Jimin tries not to think about it as he erases the smudged letters on his table. Some are blue, some are black, yet they all are unpleasant words, carved into his bones. These marks are just meaningless letters, but truthful meaningless letters. He enjoys wiping people's agony away, and avoids listening to sweet, shallow words, yet unwanted glances and unknown names behind his back.

But Jimin thinks about it regularly, about how everything keeps changing simultaneously, every seconds, every moments. Like how worn out the shirt he is wearing, even when he just bought it last week, or how sorrowful and dried out these letters are, even when they were only drawn yesterday. Like how the pigmented colors swirling at the bottom of the sky, orange one second, grey later, leaving all the clear crystals falling down the dim lights blended together in the night of Seoul.

Jimin prefers the rain to the warm weather. He loves the ticklish feeling of droplets of water touching his skin, how monotonous and covered everything is behind a thin curtain filled with wonder, or maybe the fresh and burning sensation as he inhales the moisture of the early rain, hands messily smudged pigments of blue and black.

The yellow-haired says goodbye to a girl, whom he doesn't even remember the name, before shutting his smile out immediately once the silhouette is completely out of sight. People call him fake, he calls the attitude insincerity.

Fake isn't the word to describe Park Jimin. He treats people with mutual respect, even when some of them don't even deserve that much. He makes jokes, he laughs, he smiles, while in his mind, those eyes are silently observing, trying so fucking hard not to notice the stares and mumblings behind every corners of his head.

So he treats everyone with insincerity, with enough amount of respect and hatred, as he learns meticulously the expressions, how their eyebrows knit together when they are unsatisfied, or how their eyes turn into crescent lines and pure bliss as happiness drapes over them. Humans are such simple creations, and foolish, too.

Suddenly, he hears a 'click'.

With an interrupted train of thoughts, Jimin turns around as he catches a pair of brown eyes, silent yet enthusiastic at the same time. The color looks just like his favorite, Americano, with swirling emotions and thoughts instead of sugar and espresso, filled with wonder, and topped with a beautiful forlorn spark.

Jimin is facing another guy, a slightly taller one, to be exact.

- "I'm sorry"- His voice begins, and for moment Jimin can't hear the familiar pace of the rainfall.- "You look very beautiful under the rain, so i couldn't help to take a shot, i hope you wouldn't mind?"

An apologetic look is shown on his face, along with a clumsy smile and his wet messy brown hair sticking to his forehead, nose red and running. There on his one hand is a camera, a polaroid one, with a fashionable white background and blue stripes across the surface, and there is, on his other hand, a picture of a wandering Park Jimin, with lost eyes staring through the thick layer of raining sensation and feelings, visible blue and black stains on those small hands.

Jimin smiles, this time, he does really want to smile fondly, with an unknown stranger.

-" It's fine, really."

He makes me feel something.