BTS Imagines

Jimin - Art Gallery

«fluff»

"He's coming! He's coming!"

"Yeah so could you not be so obvious?"

"Act normal. Be, like, a receptionist."

The day had just begun, and she was already scampering around. If she could stand to be quiet, she might have heard your eyes rolling back in your head. Well, she was usually like this though.

Unlike many of your peers, you, a shining new member of society, weren't stuck as a desk rat in some sleek downtown office building, slaving away at a dull nine to five. You weren't the stereotypical barista-slash-waiter at a cozy cafe either. Instead you became the star employee of an upscale art gallery found right in the heart of the city.

It was great. The visitors were quiet; you got to admire paintings and sculptures all day; and you got payed enough to live comfortably with your dog. It almost seemed too easy.

On tours you'd lead groups down your favorite halls and talk about what you loved from every piece: be it the medium, the splendid use of negative space, or even something as simple as the creator's style. Apparently this made you an "exemplary employee" with "a drive for the company" that you demonstrated with your "diligent work ethic." ...Or whatever she'd said. Your boss would compliment you for the basest of things — things you really didn't think much of — but the praise felt good, so you opted to agree that you'd earned it.

As with every workplace though, there are those that are the human embodiment of the shitty workroom coffee machine. They chatter nonstop and simultaneously annoy half the employees while bringing together the others. And for some reason, like moths to a flame, those were the ones attracted to average, solitary workers such as yourself.

"Act like a receptionist," she says despite that actually being part of your duties. You didn't hate your coworker, she was just so hyperactive. Hell you didn't even remember her name; she said it too fast when she introduced herself, and you couldn't be bothered to ask for it again. After a year and a half together, she must've picked up on the fact that you didn't know.

On this particular morning though, she was more hyped than usual. The reason being? Yesterday you'd let it slip that a nice young man passed in front of the gallery every day, and she became hell-driven to get a glimpse of this "man candy."

He walked by every morning at the same time: eight forty on the dot. He was never late, and in eight months, he'd never missed a day. In the rain, he showcased a baby blue umbrella. In the snow he cocooned himself in layers and burned pink in his ears and cheeks. Sometimes he'd look up at the sign proclaiming this building's purpose, but he never came in, and more importantly, he never saw you.

And however hopeless it sounded, you were content to leave it that way. There was only one thing you wanted from him.

That day, the early spring sun kissed his face, and the morning dew twinkled in the background as he walked by. He was dressed casually like always. You wondered if he had a job, but in retrospect, what else would he do every morning? Just for a span of a few seconds, he breezed past the gallery's wide glass doors, and then he was gone— black hair, muscular thighs and all. Your eyes followed him till the very last moment.

"I want to know his name."

Your coworker was gushing beside you, slapping your arm and whining about wanting to be introduced. It was probably a work of God that you were able to contain your groan.