A Muse

4: Jungkook

    "Have you been avoiding me?" Taehyung questions me lightheartedly.

   "W-what, hyung? No, no, I've just been busy this week..." I trail off. My palms start to gather sweat, and I wipe my hands against my pants. That's fourteen.

   Hoseok gives me a knowing grin as if it is normal to think Taehyung is too much to handle sometimes, so I offer Taehyung a sheepish smile while I scratch the back of my neck. Taehyung and Hoseok stare at me for a second, and I feel my ears get red.

   "What?" I ask them, looking away.

   "You're so handsome! You should smile more!" Hoseok exclaims, and Taehyung nods vigorously.

   I snap my eyes to look at them, and they are both beaming at me; I can't help but start to laugh. The blush still burns, but they are so eager.

   "You remind me of puppies," I say to them.

   Hoseok pats Taehyung's head, and Taehyung plays along by shaking his bum, "What a good puppy," Hoseok croons sweetly.

   Taehyung lolls his tongue out of his mouth, and Hoseok and I both start to laugh. Hoseok pushes Taehyung's face away from him with the palm of his hand, and Taehyung's eyes are twinkling with good humor.

   Dropping the act, Taehyung turns to me, "Are you excited for the assembly performance?"

   "Oh! I actually forgot there would be a performance at the assembly. Your friend is dancing, right?" I ask.

   "Yes! You won't be able to forget him after today! We should hurry though; the others should be saving our seats!"

   Hoseok drapes his arm over Taehyung's shoulders, and they lean their head in to comment on the performance that their friend should be putting on. They seem really excited.

   "I'm actually surprised I haven't seen him once," I mumble, mostly to myself.

   Taehyung answers me, "Well, we're not. He's been spending long hours at the studio then he goes straight to his apartment."

   Hoseok is nodding along with the conversation when we arrive at the glass doors that separate the auditorium from the main hallway. Taehyung puts both hands on the handles, and he pushes the doors in dramatically; I laugh because he walks as if he's entering a stage of his own. His face is intense, his eyes heavy lidded, but Hoseok ruins the moment by laughing so hard that he bends at the waist. Taehyung is glaring at him, but his eyes are smiling. I never noticed before, but these two get along so well.

   Namjoon stands when we enter, nearly knocking over his chair, and his purple hair stands out around the crowd; he is waving to us, and his smile is noticeable from here. Jin's face is turned up to him, but I can't see his expression. Yoongi's head is on Jin's shoulder, and he seems to be resting again. Hoseok leads Taehyung and I to the row where they are sitting, and it's lucky because our seats are near the stage, only a few rows away. There is a hum of energy in the room, and I feel a near panic rise inside me as my mind wanders to the number of people that must be packed in this area. My hands are sweating, so I shove them into my pockets while Taehyung places me in the seat beside him. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, and I can feel their eyes on me; they must be worried, so I turn to look down the row to smile at them.

   The room goes dark, and the silence is filled with anticipation. I have the sensation of reaching a peak on a rollercoaster, my heart in my throat, my stomach almost feels weightless; I clutch my chest. A single light falls upon the stage, and the nostalgia of that night two years ago rises within me. A man walks gracefully from the darkness in the corners of the stage and into the light, and his hair is bright beneath the beam. His face is tilted downward, but I notice that his hair is peach colored.

   The sound of the piano breaks the quiet, and my heart stutters in my chest when the man on stage crouches, reaching outwardly with his hand. He slowly lifts his head, and his face is bathed in the light above him. I watch transfixed like I did that night two years ago, and the man rolls up and into a short leap off the ground, crossing his ankles, and throwing his head back as he covers his face with his hand.

   He dances the same as the boy two years ago. He has grown; his style is more developed, but watching him feels the same. I am crying. I can't help it. I have dreamt of that night every week, and the single photo I have of him gives me temporary relief from my anxiety. He is here, and I am watching him again; a sob rises in my throat, but I hold in it. He continues to dance, and his body is lithe, graceful. I am enchanted by the way his style features ballet, but he also incorporates modern pop in some sections.

   I stay silent, my shoulders shaking, and I watch as he crawls toward the audience. He is reaching toward us, a smirk on his face that is highlighted by the bruises high on his cheek, but he throws his body backwards; this move gives the feeling that he is being hit by someone, for his head cracks to the side. He moves into a backwards somersault, rising to his feet in one fluid motion, and he is utterly still despite the climax in the music. As if in slow motion, he drapes his arm over his face in order to cover his eyes, and he places a hand over his mouth while his head slowly dips his chin to his chest. The lights go out, the final note rings out of the piano, and the entire auditorium is thrust back into silence.

   My weeping is the only noise, implied as it may be, I can perceive.

***

   I'm laying in the dark, and the clock reads 3:00 am in an obnoxious green; I can't sleep. My eyes feel heavy, but I keep thinking back to earlier. I saw him again. I saw him. Not only does he go to my university, he is friends with the group of boys that have been kind to me. I have a direct line to him now, and I ran away.

   I cover my eyes with my hand. You fool, my brain whispers to me.

   I start to laugh as I feel tears well in my eyes; I ran away like a child. I didn't say good bye to anyone, nor did I give myself the chance to talk to the boy that has haunted my dreams. I ran. Why? Why? What if meeting him isn't what you hoped? How are you good enough? He won't even like you.

   I can practically feel my anxiety in the room, pressing down upon me. My sternum is tight, my throat is a knot, and I feel like my insides are being torn apart; the fear... it's in my head, and, in some part of myself, I think that the doubts may be right. Who am I to think I can belong with them? They are so bright.

   My chest constricts, and I feel the tears start to escape. I roll onto my side, and I bring my knees close to my body. It's getting hard to breathe, but what does it matter? I'm just a shadow compared to them all anyways, a shadow to my brother, my family. A sob rises in my throat, and sleep evades me.