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𝓗𝓮𝓻𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓷 ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️ CUTE

D-Day - the series

Track 1 - d-day

" I'm young and I love to be young "

CANVAS WHISPERS || JJK (part01)

summery: the chapter sees you, from your point of view, trying with all your might to pass your painting exam for the umpteenth time, and failing. you fight the panic attack that assails you in every way, and you can't help but search your diary for some relief before your life is turned upside down.

genre: fanfiction, dark romance, jungkook!artist x art student oc

warnings: mention and description of panic attack; y/n is kinda depressed and feels alone most of the time

rating: 18+, minor do NOT interact

word count: 2,3k

| masterlist |

Y/n's pov I felt so overwhelmed. All I could do was sigh in front of that canvas, but not one of those sighs that throws out everything you have inside. A sigh choked, heartbroken, full of ghosts and horror, everything I hide from others.

I always managed to do it, no one ever knew how much I was suffering: no matter how difficult it was, people were convinced I was just a spoilt snob with a stench under my nose.

They think daddy keeps the flat I live in. They envy me because I already live alone. How would they know?! The reality is quite different.

The truth is that I have not lived all this time. I have always felt at fault in front of others, at fault for experience, for skills, for tenacity and spontaneity.

I saw everyone emerge in life, smiling, shouting, snickering, simply living. While I was compulsorily confined to my house to study, the maid was under orders to make sure I didn't get my ass out of the chair.

For goodness sake, rich parents, with a prestigious career behind them, but with the emotional sense of an ant.

I, their only child, had always been designed as an extension of themselves, with the sole intention of carrying out what they had planned for me from the day of my conception.

I had to live in function of them.

One day, things simply changed or maybe simply my heart broke into a thousand sharp pieces like glass thrown through a wall.

My heart ached, my teeth were gritted, my hands clenched into a fist and my eyes ice cold as they tried to hold back all the tears that threatened to spill out.

It was my graduation day. Parents and children rejoiced around me while my parents scolded me because I had failed to give a valedictory speech worthy of note.

I had the merit of being the best in school and they had chosen me for that important moment, they thought I could set an example, but I was losing a piece of me, every second that passed.

How could I be an example to kids who expected me to have a clear idea of what my future would be?

They would have wanted hope, long-lost emotion.

They thought I could give them support, which I never received.

They all had high, high expectations of me. They all took it for granted that I would make it.

But I wouldn't.

So that very night I ran away. I ran away from my parents and their impositions for me to attend medical school. With all the strength my legs could muster, I disappeared from that world that terrified me. I began to seek escape from that life that did not belong to me.

I ruffled some clothes, some personal effects, some courage, a lot of money from the safe, and my diary in which my soul had always wandered in pain.

The night after my graduation I hadn't slept a wink. The panic attacks wouldn't stop surfacing, cutting into my heart. My eyes was dry and red and my shaggy hair was the result of what my panicked hands had done.

I was a mess. Everything around me was.

And yet perfection had been imprinted in my skin. It had been instilled in me so thoroughly that I didn't know what it meant to deviate, to make a small stop at something unharmonious.

I knew for sure what balance, what harmony was. From the outside that's all I expressed. But inside? What was inside me? Was something there?

With nothing but the complete knowledge that I wanted to run away from my life, I decided to embrace the only part of my heart that I protected, the only reason to run away, to live.

That part of my heart that I guarded with all my might, waiting one day to open its doors and let it intoxicate me. It was a dream I had carried with me since I was very young.

I thought art could save me. And so I decided to pursue my dream.

I was more of an unexpressed grip dictated by a whirlwind of emotions felt when looking at paintings.

I saw in art the vent I had never been able to express. The only moments of leisure that my adolescence could ever give me were the walks along those enchanted corridors of museums, accompanied by the caretaker.

Each painting carried with it a story. The artist had it, the captured subject too, whether it be a person or a landscape.

Every artist has a past they try to elude, but it tends to explode in their works. I admired this ability of theirs, and it's what propelled me towards my dream.

But my dream is a paradox.

In fact, I find myself in the final year of college by a hair's breadth. The truth is, throughout my life, I've excelled only in studying, so the theoretical and critical part has been a walk in the park for me. Certainly, I can't say the same for the practical aspect.

Regarding drawing, thanks to the discipline I've been taught, I managed to get by, although I always tend to draw rigid, broken shapes. That canvas has never had the pleasure of feeling my hand soften, flow on its rough texture, and create soft sketches to be carried away by.

Painting, on the other hand, seems like something that doesn't belong to me, and that's why I've often thought about abandoning this path, wondering if it's really the right one for me.

Perhaps the pride of not giving in to my parents or the shame I would feel if I gave up... something has kept me holding onto this dream.

Yet, it's the third time I find myself in the same classroom, with the same teacher but different students who are progressing in their university careers. For the third time, I'm retaking the painting exam, knowing for sure that I won't pass it this time either.

Only this exam is standing between me and concluding this race towards my new life. To say that I've made it. But with each attempt, I'm becoming more discouraged.

And there, the bell interrupts my thoughts. On that canvas, only the anxiety of the past hour spent staring at it after a few red and orange lines were imprinted on its rough surface.

