"I'd just like to be yours and I guess I want you to be mine."
"Sweetheart, that's not weird. It's cute."
･ﾟ:* jimin is a sad ballerina, who falls for the lies of taehyung, a mysterious photographer who is nothing but trouble.
( complete )
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JIMIN .
After a week of feigning illness and hiding beneath bedsheets, away from my dance class, I finally emerge into the world with shaky legs. Hoseok had expressed great concern after my littleshow, saying he believed the school had every mind to expel me as it's so prestigious; only those with the mentality of constant hard work being drilled into them stand a chance in becoming anything great. In other words, they don't have room for those unwilling to conform to their needs, and rightfully so. Upon hearing Hoseok's logistics, I decided pretending to have been sick would be the most plausible reason for my absence — they can't very well exclude a student for being sick, at least I hope not.
Regardless, right now, that's the least of my worries, as I'm currently facing an even bigger travesty: Taehyung's photography exhibition. Currently, I'm burying all thoughts of my dancing life beneath these intoxicating images of Kim Taehyung, placing him before any of my previous troubles.
I stand in the austere solitude of the night, the street flooded with this obscene, coruscating liquid from where it had been raining earlier this day, this damp atmosphere causing the air to build up thickness, resting heavily upon my shoulders. This only further establishes my state of discomfort, my legs numb and shaking due to nerves, whilst I feel my heart in my neck, forcing my body to shake more than humanly possible.
I'm aware Taehyung's already inside, but the fact I can only see black coats and repulsive smoke rings through the obnoxiously large windows, makes my nerves increase drastically. I'm currently wearing a black shirt with black khakis, matched with a long, beige duffel which Yoongi had begrudgingly lent me: an outfit which, despite being enthusiastic about before, is slowly starting to imprint pictures within my mind that embezzle insecurity about my blood stream.
Yet, I can't stand out in the cold all night.
So, apprehensively, I bring forth enough will power to make my ascent through the door, my heart thumping at the mere thought of looks being thrown my way when I enter alone, evermore frightened at the prospect of not being able to find Taehyung.
As soon as I'm granted entrance to the gallery, I'm overcome with the stench of pretentiousness and cinnamon spice. I'm relatively surprised about how sophisticated the whole room is, considering this is just an amateur photography competition. Then again, Taehyung is of a rather high status, so it's not all that surprising that anything associated with him would be classy.
Immediately, I catch sight of him, his red hair standing out amongst the various shades of dull brown. He's located toward the back of the room, clad in black culottes, with a black jacket that shields my view of his shirt, but I presume it's something bold, this is Taehyung after all. I observe him converse with an elderly woman in a excessively gigantic hat and a diamond-incrusted outfit of crimson silk and pompous, woven stitchings, easily making out the lacklustre manner of his speech, which she clearly isn't noticing.
