Whoever invented the activity of fishing is a sinner. First of all, why would they call it fishing? "Dancing" means "doing dance." Does "fishing" mean "doing fish?"
And, furthermore, why limit it exclusively to fish?
"Whoever named this activity 'fishing' obviously never got a shoe stuck on their line," Minho grumbles next to me. I haven't spoken to him since our little incident earlier today, and he hasn't spoken to me either.
I bite back a retort. He was talking to himself, and it's rude to interrupt a conversation. I may be stupid, irrational, and just downright reckless, but I'm not impolite. Chan raised me right.
I miss Chan. I want to send him a letter, but, stupidly, I don't have his camp's address memorized. I have Changbin's, though. I make a mental note to send Changbin a letter.
"What?"
I glance up at Minho. "Huh?" I ask. "Did I say something?"
"I thought you did," he mumbles.
"Well, I didn't."
Good going, Jisung. I suppose I should try to make amends with Minho. I see the same resolve flash across his features. "Sorry."
"No, I'm sorry," I respond. "I shouldn't have bit back at you."
"You can bite me anytime," he reassures me. So much for a truce. Minho will be lucky to get out of this summer with all his limbs still attached.
I kindly turn down his offer, quickly getting distracted as my fishing pole nearly flies out of my hand. I got something! Reel it in, Jisung! I shout at myself in my head as I do whatever it is that I need to do in order to get the fish out of the water.
She's gross. At least, I think she's a she. Biologically she is. Fish gender, though? That isn't my strong suit. She could be anything she wants to be. They. The fish is a they. Either way, they're gross.
Gleaming silver and iridescent white, they wiggle around in the air. "Incoming!" I say, talking to the bucket behind Minho and me. The bucket that belongs to our bunk. The bucket that, for some reason, has five shoes and a soggy, empty box of tissues in it. We're very talented.
There's no room for my dying fish in this bucket. My goal is to not kill them. I go to the next-closest bunk's bucket. Maybe we should call them bunkets. I'll call them bunkets from now on.
Bunk + Bucket = Bunket.
Logic.
Some dude with red hair turns around and notices my dying fish in his once-empty bunket. "Bro, what the hell?"
"Our bunket was full and I needed to put this fish somewhere before they died. My deepest apologies."
All I receive from him is a humorous smirk. "'Bunket'? 'They'? 'Deepest apologies'?" he echoes.
"Yes, and?"
He smiles, bringing his hook back to the pole. He stands up, taller than I am, and goes over to the nearby desk to scribble something down on a post-it note. He folds it up and hands it to me.
"Nice hair," I say before turning away. "And thanks for the use of your bunket."
>>><><<<
Before we turn the lights off at night, Hyunjin flops down on my bed. "You were talking to a cute guy earlier," he says.
I glance at the unopened post-it sitting on my lyric notebook. Sighing, I lean over and open it.
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"We're neighbors," I say. "He's in the bunk next to ours. Felix. That's not a Korean name."
Hyunjin shrugs and decides to stop bothering me. "Whatever. Don't forget to turn your alarm clock's volume down, Minho," he says before falling asleep. Man, that kid drops faster than I can say "I love cheesecake" (which is pretty fast, considering the fact that I'm a rapper).
It's not even dark in the bunk yet.
Minho mumbles a "yeah, yeah" and Seungmin flips the light switch, plunging us into darkness.
Hours pass in agonizingly painful slowness... and I'm still here, awake.
Minho shifts in his bed, causing me to panic. Maybe he'll fall on me! But wait, no, that can't happen; his bed was strong enough to hold him, Hyunjin, and me. The bed creaks again when two feet appear on the ladder.
Minho climbs down, drowsy. I'm stiller than a statue as he rubs his eyes, his two feet now planted on the floor. His two bare feet. On the cold floor. I pray for his toes.
He opens his eyes, looking around. I think he sleep-climbed down the ladder and is waking up. I pretend to be asleep.
Slowly, Minho leans over me and stares. I feel a warm hand against my forehead and hear quiet giggles coming from the boy in front of me. Is this Minho? Is he drunk?
Minho stands over me for at least a dozen minutes as I awkwardly continue to fake-sleep. It's better for both of us if he doesn't know that I'm awake.
When I no longer feel his hovering presence I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. Shifting, I yawn. Now I want to sleep.
But my dreams are equally as strange as what I just experienced.
