SWEET TALKER

10

First, the colours. Then, a single paroxysm of the sunbeams through the murky clouds, preceding the whispers from hues of red, white, and grey. I fixate my gaze on my shoes, trudging down the hallways with my feet slapping against the concrete, my thoughts caught in a standstill as his words dangle off the seamless atmosphere. His words ring in my ears, looping over and over as if I'm straining a replay button in my memory every time his voice trails to an end. 

I can't say I remember much of what has happened after that.  My professor's hands had eclipsed the desk as she'd placed my camera over it, raining Taehyung with the credit for the parallels he had conjured up. I can't believe his sporadic logic even won me a decent grade - he literally said the stupidest thing with the straightest face possible and I don't know if I reacted accordingly by bolting for the door right after the bell had rung. I should have laughed at his face.

It's not that I don't like him. I hate him.

I hate his dull eyes, his way of drilling holes into people when they scrutinise their emotions under a single glance. I hate his way of talking in such a low voice - as if no one else is above him, and he is far superior to the human species and his brain cells have evolved to their final stage and he is waiting to attain his ultimate form. I hate that he knows he can get me uncomfortable, I hate how I can't think all these thoughts when he is around and I'm left to mope over my ragged breaths when our eyes meet. I hate how I scraped the grade, and I hate how he's the reason I didn't get my records scarred today.

I hate Taehyung. 

I swallow thickly, my feet skipping down the halls in a frenzy as I run to find Yawang. I need something to distract me, and she is my advocate when it comes to pouring out my rambling - although her level of understanding my thoughts would throw me into another cavity of stress. 

I storm into the cafeteria, my hair is a mess now and my breathing is heavy when my eyes fall on both my roommate and my best friend as they sit on our usual table. I make a beeline towards them, forcing down a few gulps of air and running a hand through my hair to conceal my frenzied distress. I am fuming.

"Oh wow," Mila looks up, "hey, Mi!" 

Yawang turns to me, doe eyes flayed apart in surprise and her lips scoop around a spoonful of peanut butter. She moves over when I sit across from her.

Silence follows as I exhale through my nose: my skin is crawling from the irritation and I break the ice with a wail, bringing my hands to ambush my face with closure. My knuckles chisel into my eyelids as the stress begins to sweep me away, and my head is adrift along the channels of empty thoughts as I explore an effort at calming my nerves. 

"How was photography?" 

Yawang's question tears another whimper out of me. "It was fine!"

My roommate looks smug as she veers closer, "I don't think you heard her properly," she hums, "how was photography, Mirae?"