❝Bathroom Talks❞ m.yg x p.jm [eng trans]

6

Incredulously I blinked and screwed up my eyes many times, while I was staring at the patch directly under my comment, which had been still spared from sayings and scribblings last time.
What had been plunged in a seemly listless mixed and inaccurate applied light blue before, was now, as well as the text, overlaid by a black pen which made me easily get over the loss of the gradually faded blue, because those few words represented the only object catching my interest, since I have been read the 'masterwork', as I called it, tenderly.
It took me some further moments to cease my gaze transfigured by excitement and relief, before I drew attention to the words perpetuated with an untidy but concise writing, just like the text, and which got complemented together with my a little bit too accurately conducted handwriting, just like day and night, a picture, which got burned into my mind and stayed there for a long time. But when I was finally finished with letting it flow through my thoughts word by word, the fog of excitement and euphoria disappeared, just to get replaced by an ice-cold whiff of sadness and the loneliness which was apparently chained on the anonymous authod in a split second. Again I read my now naive seeming question, which was gaining of unpleasantness due to the reply, before I inspected the anonymous reply a second time, just to plunge into the freezing pain, which seemed to be presented in those words more than anywhere else a further time.

Has he ever looked for his true smile?

How should he be able to look for something, that never existed?

I gulped noisily, the fact that it concerned exactly about the same handwriting gave me goosebumps which layed around my body like a coat and let me cringe.
The hopelessness I could feel through the words and the meaning behind them more than clearly was more overwhelming than ever, almost like it would have personified and would now stand behind me treacherously smiling while I was still obliviously focusing on the small and inconsiderably scribbled reply.
Again I screwed up my eyes to get a clear mind, since I was so lulled right now.
But what bothered me most was why I reacted that intensely to just scribbled words, as I stood directly in front of that person and would lipread the words like the book pages I was so hungry of.
After all it was nothing else than a simple but also deliberately framed reply.
Maybe it was just about the 'masterwork's' magic which didn't seem to fade even after several days and still kept me prisoner.
But this statement wasn't a big help for me though when I desperately began to look for appropriate words for the answer sounding more like a rhetorical question.
Because one part of me was excessively struggling against to answer something ordinary.
Instead it should be something special, something that's able to hold a candle to the author's eloquence, something that could​ compare on a par with his genius without causing a rivalry, but it should also be an answer aware of his words' meaning.
Minutes passed without an answer being within my grasp until I got a brainwave and I didn't hesitate one second to get a pen between my fingers. The fact my fingers were shaking of excitement without any relatable reason I ignored successfully. Instead I let slide the pen with even moves over the uneven rough and partially faded ground with keeping sight of my readable and carful achieved writing.
I didn't know when I had begun to make such a big deal of an answer to a not even answerable question.
But the anonymous written words gave me such an incomparable charisma, undescribable with words.
The ringing as a sign the lunch hour has finished yanked me from my trancelike state.
I have not only skipped the whole lunch hour, I have also left Jungkook waiting for me in the cafeteria completely cluelessly.
The guilty conscience grabbed me with its invisible hands and pushed me without me doing anything out of the boys bathroom right on the way back to the lesson straining on my nerves and nibbling on my fantasy.
However, not without casting a last glance on the 'conversation' extended​ by my written text, before I finally left the room having a last, hardly perceptible smile on my lips.

What's making him so sure of its non-existence when he has never looked for it?

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:)
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