I resign myself to the disapproving look of my professor, to the satisfied faces of the students who have just finished their splendid works.

I feel a lump in my throat, a heaviness starting from my heart. An impending panic attack: I sense everything around me spiraling, and my lungs gasp for a bit of fresh air instead of the smell of paint.

In a hurry, I grab my tempera colors, my bag, and my brushes. I run through the hallways, dash down the stairs, and see the exit.

I cross it and seek refuge in the campus garden, right behind the tree that has protected my outbursts, held my secrets, and my fears for three years.

That liberating run had turned into a sharp cry, and a breath that struggled to be expelled.

Once again, hands clenched into fists, long nails breaking into my palm, leaving evidently marked signs. Those marks often left scars in situations where neither my body nor my mind could bear it. That moment fell into that category.

It was all too much – every single emotion, every breath, it was all too suffocating. I always felt like I was drowning in front of hundreds of spectators who helplessly watched me.

I heard a group of students approaching to talk, and I couldn't stay there, so I tried to wipe away the tears and headed towards my apartment. Now I just wanted to go home, lock myself in those four walls where I felt protected. Scream with all the breath my lungs would allow and throw myself into bed.

So, I walked towards the avenue where my apartment was, right nearby. That day Seoul was very windy, and no hat was enough to shield me from that icy wind.

I fumbled my way towards my front door, pushed by that strong breeze when my attention was drawn to a flyer floating in the air. The cardboard was red, and even from a distance, it was clear it had been crumpled.

I chased it for a few meters until it settled on the doormat in front of my building. I picked it up without a second thought.

Now, as I could observe it more closely, I noticed how intense that red was, almost soaked in blood, so powerful was the intensity of that color.

As the wind showed no signs of stopping, I put that flyer in my pocket and headed towards my apartment.

It was quite dark and cold, devoid of any enrichment. Too dull for a girl in her twenties.

But it reflected what I was: nothing special, nothing extravagant; just order, rigidity, and emptiness. That's what I was!

I sighed as soon as I put on my slippers. Now, I had to cook something to eat, or I would die of hunger... so I rushed to the pantry to grab instant noodles. I just wanted to eat them in bed.

And so I did, but as usual, I ended up staining the sheets with the broth and found myself late at night waiting for that terrible stain to dry.

The only thing I could do, instead of waiting in the cold outside the blankets, was to take a hot shower. And here I was.

I slipped into the bathroom and slowly peeled off those warm, thin layers of fabric that had been enveloping me until just now.

The water began to run in the shower and steam made its way into the small room, soon blurring the view.

I let myself be shattered by that cascade of insistent drops, letting all the negative thoughts that had gripped me during the day flow down the drain.

I lay still for a while under that boiling jet and began to think about what I had so much wanted to confess to my diary that night.

As soon as my fingers became wrinkled, I knew it was time to get out of that shower and dry myself properly. I was quick and eager to jump in bed and write.

Dear diary, my mind needs to escape from yet another frustrating day that had only hurt me.

You're my safety space where I can feel free to scream at my soul that I shouldn't shut myself in even more.

All my life, everyone around me made me feel different, out of the ordinary, with something wrong.

My parents were the first: they always clipped my wings, I was asphyxiated by that crystal bowl they had locked me in. They stifled every single hold I had on my imagination.

Now I find myself alone and without the possibility of being able to say that I have experienced what it means to be loved. Nor to love.

Society has made me feel like an outcast, a little virgin saint who is afraid to be fucked.

Let's be clear, and I know I will find the approbation of yours if I'll say that we live in a society where if you don't have sex, people don't accept you; you're the outcast of the situation.

But people can't understand. People don't try to understand.

People don't know how much they can scare, how terrifying it is for someone to open up to them. They don't know how difficult it is for others to understand, empathize with your emotions. They don't know how much it hurts to see these emotions trampled upon.

I would love, once in my life, to experience human warmth. To discover the impulse that drives one person to embrace another, to give them love, to kiss them, to accept every single aspect of them.

To love them, hate them, and then return to admire them, as if that person was the essence of the other's life.

I aspire to find a love that makes me feel alive. I want to feel a whirlwind of emotions. I crave to be overwhelmed by a wave of uncontrollable passion.

I wish to be dragged into hellish oblivion by two hands that are able to show me only heaven.

That pair of hands that I dream of every night, imagine wandering all over my body, doing things to me that I could never fully imagine.

Those fingers touching me, first gently, letting me burn with a slow fire; then with an innate strength.

I let them tear my soul apart, possess it like the most precious thing in this world.

I would let him ruin me, consume me.

Consume my skin, flake my lips, dip my neck, my breasts, my inner thigh with bruises of love, intense shades of red and purple.

I would be his.

But who is that man who in my dreams lets me surrender to him? Whose soul will steal mine? Whose skin will I mark with my nails? Whose lips will tear mine in bites?

I will find those eyes that will love me and tear my clothes off with just a glance. I will find those hands that will possess every single inch of my body.

I will find you.

Yours, Y/n.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀★ ⠀⠀⠀KIM⠀ ͏SEOKJIN⠀⠀ ⠀★ ͏⠀͏

~ seokjin for w korea, 2024.

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