CRAIGSLIST THERAPIST | hyunho ✔

.10

Just to let you know, Hyunjin has not, in truthful fact, formed an attachment with a stranger this quickly.

Contrary to popular belief, Hyunjin does not fall so easily. Say whatever you want. He doesn't. And, unlike some people, he can set apart his existence from the movies he watches. Certainly, the sudden burst of energy is a side-effect of socialization, a quiet bubbling that tickles Hyunjin's stomach and makes him have thoughts such as, This is not bad, after all! Or even, in more extreme cases of communal activity: I think it's working!

So, when Minho cancels their session, it's only natural for Hyunjin to wear mourning like a new skin. Only "wearing" meant "bleaching," and "skin" well... hair.

Or something. Even he can tell he's not in the right mind.

Because Hyunjin's never had anything handed so easily, so when he gropes for the handle and ducks his burning head inside the sink, nothing soaks his hair.

"What," Hyunjin hisses, the smell too acid, his eyelids too unwilling to part open.

Blindly, he fumbles a hand through the whole sink and bumps off his essentials. Kkami barks at a fallen package.

"You mother—" Hyunjin says after scrubbing his face with a towel. The water won't come out, shy or malicious. Hyunjin picked the perfect day to follow Minho's approach. He can feel his scalp prickle, tiny tingles to the skin like a legion of poisonous ants. No, no, no. From all the important dates on the calendar: Kkami's birthday, Felix's payday, Christmas Eve, couldn't he fry his hair after he's secured a role?

It's outrageous, it's diabolical. The bills aren't late — Hyunjin doesn't struggle that much. But there's no use. Hyunjin tears open a bottle of mineral water, takes a sip, and dunks it on his hair.

By the end of it, Hyunjin has an interesting mix of half-ombre, yellow-orange-black hair, and twelve empty water bottles cluttering his nine-square-meter apartment.

—

Minho appears at his door with a plumbing service uniform, tool kit in a gloved hand.

"Hyunjin," he greets. "What a pleasant surprise. Wow," he says after taking in the sight of Hyunjin's ravaged hair strands. "Did I come too late?"

"Actually, yeah..." Hyunjin puffs a breath, slants his body toward his mattress and falls face-down, leaving room for Kkami to tap-dance along his spine, tickling nails over the thin shirt. Go ahead, dance on my grave, he thinks to say. If Kkami were telepathic, his communication skills would've improved immensely by now.

He can't even relish in the non-cancellation of the therapy service, clearly not ended due to Hyunjin's nonchalant, anti-social barrier of communication. Clearly, Minho is not like Hyunjin, a professional casting call hunter. He has a day job. One that pays bills, quenches blood-thirsty student debts, and relies solely on his motor skills so Minho can jaywalk around town and meet up with socially awkward aspiring actors.

And if Minho sees other actors — paying, established actors — on the side and takes them to abandoned warehouses, his statements, those spoken and unspoken, hold even more weight. Hyunjin touches his hair, tunes into his outward senses, the sound of Minho twisting the pipes, dismantling his sink in a way that feels irreparable. There's nothing wrong with the plumbing, but Hyunjin has no voice, only mumbles trapped into the pillow. He's just ruined his life.

"Well, there's your problem," Minho says as though he can actually read minds, his voice interweaving with the wet thick of an unlodged object. "Have you washed your hair, or your dog's, in this sink recently?"