All it took was one look to decide she wanted the quiet loner sitting in the moonlight. There is something about him, something she can't quite put a finger on. She must find out even if it kills her.
The mysterious character named Min Yoongi enjoys...
That night was restless, my anticipation for her return tingling through every fiber of my being. The memory of our fleeting touch played on a loop in my mind, igniting a familiar spark that she stubbornly denied. Questions swirled in my head—was I imagining things? Was she holding back for a reason? Doubts crept in momentarily, only to be fiercely dismissed. She must be the one, my soulmate, unlocking parts of me I never knew existed. Uncertainty had no place in this conviction.
Despite the ease with which I navigated my solitary existence, a longing tugged at my soul, a yearning to find the missing piece that would complete me. The whispers in my mind echoed the sentiment—I had to find her, my true love, the catalyst for my true power.
Channeling this restless energy into art felt almost divine. Stripping off my shirt, I donned my painting apron, the contrast of its ruggedness against my skin a reflection of the chaos and beauty within. The familiar strains of a classical piano filled my studio, the Sonata No. 14's 3rd movement, a melody that never failed to stir my creativity.
With each stroke, I delved deeper into my art, lost in the vision of her face, a muse incarnate. But even as the canvas came alive, I craved her actual presence, knowing it would elevate my work to new heights. The euphoria of creation surged through me, fueled by love and inspiration. I feel euphoric, the music coursing through my veins my heart fitting to burst with love for the beautiful creature I have created.
A pause brought me back to reality, the moon a silent witness to my nocturnal endeavors. Red paint adorned my face like a mask, a stark reminder of past horrors that sometimes invaded my thoughts. The image in the mirror triggered a darker memory, pulling me from my artistic trance into a moment of raw anguish. Like a bullet finding its target, a dark memory comes to me tearing me from my happy thoughts. Not covered in paint, but with the horror of the real blood of one I used to call a friend. A soft cry escapes my lips. A fitting pain plunges into my heart.
The paintbrush falls from my fingers as I stare at death in my own eyes. Shaking the thought away, I search my pockets for my smokes to calm my nerves. Taping the box, a lone cigarette is released. I throw the crumpled package on the tarp covering the floor.
The cigarette between my fingers offered a fleeting escape, a temporary reprieve from the haunting memories that lurked in the shadows of my mind. The fear of what I might uncover about my past mingled with the curiosity, a delicate balance I treaded cautiously.
Sometimes I think I'm crazy, sometimes I think my amnesia comes from the trauma of something so terrible, my own mind denies me the knowledge. Escaping the warm room, I stroll to find the kiss of the cool midnight air on my cheek. One deep draw and I feel better already. I take one last drag and retreat back into my studio. Discarding the spent bud, a new thought enters my mind, I need a drink or I'm never going to sleep tonight. A drink dulled the ache, momentarily quieting the thoughts of her that threatened to consume me.
The night air provided solace, a brief respite from the turmoil within. Sorting through my canvases, I hid the darker ones, shielding her innocence from the depths of my artistic exploration.
Returning to bed, a numbness settled over me, blurring the edges of reality and art, leaving me with a hollow ache and a mind devoid of clarity.
My heart numb,
my vision blurry,
and my head empty.
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