Sexchange ● JJK

• 17 • beautiful hallucinations

Standing at the edge of the balcony, he feels air chiming in his ears, hugging his muscled body and cutting through. It was true, he loved to come out here. Be in the open.

On the balcony, he felt like he was out in the world and nothing could stop him but just a step away from returning back to his comfort zone. The open winds and melting sun always gave him a vibe of freedom and openness which he had never experienced. Perhaps it was because of his emotional incapability to open up that he sought out such ways to feel open. The balcony was an outlet.

It was rather silly and laughable to think this way but whatever helped his stress and turbulences became dear.

These days, even the balcony was sunless. He walked back and laid down on the chaise. Nose nuzzled into the square pillow his head rested on. Wind still blew the same way but it was too fast for him. Often, he'd hear echoes of your voice calling him in your endearing voice, just like it used to before, when he would tell you to go away. If he could beat his past self up, he would. How can he tell you to go away when you were the only thing that even mattered and was holding him together? You were the glue, the adhesive to his cracks. He never, ever wanted to see you walk away; if he ever got you back. Every time you would think that, he'll grab your wrist and bring you back. Keep you close to him, let you hear the unfocused beats of his heart to let you know whenever you were around him, his blood was running a marathon. Tell you what his words can't.

He'll keep choosing you, knowing you're the only one who knows what hurts and kisses his hurt as long as he needs you to. You're the only one who knows how to write letters of love and proses of heartbreaking affection with just a bright, cute smile. Promises are something you'll never break, you're a keeper. You chose him and now, he was choosing you as deeply as you chose him. In a heartbeat, he'll take a bullet for you if he has to. Breath his last by saying your name. Find the simple love he wanted to in coffee dates and secret sips of your banana milkshake, sitting on the park's swings in the showering rain, glance at your outfit and quietly pick a shirt which matched. Shyly, move near you while watching anything you picked out. That's it, he's too shy to put his arms around you and cuddle but he can move closer. He'll find everything in your little smile which you used to flash in the morning and strive to see you sleep with the same smile till lights-out.

With this imaginative thought, Jungkook smiled at his tragedy.

The raven male knew very few words in his life but he'll try to convey novels with his lips on you, if they ever met again. You had been the best part of his day, calm of his night. Now, that he didn't have you, he stayed alive for nightmares and flaming torture. Such a funny thing love was, it can't be forgotten or repressed. It lives in him and kills him but has him on an ending cycle of rebirths. It comes back. Bounces off the walls and is thrown back at him twice as stronger. You sounded like the words he had failed to say for years, you cried like the heartbreak he had failed to get over. These tender emotions of protection, comfort, compassion and understanding had once been known to him, long back. Way back when tenderness had been a feasible option. Times changed and he changed too.

To learn the behavior he had unlearned was painful, your operant conditioning was proving effective. Seashells, a strawberry daiquiri and coconut ice cream by the beach is what having you beside him felt like. Each sea shell was an epistle of his love to you, the strawberry daiquiri is the serenity of knowing you'll aways be there and the coconut ice cream is your beach body which he can devour any minute. In a world of relationship statuses, online dating, limited time and posts-likes-comments, he felt old-fashioned. Hopeless and timeless. There was a sentimentality in his heart which didn't match up with the modern world; even back when he used to be with Iseul. He was a love letter, not a confession text. An artist of words, a five-paged poem of adoration. A capturer of true beauty and identity, not a thirst trap, casual nude or dick pic.