(Jimin POV)
Time only seems to slow down when you feel like dying.
No wonder each day feels like it's never going to end.
I walked down the school's dim hall, my hands stashed in the pockets of my hoodie. It was hailing outside, thumps of ice hitting the windows of classrooms. Students hurried past me, ushering quickly to make it to class despite the already rung bell of class commencing.
The national anthem started to blare through the PA, the steps of some remaining students trickling to a halt as some teachers neared out their classrooms to supervise the complying of them to stand still.
I continued walking.
"Excuse me," a graying teacher hissed. He peered at me through his thin-framed glasses and I looked away, feet refusing to stop.
And so I walked and walked, wishing I could disappear.
___
I listened to the words lost in translation.
Words that were lost and drowned out by the beeping of phones, by the music of speakers, by the tones of our voices.
I sat in the middle of the cafeteria, a pitching white table with peeling paint. The bodies of dozens of other students enveloped around me in their own tables, a curtsying circle travelling round and round around me as I sat smack in its radius.
"I'm not eating pizza today."
'I'm not happy in my own skin.'
"I can't sleep."
'My thoughts keep me awake.'
"I want to sleep."
'I want to die.'
Karaoke music blared through the cafeteria's speakers as duos and trios of students took turns, singing in exaggerated voices. Some rapped, others harmonized.
Applause rang out as we all got our dose of entertainment, bows of three students blossoming as they walked away.
A ball of crumpled paper fell onto my table and I looked up to see Yoongi smirking and walking away. I unfolded the paper, black ink peeking through the messy folds;
fake.
I turned my attention back to my lunch, picking at my salad with my fork. It tasted dry and bland, no matter how much dressing I creamed on top of the vegetables.
Maybe we really are what we write.
A familiar laughter echoed throughout the speaker as the next few students took their turn at the front, preparing to belt out to their chosen song through the mics.
"Follow me on Instagram," Yoongi laughed in the mic as various other students joined in, taking out their phones to record an amusing entertainer.
Namjoon patted him on the back as they both started up, quite off-key to the melody. The audience roared at the comedic display attempt, cheering and recording.
The paper stared at me and I stared back.
"Fake," I repeated the word to myself.
"Fake, fake," I repeated, voice no longer the ghostly whisper.
"Fake, fake,
fake fake, fake!"
Nearby tables stopped laughing and turned towards me, whispering to each other.
