ᴺᴼᵀ ᴰᴱᴬᴰ ʸᴱᵀ ★☆☆ ᵐⁱⁿˢᵘⁿᵍ

one - disaster

Lee Minho's hands hovered over the broken shards of clay, their jagged edges scattered across the studio floor like the aftermath of a storm. He could still feel the weight of the sculpture-the one he'd been working on for months-its rough texture pressing against his palms as he carried it to the workbench only hours ago. Now, it was gone. Just like everything else he'd tried to hold onto.

He crouched down, fingers trembling as they brushed against the largest fragment. His reflection stared back at him from the glossy glaze, distorted and unfamiliar.

"Sorry about that!"

The voice-bright and unapologetic-cut through the silence like a misplaced note in a symphony. Minho looked up sharply. A man, early twenties, with wild black curls and an oversized denim jacket, stood in the open doorway, one hand gripping a bicycle and the other clutching a guitar case.

"I think I might've-uh-bumped into something outside. Didn't realize it'd... you know... cascade into a catastrophe." The stranger gestured vaguely at the shards, his sheepish grin doing little to mask the amusement in his eyes.

Minho stared, the words stuck in his throat.

He stood back up on his feet, his expression stoic and unwavering,

"You ruined it." His voice came out colder than he intended. But he didn't necessarily regret it.

The man gave him a shrug and smile "how much do I have to pay you? I have the money-"

"It's of emotional value." Minho interrupted him.

The man tilted his head, his grin faltering just slightly as he studied Minho's face. The coldness in Minho's voice didn't seem to intimidate him, though it did make him pause.

"Emotional value, huh?" he repeated, setting the bike and guitar case aside with exaggerated care. "Well, that's tougher to put a price on, isn't it?"

Minho folded his arms, his eyes narrowing. He was used to people skirting around apologies, but there was something about this guy's casual demeanor that both irritated and intrigued him. "What are you even doing here?"

"Thought this was the community studio," he replied easily. "I was going to leave a flyer for my next gig. Didn't think I'd make an entrance worthy of a Greek tragedy." He crouched down beside the shards, his fingers hovering over them. "Can I-"

"No." Minho cut him off sharply, stepping closer. "Don't touch it."

The man straightened, holding his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. Message received, Picasso."

"It's Minho," he said, tone clipped.

"Minho," he repeated, testing the name like a chord on a guitar. "Cool. I'm Jisung. And I'm still sorry, for what it's worth." He motioned vaguely to the ruined sculpture.

Minho sighed, rubbing his temples. This wasn't the first time something he'd cared about had been destroyed-but at least the others had been accidents, or time's slow erosion. This? This was carelessness wrapped in a smug smile.

"I don't want your money," Minho said finally.

Jisung raised an eyebrow. "You want something else, then? Name it. I owe you."

Minho looked at him, the weight of Jisung's promise heavier than it should have been. "Just... stay out of here. This is my space."

Jisung opened his mouth, but something in Minho's expression made him stop. For a long moment, they stood in silence. Then, Jisung nodded. "Fair enough. But, for the record, I don't make the same mistake twice."

Minho didn't reply, his attention already back on the shards. He heard Jisung's retreating footsteps, followed by the faint creak of the door closing.

When the silence returned, it felt heavier than before, pressing down on Minho like the weight of all the things he couldn't fix. He crouched again, staring at the fractured pieces of his work, wondering why the stranger's smile lingered in his mind longer than the crash of the sculpture breaking.

...

Minho sat cross-legged on the cold studio floor, letting the silence settle around him like a heavy blanket. The shards of the sculpture lay before him, mocking him with their jagged, chaotic edges. He reached out, tracing the broken pieces as if willing them to fuse back together. But they didn't. They never would.

For a moment, he thought about leaving the mess right there, abandoning it as a monument to his frustration. But he couldn't. The studio was his sanctuary, and it deserved better than to become a graveyard for his failures.

Sighing, he reached for the broom in the corner. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if each sweep of the bristles might erase not just the broken clay but the bitterness rising in his chest. The fragments scraped against the floor, a sharp contrast to the quiet, and Minho winced at the sound.

The door creaked open again.

Minho froze, his grip tightening on the broom handle. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. "I thought I told you-"

"Relax." Jisung's voice was softer this time, almost cautious. "I'm not here to touch your stuff. I brought something."

Minho turned his head slightly, just enough to see Jisung standing there, holding a small potted cactus in his hands. Its spiky green body looked absurdly out of place against the backdrop of clay dust and broken shards.

"What is that?" Minho asked, his voice flat.

"A peace offering." Jisung stepped inside, ignoring the way Minho glared at him. He placed the cactus carefully on a nearby table, then backed away with both hands raised. "See? Harmless. No sudden movements."

Minho's frown deepened as he stood, setting the broom aside. "Why a cactus?"

"Because they survive anything," Jisung said with a grin. "Even disasters. Thought it might be fitting."

For a moment, Minho didn't know whether to laugh or kick Jisung out again. The absurdity of the gesture-it didn't make sense, but then again, nothing about Jisung did.

"You think a cactus is going to make up for-" He gestured at the remnants of his sculpture.

"No," Jisung interrupted, his tone surprisingly serious. "But I figured it might... I don't know... help. New beginnings and all that."

Minho stared at him, the words catching him off guard. There was no smugness in Jisung's expression now, just an awkward sort of sincerity that made Minho look away.

"You're weird," Minho muttered.

"Guilty as charged." Jisung gave a small laugh, and the tension in the room seemed to lighten just a little. "Anyway, I'll leave you to it. But, uh, if you ever need help sweeping up disasters-or just someone to yell at-I'm around."

Minho didn't respond, and Jisung took that as his cue to leave. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence returned, softer this time, less oppressive.

Minho turned back to the cactus, its tiny spines catching the light. He couldn't quite explain it, but something about the ridiculous little plant made him feel lighter, as if the weight pressing down on his chest had shifted just slightly.

With a sigh, he crouched back down, picking up the broom once more. There was still a mess to clean, after all.