Genre: Gen/Angst
Rating: PG (cause I think G is just too... general)
Word count: 2013
Date started/ended: 26-2-2011 / - -
Characters: Key/OC
Summary: [1] To feel is the only thing she wants to disregard, especially when there's absolutely nothing in her life that's worth to be felt anymore - ever since he left
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, as usual :'(
Author's Note: IN THE MIDDLE OF EXAMS AND WRITER'S BLOCK HAS FINALLY SUBSIDED AND I WAS LIKE FFFFFUUUUUU!

Her days would start normally enough; waking up to her senses of being wrapped around comfortably in her plain, white duvet. She would then went on a process of cleaning up, throwing on decent clothes if nothing special was occurring that day (and the definition of special to her is work) or something artistic and wild if that day told her she had to spent her time in the studio finishing a work of art that was bound to be put up in the local gallery anytime soon.
Her days would be innocent enough. If only she wouldn’t walked in her kitchen; her living room; her verandah (just anywhere outside her bedroom) and spotted a thousand and one things that would stop her in her tracks and sent her staring at anything that made her stare hard. She would grip anything around her that’s stable enough just so that it would lent her support even if she knew that it would be useless because there won’t ever be a single object in the world to support her anymore other than the one thing that sent her toppling for balance in the first place. The venom from her wounds coursed down her veins, threatening to kill her the very next second but only managing to extend that one second to another second until it stretched long enough to whisper for an eternity; leaving her not dying, but barely breathing albeit most definitely not living either. Because to heal a venom needs an antidote (and that would most likely be the exact same venom), but there wasn’t any more left to spare, because the both of them never knew that he would leave her with a venom without returning back with the antidote.
For today, it was his favourite mug that left her rooted on the floor, eyes fixed intently upon that inanimate object. Cursing, cursing, and cursing whoever was responsible for that moment until she felt like she couldn’t take it anymore and slumped to the floor in defeat – using the polished marble floor as her support this time. She never needed anything other than that; she wouldn’t hug her knees to her chest and she wouldn’t cradle her head in her arms either. She needed to feel anything other than herself because feeling herself would remind her of feeling him, and it would sent her towards feeling and hearing her heart that started beating with the sole purpose of him – and she didn’t need that. She cannot need that.
Once in that position she let her eyes took control of her mind and her imagination took control of her heart as she went along the sail. Exploring something she explored before although Goddamn it, it felt as if she had cut herself for the first time whenever Kibum dropped that plate and let it scattered into pieces; bits of it sunk deep into her toe as she yelled in pain and surprise. Never mind the fresh spurt of blood that would come searing out from the newly cut wound waiting to be tended in the next hour when he would find a dusty and forgotten Pororo plaster trashed deep in the contents of her bedside drawer. Sometimes her mind betrayed the yearning of her heart when it reminded her that the wound was now old and fading, about to be replaced by a flawless new skin in a few months. But she never lose to actual facts and not once did she ever looked down, bearing in mind that she would keep that piece of information behind-the-scenes, only reading it when the credits was aired and not when the movie was being played.
She never would be in the brink of tears, nor would she be found holding on to any piece of Kibum-significant subjects as though they are her world. She was past all of it now, as a matter of fact she never remembered adapting to such routine in the first place. There was never a change of emotions in her throughout the whole time she spent without him; only the moment when he came, and when he closed the door without ever opening it again. Never once did she lose herself into the want of peeping through the keyhole, just in case a speck of blue would come nearer and nearer until it stood just in front the door, the speck of blue turning out to be his favourite corduroy jacket (and also a present from her to him) hugging his body tightly as he smiled and waited patiently for his someone to open the door and hugged him before breaking out into strings of I miss yous and you’re backs.
