daybreak | yoonmin

february 22nd.

5:48 a.m.

Jimin woke up early today but couldn't go back to sleep.

Rather than toss and turn under his duvet in search of it he started his day early. So he flipped the covers up with a yawn, slid his feet into some socks, and made his way to the kitchen.

It would be nice, he thought, to kick back for a while and watch the first light with a cup of warm coffee in his hands. Winter mornings made for the best sunrises anyway.

Jimin began bringing two eggs to a boil and left wheat slices in the toaster oven for later eating with guava jam. In the meantime, the kettle bubbled.

Having nothing to think about was a rare and fleeting gift and throughout all his adult life, it always happened on mornings like this. Orange-pink skies like sorbets were his favorite but always melted away quickly.

He poured the water into a mug he'd pulled from the cabinet, dropping in the spoons of honey and mesh bag that would turn it into lemon tea. Steam billowed into his face, his too-long black bangs veiling his eyes as he leaned over the mug and stirred. The heat in his palm felt like something he needed, enough to make him hold it to his chest in his lean against the counters.

Relaxation fell over him like a blanket.

He had half a mind to pick up a book but he'd seen every word at least once by now, right? And what's a word to a life, anyway?

A word is a word, arbitrary and haphazard, but it is not the thing it means. No word compares to the feeling, the being, or living. As but a string of consonants and vowels, sunrise cannot capture the morning sun. Nor can it capture its heat, like a tea cup, creeping onto his feet through the window; the glow of a room, still sleepy, waking up for the day; a ball so bright in the sky he sometimes wanted to pluck it out the sky and wear it around his neck.

Eggs salted and toast jammed, Jimin loads a tray up with his breakfast and yawns his way back to his bedroom. In his dozy amble he feels the happiest he's felt in weeks. Plopping back into bed, he grabs the first egg and bites in. It is warm in his belly; tea, warm in his hand; sun coming closer across brown sheets to speak to him. Everywhere in the space radiated heat and therefore life. He couldn't recall the last time he had a slow morning like this one. He savored every second.

Just behind the headboard of his bed was an open window, about four feet in length and width. He sat in front of its transparent panels very carefully so not to knock over the small plants that sat on its sill. Then he just stared. Jimin stared and ate his breakfast.

His mind was free of thought. He did not think about Taehyung, or rent, or Mr. Bourgeouis, nor did he ponder all the possible locations of his eyeglasses. Everything was still. The way he liked it best.

Except at the adjacent building.

There, at the adjacent building, could he see a figure working at removing clothes from a clothesline through the window directly across from him. A washed-out blue bedhead.

Jimin narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of it. He couldn't believe it. This had to be a sick, cosmic joke.

No

fucking

way.

"Yoongi?"

Apparently he'd said that louder than he thought, because no sooner than he'd realized who it was, the figure had stopped mirror a squint at Jimin's window. And despite the distance, Jimin knew that he had been caught. He shut his eyes and ducked, taking a bite of guava toast, but to no avail.

"Jimin! Jimin, it's me! It's fucking Blues Clues in this bitch!"

The end of his peace and quiet was here. The end of his peace and quiet was here, and it had blue hair and the cutest smile and a very, very, very annoying morning voice as it welcomed MTV to his crib.

Yay.