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"You- um- you sound a little tired. Are you doing alright?"
Namjoon hopes the pause isn't a millisecond too long, a millisecond to short, when he finally says, "Yes, of course. Why?"
The panic suppressed in his voice is hideous, rearing it's ugly head and threatening to come up Namjoon's throat in the form of undeserved pessimism.
In the form of 'my brain feels kind of dull and my tongue feels like lead and i can't draw to explain my emotions even though all I see is pictures,' because his teacher once told him he doesn't have the gift of drawing.
It's a familiar feeling. It's a familiar feeling, but it isn't safe. The feeling of dullness.
It's a glass full, glass empty kind of a situation.
On one hand, he could spill his heart out to Jimin. Could tell him about how it's difficult to sleep at night, how the bruises underneath his eyes breach his sight, and how sometimes it gets a little difficult to breathe, a hand clamping down on his wind pipe. He could tell him about how he doesn't feel like calling his parents anymore, the way showers replicate the feeling of burning jets on his back, and leaving the house feels like stepping into a puddle too big, too deep, to dirty. So deep that he'd drown.
And Jimin could comfort him.
But how long would that comfort last, how long will Namjoon last on false reassurances, pity and sympathy about how the world has stopped spinning to him, and stagnancy is a retched feeling that throttles him.
And can he really confide in him, because people talk.
Jimin talks out of respect, out of fear and worry, he talks to Taehyung and Taehyung talks to everyone.
No one needs to know that Namjoon is pitiful, and no one needs to know that Namjoon spends more time at the bank of the Han staring at his unattractive, blurry river rather than writing mind shattering lyrics as he should.
His house is a mess, the wallpaper ripped from the walls where he had paintings put up, shattered glass next to his bed and so he's resorted to sleeping in the living room now. The couch's springs dig into his back but sleep wouldn't come to him regardless, thoughts baring their teeth, snapping at him with big jaws and warning signs.
Should I leave this town?
It's a temptation he can't quite get out of his mind.
Regardless, he's escaped that filthy hole of a residence for a day, the sun isn't out but even the dull blue sky burns his retinas, and it's too loud.
"No particular reason," Jimin says quietly, shuffling in the background, and he truly seems to be alone. "Neither of us have seen you out and about, 's all."
Namjoon appreciates the sentiment, he really does. But he feels scrutinised, like a tiny, dead thing underneath a microscopic, poked and prodded at but he's fine.
Nothing to fret about, nothing to worry about.
The world still spins, Yoongi won best album of the year, and Jeongguk finally confessed. The least of their problems should be Namjoon, stupid, absolutely fucking pathetic Namjoon, who can't even stand the deafening noises of the bell.
Speaking of the bell, "Then you'll be glad to know that I am actually in the convenience store right now. I've just been pulling all nighters, Min. You're being dramatic."
The bell feels like a tsunami through an already rippling sea, and Namjoon doesn't understand why he decided to leave the quiet discomfort of his home.
It was dirty and he had mirrors stuck up everywhere, but at least the only person he had to face there was himself.
Namjoon's heart thrums with anxiousness, and he doesn't even greet the cashier.
"Yeah, but-"
"But I'm fine," he stresses, perhaps a tad too desperate.
His fingers are clenched too hard around his phone, and it seems as if all the customers are glaring holes into his profile. Or, that's what it feels like anyway.
Not that anyone should be able to recognise him, what a fucking failure. His hands quiver uncomfortably and Namjoon doesn't have the audacity too look for a cart, for something to dump his comfort foods in.
He knows it'll make him feel more miserable afterwards, feeling drowsy and full from stuffing his mouth, a drunkenness of pity and lethargy washing over him.
If being anxious is bad, being unproductive is far worse, and Namjoon can't have himself slacking.
No, no, no.
Slacker, slacker, slacker.
Was the clock always this loud?
The minutes are ticking down, Namjoon's notebook holds no songs that he could compose, and the people grow restless
A man behind him clears his throat and Namjoon so much as scurries out of his way, repeatedly whispering 'sorry, I'm sorry' underneath his breath because the words wouldn't even come out of his mouth.
"Hyung-"
"I-I need to go, Jimin. I need to go."
But where exactly does he go from here? Where exactly does he go from having a best seller album, especially when it might’ve been the most ‘true to himself’ album that he’s ever produced.
There is no path but down from the mountain top, and Namjoon is spiralling down it.
Jack fell down and broke his crown.
Is this the end of Namjoon's artistic career?
And will he, in the process, also bring his beloved friends down with him?
(Because Jill always comes tumbling right after.)
The line goes dead.