a glimpse of the observer, the owner of the drawing and those deep, dark, fucking beautful but cruelest  almond eyes. His ex boyfriend.

“I love her, Jungkookie.”

There. He can always hear those words, feel them. Numbness never seems to go away. Like the sun. It’s always there.  The day when the sun turned into the ugliest shade of brightness. Taehyung.

In blink of his eyes, the wrinkled papers turns into pieces, tortured and hated. Jungkook doesn’t glance at it when he throws it in the trash, it drops underneath the coke bottle and a tissue with eyeliner smudges. A cotton with dried blood. The crumbled paper seems bloodier in his eyes, wounds him deeper than the slit on his wrist.

He lies down on his bed, sleep takes over him. And he feels nothing.

Jeon Jungkook, 21. No dream. Year 2022.

🪡

“ -ber Heard, following a court ruling that she is to pay $10 million to Johnny Depp in defamation, the legal team for Depp has now resp…”

It’s New Years. 2023 has arrived. The words from the television turn into white noises in Jungkook’s ears.

When he turns around, his back hits the carpeted floor from not having any support next to him. His couch is small, big enough to fit two bodies on it yet he didn’t realize when he moved so close to the edge. Didn’t realize when the fireworks were painting to the sky,didn’t pick up the phone  when his parents and best friends were crowding his notification with messages, Tae  lives in Manhattan too I’ve heard, did you know? , phone calls, heart emojis, when will you come to busan again Ggukah? You dad misses you even though he won’t admit it!, and go on.

Jungkook sometimes wishes he never had a phone.

It’s two in the morning. He slept for five hours. He blinks a few seconds to adjust his vision, the darkness around him feels more clear now, the city lights, buildings, dark clouds swimming in the sky. Rain is about to pour. The Tv plays abandoned next to him, he stares at the screen but his mind doesn’t work, is empty and uninterested yet he doesn’t have the motivation to change it. If it plays, let it be, as long as it doesn’t bother him.