Opia.

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opia. n. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable—their pupils glittering, bottomless and opaque—as if you were peering through a hole in the door of a house, able to tell that there’s someone standing there, but unable to tell if you’re looking in or looking out.

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Kimmon's long fingers graced the cords of his guitar, the melody flowing into his head. Watching the expectant crowd in front of him -even if there were only a few people inside of the café-, Kim was singing, and he was giving his heart out with every note.

It was a cold night, like most in this time of the year, and he had forgotten his coat back at home. He was shivering all over because of this, but he was trying his best not to let that be noticed. Kim wouldn't want people to go when he was playing, he wanted nothing more than for them to stay, and listen, and enjoy the music that was being created. And people were listening -some people, at least-, and that was enough sometimes, because he was being heard, his voice was sneaking inside of everyone in the place, like the wind in between the leaves of a tree.

The lights were dimmed in the small café that was mostly hidden from the world, with only a small door that could be seen from the outside, followed by a row of steps leading inside. On top of it, there was a tiny sign that read "Opia".

He had been playing all night, to the same old crowd, to the same old faces, to the same old place, but his fingers never wavered, they kept moving, along with his lips. He could see the old couple that came in every night sitting in the back corner, the husband grabbing his wife's shoulder and dancing along with the music. He could spot the angry man in his mid fourties, who was still complaining to the waiter about his sad, lonely life. He could feel the stares of the woman that always came along with her kids to have a late dessert, mostly consisting in coffee and cake, happily eating and chatting.

Lastly, his eyes fell on him. He came in every night, except sundays -since Kim wasn't working that day of the week, so he wouldn't know if he actually did-, and sat in the same old table, with the same old coffee in front of him. 'Black', he always told the waiter, smiling politely at him. He would always come alone, never with company, and he brought a book with him. Kim was used to seeing him there, in the back of the place, scanning the pages over and over, the shift in his black eyes evident. Kimmon knew he was listening to him, though, because his right foot was always moving along the rythm. He didn't look, he never looked.

The song ended, and the people clapped for him, his ego boosting up a little as he smiled and thanked them. The boy didn't, though, he kept his eyes on the words, and some of Kim's joy faded away. He never clapped anyway.

"Dude" he heard the voice before he felt the palm on the top of his back. "Amazing as always. Loved the song".

Kim looked at him and smiled. "Thank you, Tae.  It's a new one".

"Yeah, I noticed. Can't believe how you are still here and not meeting the world with that voice of yours" he joked, and Kim kept the smile, even if his chest clenched at the words. "I'm not complaining, though. You are the one pulling this place up, honestly".

Kimmon laughed lightly, his cheeks reddening. "Stop flattering me. I've already accepted the job".

"Well, I might be making sure you keep it, then".

Kimmon and Tae chatted for a while more before Tae excused himself, claiming that he had to start getting ready to close up. 'The disadvantages of being the owner', he said. Kim nodded, thanking him for the lovely evening, and watched him go.