But there was no use of peeping through the key hole in the first place, for he won’t ever be back and she won’t need to be waiting and there were absolutely no need for her to tell her all those because thing is, that won’t ever happen. So to spare her all those mocking from her mind over her beautifully impaired imagination (she cursed herself for even imagining that for a frequent too many times already), she stood up and made herself a hot chocolate. She would pass by him, all curled up on his worn out couch, reading a book with his contemporary black-rimmed glasses or standing by the verandah hanging clothes to dry. Sometimes she could hear his all out laugh as he watched his favourite comedy or his whispered snarls and bitches about the antagonist of some chick-flick that used to make her yell ‘Key!’ (because overly-assaulted vulgarities are just too much to be flung on some said actress when she’s just doing her job (and doing mightily well at it as well))
But she never once lured into turning her head to capture the image of the beautiful man nor did she ever succumbed into laughing along with that said man, mainly because it hurt so damn much to find the verandah empty and the walls no longer bouncing off his octaves whenever she did a double take. So she continued on her way, water brimming in the corner of her eyes as she took in everything and felt everything without wanting to confirm anything because there’s nothing to be confirmed off in the first place. Many times had she wish for his strong arms to curl around his waist and rested his chin on her shoulder so that she could at least know that he was there and not something borrowed by her merciful imagination – but past tense had been the connector between her and the remaining specks of him ever since... And what hurts more was to realize that there was no more ‘him’ alone; instead either it was either how he was (used to be) in the past, him and everything about him or just nothing about him at all. Sharing him with something, anything else was her only option to still have him – because she’s just not strong enough to let go.
She sipped her hot chocolate quietly, taking her own sweet time as her surroundings shook with the distant voices of him complaining about the absence of coffee beans from the larder.
‘Those damned mice!’ he muttered again and again. She woke up on that day to that rambling, smiling as soon as her eyes were open at that adorable voice bearing that flat-out dumb statement. She walked to the kitchen with her disheveled hair and messy pajamas as she grabbed a packet of hot chocolate to prepare her favourite drink albeit knowing well enough that Kim Kibum doesn’t find both ‘just woke up’ and ‘being in the kitchen for breakfast’ fit enough to be with each other. He let out an angry gasp as he took in her appearance, a definite contrary to his clean and casual matching of sweater and jeans.
‘Can’t you at least shower first?’
‘I did brush my teeth,’ fingers crossed behind her back and Key crossed his arms, foot tapping the kitchen floor in disapproval, ‘besides Key, mice don’t eat coffee.’
‘It must be you then,’ he pouted, clearly lost once the subject of his favourite drink was brought up. Because to him, mornings without coffee are like beehives without honey; just like how her mornings won’t be complete without the usual warmth of his hands cupping her cheeks before planting a kiss on her forehead as his favourite way of saying ‘good morning.’
‘You know I hate coffee as much as I hate black coffee and the likes of it,’ she replied absentmindedly as his lips pouted even more when she used his favourite coffee as a reference. She smiled inside, because an angry Key is a pouting Key, and a pouting Key is an adorable Key, which never failed to perfect her day even if it’s only the beginning of the remaining 24 hours. Probably they went on a heated argument after that over some black liquid she so hates and he very loves, but they were rare moments like this that pulled her heartstrings the most because it was this kind of simplicity that she yearned now; now that it, and a thousand more synonyms that followed were never found in her dictionary ever again.
Even the moment he walked out of that door was simple; serene and tranquil although nothing about it was downright calm in the first place. Once insults were flung around and arguments were evaporating until there wasn’t any more space for air to squeeze in, nothing was rational anymore – not even the only thing that brought them there in the first place that seemed to be blown out of proportion easily by a raised voices and a breakable objects here and there. It was a heated argument; each of them panting so hard the floor underneath their feet shook with fear and anticipation. Anticipation of what will come next and the fear of not knowing what will come next.
‘You don’t want to,’ her hand closed on his that was gripping the door knob furiously, eyes pleading for him to stay when her heart just wanted to scream out ‘don’t leave me’ but never managed to because even saying the words out loud scared her to death. She wanted him to at least look up and meet her in the eyes, but he never did as he was swayed in his own mix of emotions to care about anything else but him – and regrettably, not even her who is a part of him (or so she thought).
‘I don’t want to what?’ he responded furiously when all he wanted to do right at that moment was to bury his face deep in her chest and cry and say sorry; like what a child will do to his mother whenever he felt scared of the creaking sound his closet made. But he was not a child, and she was not his mother whom he needed the answers to his questions for. The closet was something he needed to venture into himself, and not something he could ask her to do for him. Because she was his love, and was never and not going to be anything apart from that – something he needed to learn to do from then on.
‘You don’t want to-‘ she tried, she really did but the word was stuck in her throat the moment she thought about it. She tried again, only to find tears streaming down her face once more when she realized that probably, that word might just be true.
And yes, it did come true; like an ending you’d expected in a bad movie. Only she wasn’t sure if this was a movie, or if it was a good thing or a bad thing. What she knew was, this clearly wasn’t the ending she wanted nor something she had expected. But right now – just right now, she hoped she wasn’t wishing for too much to hope that this wouldn’t be the ending to him, her and both of them.