Dance to This [kth]

t w e n t y • t h r e e

ミ★
twenty-three
❝burn out❞
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I watch with a blank expression as smoke from the bud of Jungkook's joint fizzles out into a small cloud, whisked away towards the ajar window. I'm not sure how much time passes as I watch the translucent waves of cannabis flee to the outside world where I have finally found my place, but it is enough time for me to feel a sense of peace for some time. That is, until I blink myself back to reality.

A few hours pass that I'm alone in my room after Jungkook leaves. As my mind returns to reality, the quiet dormitory begins to emulate the harboring truth behind the thriving thoughts I've been having; being by myself, trapped with just my thoughts at the crime scene of my darkest secret, there is nothing but the stinging silence of an aftermath to lull my mind. I'm alone and forced to stare at the dented walls and broken mirrors of detriment—my skin crawls.

No, I tell myself. I didn't do anything wrong. I. . . did what I had to do. I'm the victim. Hana did this to me. She destroyed our habitat. . . she made it unsafe. Not me. I defended myself. Taehyung insisted it; he said that. I will not allow these perpetuating thoughts of guilt to trickle in. I refuse to allow what happened in here distract me from getting my life on track. . . to becoming who I actually am.

My mental refusal translates to my physical reality when I stand from my bed and blow out a stressed breath. Hana's small panda clock across the room tells me that half of the day has been whisked away in my mindless staring; the sky is dusk and a background for the faded red numbers that almost seem to float into the air as I stare at them; 7:07PM. They shift back and forth with every blink I make. I lean against my bedpost with a flood of thoughts I defend from flooding in.

My heart is racing. I can't handle the silence. My eyes roam around the room trying to focus on other objects to ground me to a reality that will calm me down; consequently, I begin inspecting my side of the room more meticulously. Pens, makeup, notebooks, and other small items that belong to Hana have been mistakenly placed on my desk by Jungkook. The marks on the floor from moving furniture have been scuffed away by his careful actions; fresh paint is still poignant in the air.

Each detail in my room begins to pile on top of one another, frantically spinning out my control in my pounding head. I'm mumbling to myself with my eyes screwed shut in a fit of slight panic to stop it. And then I do.

I push the memory into the darkest part of my subconscious and lock it away for it never to return.

There. It doesn't take long for the rush of anxieties to disappear. My heating cheeks suddenly turn to ice, and my chest sinks. There. I've done it. I can't associate this room with what happened. I just can't.