𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝐦.𝐲𝐠 ✓

Chapter: 8

Turns out, having lunch together wasn't as awkward as I'd presumed it to be. Especially after my brief rant and his perplexing comment. I had thought the meal break was going to consist of uncomfortable stares and deafening silence.

To my surprise, it wasn't.

Instead, the producer had made plenty of small talk, just enough for the both of us to get to know each other a bit. He also didn't hesitate to show me snippets of some of his old tracks, which I'd felt bad for not listening to before, since basically everyone has.

Music was never a major aspect in my life. But now, I get the feeling it might soon be.

He'd learned that I have a serious passion for books, particularly the one that I've leant him in hopes to help inspire him. It's surely inspired me.

He also now knows of my long lost dreams of becoming a writer, maintaining that I should continue to write, and he'd be more than happy to read it. I almost feel motivated. Almost.

I discovered his hidden hate of his own hair color. He says that he'd originally dyed it to drive people away, not draw people in as it has.

To which I responded with, 'I like it. It reminds me of ice cream'.

I bit my tongue at the irrelevant proclamation. He stared blankly at me for a moment, until his narrow lips spread out and upwards into the most charming grin, expelling my embarrassment away.

He was fairly talkative, even cracking silly jokes every couple minutes as he would twirl his chopsticks around the bulgogi that Jin had made with 'extra love'.

Unexpectedly, I enjoyed his company and conversation. It's not often that I get to talk to prestigious music producers with mint hair and thick glasses that perfectly match my own.

Something about this time was different from yesterday. There was no agitation, or edgy air. Just the two of us, talking, laughing occasionally, reverting to whispering whenever anyone walked by as to not get caught by Namjoon if he ever came into work.

Hours past. And so did the cheery friendly air. Perhaps things had gotten too deep, which is why the atmosphere had gradually shifted to a harsh stale ambience.

...

It's too quiet, sitting a foot away from each other on the short piano bench. The laughs have ended, the music has stopped, and it's just the two of us sulking in silence.

Him, overlooking straight ahead at something on the wall, while I face him, body turned and leaning an elbow on the desk where the piano lays on, my cheek stabilized with my palm.

Suddenly, as if he senses all my personal questions out of thin air—the questions I didn't dare ask out of courtesy—he answers.

Taken out of context, his statement might seem abrupt and unnecessary, as the vocalization spoke completely out of nowhere.

But with the stillness that has taken dominance, and my strict gaze that has fallen to his gaunt facial structure—focusing specifically at those purpley under eyes and hollowed cheeks, with his head facing forward—the comment is a mere significant reply.

Upon noticing my curious eyes and expression through a side-eye, he finally speaks.

There was a certain huskiness and lowness of his voice when he quietly murmurs, 'I have insomnia', that tells you there is something much darker behind that statement. The tone in his volume hints that he's slightly ashamed, but informing me feels compulsory.

Its almost like a remark, a justification for my wonderment to settle my frantic thoughts.

Unsure how to react properly, I keep silent, not even flinching an expression, after coming to the conclusion that that's what's most appropriate.

His head has now turned to me, and mine to his, eyes locking onto each other as if the shared gaze were a lifeline. It's nearly impossible to rip my eyes from his sorrowful ones filled with immense loneliness.

I've given him that intriguingly observant look everyday, and he's finally resolved it, for the most part. It's slightly overwhelming to hear such a confession to such an unknown girl, but after reminiscing every memory I've had with the mint-haired jerk, I feel a little less like a stranger.

His deep chocolate irises, charged with sorrow and softness, finally release their hold from mine and drift to the pristine white piano keys that lay-quiet before me.

I liberate an inaudible sigh as the tension flees.

He continues on, after seemingly reading my mind of interests, telling me very small details regarding the sleep disarray, keeping his voice low.

Yoongi mumbles a lot, leaving me partially clueless of some of the facets, but my wicked emotions find the habit overly adorable.

It's like a kitten, purring. The intense but light vibration of throaty air combined with deep pitches is melodic to my ears.

I have to force away the fighting smile that so eagerly desires to be proclaimed.

The way he sometimes speaks without unclenching his teeth, because that would be too much work. Along with the hypnotizing song of his voice. It's too much.

He tells me nothing overly personal. Just that he doesn't feel safe sometimes, especially being without close companionship.

I know there's more to that story for sure, but I don't press, nor do I intend to. Baby steps.

xoxo
GentleKissu