SKELETONS. | J. JK

SKELETONS.

— i paint dreams because dreams are everything i wished was real.

        You are a dream to which Jungkook refuses to wake up from.

Well, that's perhaps a rather patronizing manner to start such story but also is saying this is a tear-jerker, moving love story. Certainly because, in its core, it really isn't. It's not even a story to begin with, rather a coincidental, one in a million, collision between two entirely different stories that met paths for a blink of an eye, and as fast as a blink of an eye, off they are, never converging again.

It's a short-lived dot of burning fire that lights up as quickly— and, brightly— as the blow of the breeze puts to rest its suffering. However, it doesn't mean that such coincidental, one in a million meeting shouldn't be told, even if the air is the only one who stands still and listens.

Jungkook, for a chance, never had the ability to, ever since he was five years old and the doctor diagnosed him with hyperactivity. It's supposed to go away with the age, you grow up, gain responsibility and start focusing on the things you should focus on—you know, all the bullshit adults foreshadow you about but you don't listen because you're sixteen and dumb and in love for the first time— but, it seems like the jittery of his limbs as he taps his foot on the floor, the wonder to see and smell and touch and know everything, at the same time, stuck particularly ingrained in Jungkook. And, so did the arguably annoying ability to gain disinterest way too easily.

It's more subtle now, at twenty-three. It almost passes by as a personality trait, an endearing quirk to his smile, heavily due to to all the art therapy he went under. It started as a treatment to stimulate focused concentration but it soon became something much bigger than that.

If then, his mother already complained from hell and back about t-shirts and pairs and pairs of pants completely ruined with paint of every color of the rainbow in a shooting star fest type of patterns, now, Jungkook laughs at the thought of her seeing the way residues of paint still stuck to his fingernails so persistently, it won't even go away anymore. It's a fashion trend these days, the deliberately unconscious splatters of colorful paint on jeans, though he's sure his mother would still argue a word or two about the topic.

But whether his blue jeans become red and green or black with time or not, the truth is that in art, Jungkook finds solace. In art, he leans his head upon and his mind finally finds rest. In art, he swims and in art he breathes.

It's his main— his only— focus.

That is, until you come along waltzing into the 5th floor of his apartment building.

If we are being precise in telling a story that isn't really a story, the first time Jungkook sees you is in a cold autumn night in his bus ride back home, out of all places and hours of the day. It's funny because, you didn't catch the bus he was on per se but, another one, in the complete opposite way. You were leaving the exact place Jungkook had been hoping to get to all day and if that isn't the most obvious presage of what would come to be between both of you then you certainly couldn't come up with a better metaphor.

Both buses stopped at the same time and Jungkook's window, where the traces of his fingertips served as paint in child-like doodles on the effect of the condensation of the cold air against the warmer glass, ended up facing your very own. You remembered the messy drawings of clouds and flowers and funny smiling faces.

You were also the first one to look up, to pull up your sleeve and wipe the fog away to look further. You didn't really think too much about it, but slowly a smile budded by amusement glazed your lips when you realized he, with his earphones deep into his ears, was mouthing the lyrics of whatever song he was immersed into. In your defense, the head bopping was way too funny and way too dramatic to look away and, sometimes, at a certain angle of his head, the drawn-out mustache on the window glass perfectly coincided with the space under his nose. You wondered what song it was.

Just like that bobblehead doll your father kept in his car that you remembered so fondly from all the small road trips to the beach in July, Jungkook's head kept mimicking rhythm of the song as he rose his eyes up— as if he had felt your prying eyes on his back— and met yours there, separated by walls of glass and contrary paths.

Your shame took its sweet time to crawl at your neck as well as the realization of that you were probably invading his privacy did— but it wasn't like you had just stormed into his bedroom without permission and found him jumping in his bed listening to some 00's diva biggest hits. It reminded you of all the humiliation of those times yourself was caught by your parents in a less than proper occasions, in your own bedroom, with your own music blasting out of your stereo. Perhaps he'd be one of those people to reprimand you for staring. But what else could you do if not stare?

Surprisingly, it was a smile that welcomed your intrusion. A tight-lipped one but a smile nevertheless. It struck you how warm it was, perhaps a little embarrassed but you couldn't really blame him, you had, after all, caught him off-guard. The first instinct you had was to look away, to pretend not to be fazed by him. The traffic light was still red and so, both yours and his buses were still frozen in place, as if they meant to punish your overcuriosity. He, too, was still watching you over the small circles of clean glass. You were somewhat trapped between the physical walls and the awkwardness of someone, in this wide world, finding you the most entertaining thing to look at in a five-mile radius. Granted, the six o'clock traffic was nothing short of depressing.

Jungkook's grin was glazed in fake sympathy, like as he knew exactly from experience your discomfort but, at the same time, he hadn't plans to make it better for you— moving his eyes, for a chance— and you did not blush, because normal, adult people don't blush because a stranger— a really cute one at that— was looking at them, especially if they didn't have no apparent reason to do so. Normal, adult people would frown. And, so did you, or at least, you tried. As if in cue, you felt a certain acute impatience for the bus to get the hell out of there or for your window, at least, to fog up completely again so you didn't have to bear with the unexpected retaliation.

You did regret that a few seconds later though, because the second your bus started moving again, you lost the second half of whatever he had meant to write over the stripe of fogged glass of his window.

I think we're doomed and there's no way back.