TW: Destructive habits, CPTSD
The sunshine is refreshing after the dimness of the Nook.
My feet are lighter than before. Despite the looming worry that Seokjin was freaked out, the joy of talking to him is stronger. Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that he hadn't shouted at me, but I don't want to overthink it.
The frame is safe in my bag, wrapped tightly in paper. If the glass breaks or gets scratched, I'll have to look for a new one, and I'm not feeling grown up enough for that.
A cool breeze sweeps over my face, a reminder of the impending winter. Had it been spring, then it'd be green and yellow, but today, only blue and white comes to me. I've never seen any part of South Korea during winter, but hopefully, it's not as cold as the wind.
What am I thinking? Gah, I'm tired.
There's only stone walls and the occasional gate, plus a street-light which has flickered faithfully since the first time I walked here. No prominent distractions to latch on to.
My mind follows the uneven blinks, causing me to repeat the rythm on my fingers. Only then do I become aware of the conflicting beat behind me; a tapping followed by gravel scratching against the asphalt.
Out of all of the true crimes stories I've read, probably 60% of murders and kidnappings start with somebody being stalked. The primal reaction is immediate, once again confirming that I'm a flight-kind of person. Calm. Be calm. Likely, it's nothing, but the adrenaline had already worked my heart to a non-literal breaking point.
That's why the thud makes me turn so quickly I nearly lose my balance. Stretched out on the sidewalk is a man clad in black, the hood of his sweatshirt having cushioned the fall. His face is indistinguishable, but he can't be much more than 18.
"H-hey!" I stammer, hesitating for a second before breaking into a sprint. Guess the bystander effect really does reqiure a crowd. He doesn't move, nor does he acknowledge anything. He's either dead or passed out, neither option seeming better than the other. If he's dead, I can't do anything wrong. If he's unconscious, I can make things worse, but I can also save him.
Crouching down next to him, I'm already holding my phone. The emergency number comes naturally, but I keep missing the keys as my eyes struggle with sticking to one spot. They shoot from the numbers to the boy's shaky, sweaty body, latching on to the smaller details. He's thin, sporting dark rings under his eyes.
The ringing from my phone is distant. A theory takes shape in my head, causing my chest to tighten. With care, I lift his hand to my face. He's cold, but I don't let go until I can properly make out the tiny ridges on his nails.
Somehow, after the call goes through, I manage to remember the address. "There's a man, he collapsed - I think he's malnourished. Possibly undernourished," I say, too worried to sound worried. "Alright, haksaeng. The ambulance should be there shortly, so stay on the line with me."
"Y-yeah, sure." I swallow. "Can you see if he has any belongings with him?" the woman asks. The boy doesn't have any bag with him, but his hoodie has a pocket in the front. I stick a hand in, pulling out a phone, wallet, and a box of cold medicine. After relaying the find to the operator, she lets out a relieved sigh.
His head is tilted in an uncomfortable-looking angle, so I slip closer, propping it up on my thighs. If he's concussed, the ground can't be good for him.
Several clicks of a keyboard later, she instructs me to check for a medical ID on his phone. Thankfully, one is set up, and I'm grateful to see that the boy has no illnesses. There is nothing else I can do other than wait, so I read his profile in case something important is noted.
YOU ARE READING
Supernova
Fanfiction"I don't know who I am, so how can you say that you do?" -|-|- After moving from Canada to South Korea, the seventeen-year-old heir to a chaebol is caught in a battle between her duty and dreams. A Suga (BTS) fanfiction by bodacious baekon.
