the devil skates on thin ice ∙ myg ✓

9 ↝ the unwarranted jealousy

You have been awake for a whole two hours, though you have not yet detached yourself from your bed. Despite it is nearing 1PM, you have remained cocooned in your doona the entire 120 minutes (give or take), reclined on your back with your head dangling off the edge of the mattress. You are certain that all of your blood has drained from your limbs and pooled within your skull, if the prickle-like, pins-and-needles sensation across your forehead and scalp is anything to go by. Nevertheless, you lay like a corpse and unwaveringly stare across the room at the foreign item within your quarters.

Yoongi's parka.

The black swathe of puffy material is slung over the back of your desk chair, unsuspecting as a vase of flowers. In spite of its seemingly ordinary presence, you watch it from your upside-down position like an owl eyeing off its prey, as if the piece of clothing is a mouse that is going to flee if you dare look away. All the while, you continue to mentally flick through the scrapbook of your memories from last night; meticulously reading through the pages, all smudged by the lingering effects of two soju bottles.

(Okay, so maybe you were slightly lying when you said that two soju bottles only got you tipsy. By the time you had left the pojangmacha, you were certainly sitting more on the one-more-drink-and-I'm-dead-fucking-drunk end of the spectrum.)

But you keep finding yourself stuck on a particular scene, repetitively turning back to inspect the finer details of it. In the image, the Devil's tragic face is a breath away from your own and his molten eyes are drinking up your features like cold water on a searing summer's day. And while your sight was softly smeared like gouache at the borders, you are certain that his midnight gaze lingered longer than appropriate on the shape of your lips. You are absolutely sure that he was restraining himself; double-checking the titanium locks on his desire to ensure it would not break free—that he would not dive into your mouth with his own and remind you that he tastes like blackcurrants and first loves.

"Jesus on a Razor scooter," you exhale, eyes still on the parka. Your face burns like a pot on a stove, and something small and deep inside of you whispers that it is not because of your body's blood supply gathering in your head. "What am I doing? Why am I even thinking about him? I... I hate him. Yeah. I hate him."

That little something—in a place within you that you refuse to reach—laughs with lungs full of incredulity, as if to say: Silly girl!

It is then that your intimate staring contest with the jacket is cleaved by Minah suddenly barging through the door. She looks as though she has just woken up herself, if the struck-by-lightning hairstyle is anything to go by. "Rise and sh– Oh, you're... What the hell are you doing? Your forehead veins are bulging like John Cena trying to piss with a urethra infection."

"That's... a very unique way of putting it," you say from your position, rather perplexed. "John Cena? Of all people?"

"Haven't you seen his forehead veins when he wrestles?"

"I– No? Have I ever exhibited any interest in John-goddamn-Cena over the past three years of our friendship?"

Something flits across her face; a flash of discomfort that is not founded on the fact that you do not keep up to date with professional wrestlers. Something that screams: Well, I know less about you than I first thought. Who knows what other secrets you harbour.

But it dissolves quicker than medicine in water. Like a bandaid on a bleeding scratch, Minah plasters a grin on her lips and seats herself beside you. "Touché. Anyways, where were you last night? I woke up to the sound of you emitting a continuous, soft scream and slamming all the doors in the flat, so I have a feeling you weren't at the stadium."