You are quite like a wilted flower,
neglected,
dried out,
and crumbled into pieces.
But, why did you still catch my attention with that beyond-belief beauty of yours?
All you need is a little love to bloom,
a little care to grow colorful,
and a litt...
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VIII: Wilted Flower
Beneath the Surface | Hidden trauma that lies below the surface of a character's life.
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The second day slips into view with quiet urgency, as if the night's curtain has been drawn back just a little too quickly.
The morning unfolds in hushed whispers; the sky is muted with the faint, somber tones of dawn, a subdued gradient of gray and violet.
Outside the window, a symphony begins—chirping birds weave their morning melodies, each note a gentle nudge toward the waking world. Their songs ripple through the air, a prelude to the bustling day ahead.
As time inches forward, the soft hum of activity starts to swell beyond the door.
The murmurs of early risers—hushed conversations, the shuffling of footsteps—build into a crescendo, a gentle but insistent call to the new day.
Minho, dressed in his uniform and seated quietly beside Iris on their now-shared bed, studied her with a gaze full of admiration.
Iris, whether with or without makeup, had a captivating presence that Minho couldn't ignore.
Her dark eyes, reflective like polished orbs, her sharp nose, and full lips created a striking visage.
He found himself mesmerized by the way her long black hair draped gracefully over her shoulders, with stray strands framing her face and her bangs neatly rolled in a roller.
Minho couldn't help but giggle at the charming sight.
The pair had stayed up late the night before, Minho helping Iris catch up on missed studies. They both were running on low energy, but Minho masked his fatigue, his focus solely on Iris.
His eyes lingered on the fluttering of Iris's eyelashes as they brushed against her cheeks.
He noticed her frequent sniffles, a side effect of the chill in his room that had left her nose runny.
He wished he could offer her more warmth, but living in the orphanage meant dealing with the cold as best as they could. He himself had weathered many years of this relentless chill, a reality that left little room for comfort.
