Chapter Text
Sometimes Jongho buys himself flowers just to watch them drop their petals on the table. They sit in the vase, beautiful yet dying, while Jongho sits by the window and stares at his reflection.
Being born leaves you in debt. The longer you live, the more expensive it gets. Sometimes you have no words for it and have to rely on white lilies and white carnation flowers to explain the pain. To who, exactly? Well, usually to yourself. Explaining it metaphorically is a lot easier.
If a human baby never gets physical or verbal contact with a caregiver, it will die, despite being fed.
Death is never an easy subject to explain to yourself.
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There are too many people in the corridors. There are way too many smells, way too many smiling faces. Jongho wishes he could hide in the chaotic realm of these superhumans. They could pierce him and spread his turbulent colours on the campus walls to decorate the space.
A tall, young man sits next to Jongho in class. He says hi to him and blows life into the decoration he thought he was, bursting it open. Jongho stutters something back to him and tries to recover from his unexpected birth.
Mingi is the name of the young man, he soon learns. His curly, light brown hair is so long it almost covers his forehead. He shakes his leg way too much, bites his lip so much it almost draws blood, and he carries a furry light blue pencil case with him.
When they have extra time between the exercises, he explains his day to Jongho as if they were friends. Jongho plays along nervously, waiting for the moment the lights fall onto him and he finds out he's been improvising in a candid play for the whole hour. Yet, nothing happens, and Mingi goes on. He tells Jongho a story of how his cat broke his favourite mug and how he just managed to grab the last piece of the same mug on final sale at the local supermarket.
"What's the mug like?" Jongho wants to ask, but the question doesn't get past his vocal cords. Instead, he hums and smiles, and for a few short seconds, dares to look him in the eyes.
Mingi has long eyelashes and soulful eyes, too alive for him to stare at.
When Jongho gets home, he pours himself a cup of tea. He strokes the hot porcelain surface in a dream and simultaneously grieves over and rejoices in the fact that Mingi will probably never set an eye on him again.
The white flowers on the table stare at him, unmoved and unaltered, tightly holding onto their petals.