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

16

That my mom would connect the true reason of my, gently expressed, retarded appearing more with a scene stolen from a bad script than with the real truth, is probably not necessary to say.
Being aware of this I served her a quite enforced lie I had carefully pieced together on my way home.
The incredulity in her eyes trying to read this accurate, still leaving much to be desired, rack's face of my white lie apparently didn't invade deep enough into the gaps, as fast as she let me leave this conversation competing with a examination.
Not even for one second I hesitated, went to my room and resisted the last leftovers of my tiredness, as it left me completely already when I found myself on the soft ground of my bed. Until today my sleeping habits were an unsolvable marvel I gave up to solve. Just like my beside lamp's light my glimpse flew through the room as well, looking for a slumberous, temporary pursuit. My sight got caught by my desk, by a thing it felt so wrong to me to touch again, as wrong as a cherry tree blossoming during the deepest winter.
The book that had satisfied my thirst for fantasy and the escapement from the dry, colorless reality an eternity ago. Cautiously I stroked with my hand over the book's back as I took it in hand, waiting for the slight tingling in my fingertips, which visited me whenever I touched the book that seemed to be the birthplace of yet undiscovered fantasies.
But I was waiting vainly.
Ignoring my apparently missing interest I went back to bed.
Just as before over the book's back I stroked now over the smooth pages before I began reading.
But, like I had feared before, the printed words weren't able to upstage the wider range of colors​ my mind praised itself with whenever I noticed the words of a boy, who called himself Suga.
Because at the end it was the book I put on side due to its now colorless and sheer nuances.
Against his words they appeared dull, like the blandness had mercilessly lumbered the branches of the usually sprawling and blossoming fantasy and ripped through the normally indestructible seeming tree of my mind thirsting for books in its foundations.
Because no book, no poem, no printed masterwork would ever again be able to paint such a colorful artwork into my fantasy like his opposing to himself so vivid sadness and desperation could.
And along with the uncountable raindrops knocking sightly on my window as if they begged for inlet, also Suga's voice found the way to my ears with a rising volume before his voice filled my thoughts completely with his words' melody and my body with goosebumps.
Every word leaving his pale, oppositely to the encrypted story he told, lips as if someone had recorded it, echoed in my ears.
My brain hadn't missed a single phrase like every single letter would've burnt in my mind, sealed by my tears the listening to the masterwork told by the creator's mouth himself brought along.
Even the raindrops incessantly falling from the sky would get jealous if they saw in what a extent they got exceeded by the tears my soul shed during the hearing and reading of his words.
And by every passing minute drowning the night in darkness Suga's words layed like a curtain over my eyes that were veiled by tears and his words' ecstasis anyways and shut despite their always coming back revolt. But before my eyes closed and let my mind go to the land of limitless fantasy and dreams, the eyes of my soul saw the realisation which had easily escaped from my mind's glimpse like a butterfly right from the word go.
I was in love.
Irrevocably and undyingly.

In love with a stranger's words.

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look at that beautiful boy
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