𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐃

12 | minefields

Yoongi

This is bad.

The guy who made my coffee at Starbucks added sugar in it this morning leaving a sour aftertaste in my mouth and as if that didn't make me feel any less wretched, living with Evelyn in the same space is more than I can possibly handle.

It's not that she's done anything worth getting aggravated over; she minds her own business and barely talks to me and even better she tries her hardest to stay out of my sight when I'm around. Ever since our first encounter in this house, both of us have put up our own mental walls; probably because it's awkward being in each other's presence when there's so much history between us. She doesn't even spare me a look in the eyes when I'm in the room and my chest tightens when she deliberately ignores me. She simply hovers around quietly, roaming the rooms of this apartment like a ghost and even without saying a thing, she's still haunting me.

I notice she goes out a lot and often wears the same white dress shirt and black pants, despite the devastating summer heat. Her feet are always covered with the same black leather thick soled Oxfords. And to top it off, she carries her black backpack that is filled with loads and loads of papers, rulers, tracing paper and cutting tools; all the necessary equipment for architects.

Evelyn or should I say Eva looks disappointed and drained after coming home from wherever she works at, so she's probably not satisfied with the working environment.

But then again nobody is ever satisfied with their job.

Sometimes she leaves her stuff on the kitchen chairs when she returns and instead of leaving it in her room, she just heads straight for the shower and stays in there for forty minutes. Not a single minute more or less and the best fucking part is when she walks out with the steam spilling out of the bathroom alongside a trail of smoke from her cigarette.

There's a part in me that secretly enjoys how much she loves smoking in the shower after a long day and I don't even feel like complaining when she takes a long time. I wouldn't dare complain because when once she takes a shower, the whole bathroom smells like her; smoke and lavender and that alone is more intoxicating than nicotine. It's far more addicting than any chemical, any drug I've allowed enter my system.

And right now she's sitting on the floor in the living room with all of her papers and sketchbooks flooding the space. She's crouching over the coffee table with her coppery hair splayed across her back in gentle waves. I suddenly have the urge to pull it away from her face so that it doesn't dangle and block her vision and I bite the inside of my cheek to the invasive thought. The television is on and some god awful reality show is on, but none of us are paying any mind to it. The light from the screen grazes the outline of her body and colors shift to shadows as the show continues to play.

Pushing the frame of my glasses further up my nose, I avert my gaze and focus on the website I'm building on my laptop screen. I run my fingers through my hair and not a minute has passed when I find myself glimpsing back her.

At some point, Evelyn sweeps her hair to the side and I find myself standing a little over my chair, curious to see what has got her so immersed, but the piece she's working on is only in its drafting stages.

She casts her pencil aside for now and erases some of the efforts that displeased her when she suddenly gets off the floor. I immediately plant my ass back on the chair and still my gaze on my laptop when she walks over to the kitchen in her lilac socks with a pale green mug in her hands and refills her glass with orange juice before walking back to the living room without saying a word. Meanwhile, I can't stop staring at her ass, these black boxer shorts she's wearing are doing a tremendous job of accentuating her thighs and fuck; I shouldn't be thinking of her like that.