Melting Softly [[Taekook]]

Chapter 6

Jungkook dash to his art room as soon he entered the Min's Mansion, he sat alone in his art room, a space that felt like a small sanctuary within the vastness of the Min mansion. Evening sunlight streamed in through the high, narrow window, bathing the room in golden hues, but he hardly noticed the warmth of it. Here, he could let the walls that held his cold, reserved exterior crumble, even if only for a few hours.

His art room was his one realm of true freedom. The walls were lined with canvases of all sizes, each one telling a fragment of his story, his pain, his silent dreams. He didn't mind the chaos of brushes, paint tubes, and splattered aprons scattered across the floor-this mess was his expression, his heartbeat in visible form. The large canvas his aunt had given him stood stark and white in front of him, a blank witness to the storm swirling inside his heart.

Jungkook's fingers trembled as he pulled out his brushes, choosing black, white, brown, and just a splash of crimson. Colors that seemed to mirror his soul-shadows intertwined with a sliver of warmth that he could barely grasp. He worked methodically, his hands moving with a mixture of precision and desperation, like he was fighting to wrestle his emotions into submission. His usually stoic expression was twisted in anguish, brows drawn, his lips pressed into a tight line, yet his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Every stroke he painted seemed to release a fragment of the turmoil inside him. Black streaks slashed across the canvas, like deep wounds on a soul battered and bruised. White blended in, swirling around the darkness, creating a dance of light and shadow, a desperate struggle between despair and hope. The brown added depth, grounding the chaos, while the red-oh, the red-pierced through, bleeding pain, anger, and frustration.

He sat on the floor, not caring that paint was smudging his hands, splattering onto his shirt and jeans. His fingers grew stained and numb, but he kept going, his breath ragged and his jaw clenched tight. Jungkook's eyes narrowed in concentration, the world outside disappearing until it was just him, the canvas, and the whirlwind of emotions he was desperately trying to understand.

The image began to form, raw and visceral: a distorted landscape, a shadowed figure trapped in a sea of red and black, longing for a light that felt impossibly distant. Jungkook's vision blurred, and for a moment, he paused, clutching the paintbrush as if it was his last lifeline. Painting had always been his silent release, a language he used when words betrayed him.

When he finally stepped back, exhausted and hollow, he gazed at his creation. His knees gave way, and he sat heavily on the floor, paint-smeared hands resting on his thighs, his chest heaving with the intensity of it all. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by his uneven breathing and the faint drip of paint still wet on the canvas.

The sadness, the rage, the yearning-everything he kept locked inside was there, unspoken but screaming, demanding to be heard. And yet, Jungkook himself remained silent, sinking back into the shadows of his own pain.

Jungkook's vision cleared slowly, and he finally took in the painting he had created. The colors, once harsh and chaotic, had given life to a memory he had buried deep inside, a memory he hadn't dared to touch in years.

On the canvas, he had painted his mother and himself from a time when life had been gentle, a time before the pain and separation, before the walls he had built around himself. His mother's laughter was vivid in the image, her eyes bright as she held a small, carefree version of him in her embrace. Little Jungkook, with a wide, innocent grin, was captured in a moment he could almost feel-the warmth, the safety, the love that had once defined his world.

Staring at that memory brought a sharp ache to his chest, one he had forced himself to ignore for so long. He sat back against the wall, his tired body leaning heavily into the cold surface. His gaze never left the painting as a tear slowly slipped down his cheek, tracing a painful path. The tear glistened in the soft evening light, clinging to his chin for a heartbeat before it dropped, falling to his paint-stained hand.