cherry club 🍒 minsung

three (TW: self-harm)

[ Your phone does not make you poor, off-brand clothes do not make you broke. Money does not determine your worth as a human being, and will never do so. You are not less than someone because you cannot afford the newest iPhone, or you don't live in the "safest" neighborhood. Do not let the world's idea of "wealth" ruin your self-worth. The richest hearts are not made from money ~<3 ]

[ blue baby ]

Minho walked briskly, shoes slapping the pavement in tearful haste. He wanted to be as far away from iHOP as possible, preferably halfway across the country, where no one could find him, especially not Jisung. Despite Jisung not being the person to ask the insulting question, Minho was still angry. The man was as guilty as Bambam for ignoring the comment, for dismissing how crude his friend is, and leaving Minho defenseless.

He turned onto Barker St. and clutched his phone closer to his chest. The fluffy case tickled his chin with each step, earbuds dangling by his side. Minho bought his crappy andriod two years ago from a Craigslist ad. At that time, he was working in a small dance studio as an instructor for the younger kids. The pay was awful, way below minimum wage, but the boss was a kind elderly man who put all of his retirement money into the old brick building. Minho didn't care much about the salary, as long as he was dancing. Dancing was Minho's everything. He found comfort in the aches and pains of long nights, in the tapping of his shoes against the linoleum. He became familiar with his dancing style in the cracking mirrors that spanned one of the walls.

Minho flourished in that building.

He did his dance classes every night after a morning's worth of college classes, ready to collapse but never doing so. Then he'd stumble his way back to his mother's basement and pass out on his mattress. His mother never cared for his dancing dreams, found them unrealistic. The day Minho was accepted into the Seoul Institute of the Arts, he left his mother's house, hoping to never come in contact with the bitter woman ever again. He bought his very first phone with his dance salary, bid his generous boss goodbye, and left. Minho had a habit of leaving.

Barker Street was a narrow stretch of too many people and not enough houses. Children roamed the streets, cigarettes in pockets and guns under belts. Adults were no different. Everyone was on high alert. Who would shoot first? What dope deal would fall flat? Is your neighbor a rapist or a dealer? Some were both. Minho loved and hated Barker Street. It was the bittersweet truth of home.

His apartment was halfway down the block, stuck between a ratty convenience store and dozens of other identical apartment buildings. The sole reason Minho recognized his building (despite force of habit) was from the giant graffiti painting of a lion next to the entrance.

Graffiti littered the ground he walked on, the buildings he shopped in. Each piece was carefully crafted to be seen, but not be claimed. Minho took a quick liking to the lion on his building, and vaguely recognized the artist's other quirky animal drawings around the city, from peacocks to puppies. Minho had a certain fondness for street artists. They learned to master the swift flick of paint can from trial and error. They fucked up paintings and made better ones elsewhere. They learned to cover their faces, make a statement, and be nameless. Minho had learned dance the same way.

His mother's house was old, caving, and filled with drugs no child should know the name of. Minho's mother found escape in the clingy fog and quick sniff of powder, but Minho found escape in the streets of Seoul. When the smoke got too strong, or the men too loud, Minho slipped from his broken window, careful to avoid getting another scar from the glass shards, and took to the streets. Every night, without fail, the street performers danced. Minho watched, learned, tried, fucked up, repeated, and mastered. His mother eventually caught him, boarding up his window with tacky nails that sometimes clattered to the floor, but it was too late. Dancing was already in his blood, his mind, infecting every cell until he could plie on command.