#threads‚ chrsab.

[sunanchr]

He doesn’t know what he wants. Life felt like that. Like a blurred, scalding catechism endlessly propositioning itself through the good and through the bad. It seemed unanswerable, with all possible meaning led further astray the longer he wanders, navigating blindly, the desolate night feeling as though it were revealing its truth then. Not the canvas he thought it was, instead a colorless abysm whose depth gave fodder to every unseen demon; a veil he could not pierce. Empty. It felt horrendous, being alone. He was alone, wasn’t he?

His mind says that it would’ve always been that way, though, as if consoling. As if to say he should’ve expected something like that because realistically, who was he anyway? Another question. Life’s two tests: who are you and what do you want? He’s thinking it over, collapsed there in the sand, body outstretched in a gradual sprawl as if he were trying to commit every grain to memory. Maybe he’s that, the innumerable mineral particles all disheveled in a misleading depiction of grounded surface, awash in the high tide.

“I don’t know.” Very softly. He doesn’t.

He thinks he hears something encroaching in the darkness, head laid to the closest side, unseeing gaze still shrewd with obliviousness. He had ran from the island compound when Hansol said it because he knew that he could run. No pursuit. He’d made it that way, anyway, hadn’t he? His smile is bittersweet, still piercingly edged, evolved into abrupt softness as he falters. “Sabrina?” 

He clears his throat, pushed up to his elbows, head shaken to discard the remnants of trampled shore still lacing his hair. “Sabrina. Hey. Sorry about leaving like that. I owe you another round of beer pong, don’t I?”

@chrsab​

#chrsab #chrsummer21 #( let me know if this works. <3 #sunan leaving in tears: lol brb quick store run. #threads‚ chrsab.

[chrinsu]

NEW MESSAGE !!          to: @chrsab      subject: gross

     vision, an absolute blur. head, a pounding mess. shirt, haphazardly strewn over his shoulders, digits clumsily moving down the buttons, messily tucking in the front of it into his matching black pants. fingers coming to rake back the strands of untamed hair, feeling the remnants of yesterday’s events. hungover, as graceless digits pull to adjust the shirt on his frame, shoulders rolling backwards, regaining what little disposition of sanity he had left in the haziness of the situation. realisation, failing to piece the fragmented memories together, leaving him dulled hues hanging above dark circles. he catches the movement of someone in his peripheral, gaze turning, still unsure of his surroundings only to see the features of an older woman peering underneath the covers. eyes, still closed as slight mumbles leave from her lips. his brows raise, amused one of the emotions fuelling his drunken veins. the other, absurdity. a simple tch leaves from his own lips, before turning his way to the leave the room.

     the place was a lot bigger than what he had anticipated, the fragments still parted, it felt almost foreign. memories wiped, a hazy onset of images cascading through his reverie and he’s greeted by confused staff, onlookers placing gaze on his dishevelled appearance. he supposes that if he has already gone this far as to fuck the recent divorcee, he might as well use the main entrance to take his leave, no sense in sneaking out otherwise. a bold move. such an insu thing to do, so his father would tell him. 

     the morning glaze having painted over the azure stretch of cloudless skies. an arm raises to shield his vision from the glare, making his way down the steps, still feeling the incessant pang against his temples. he lets out a subtle groan in between gritted teeth, he should know better by now. his gaze lifting to the sound of footsteps edging nearer, stygian hues flicker tiredly for a moment matching gazes with her. sabrina. 

     he couldn’t help but lets his eyes roll, a habitual response, as it drifts to the person beside her, a brow raising. digits come to rake through his strands again, a smirk tugging at his corners as dulled hues return to meet with hers, “new pet?” a snigger leaving. “didn’t think you were capable.” shoes missing on both his feet, only socks encasing them. clearly, he had struggled to pull his attire together.

#chrsab #threads. #chrsab &&. gross. #my superior naming skillz #kagjrfe oop #i also dont know what this is #clown emojis out the ass

[sunanchr]

“Hello?” His salutation carries liltingly amongst the social rigmarole. His insincerity is a brusque and ineludible spearhead driven knowingly beneath his eyes’ leadership. His contempt is thick with palpability, brewed in a puddle he has steeped in to drown, a proverbial rebirth, creating the man that stood there then. It stirs like a torrent, even. That hatred. It rushes like an insatiable ravine, soaking everything in a quiet, encroaching ruin he’d perpetrated. Like he had prolonged straining the figurative water, content to dilapidate —  let things rot. 

His version however, reads uniquely, a testimonial insisting he had tried to salvage it. A lunch period he doesn’t ever disremember. She sits idly, either alone or with classmates. He has a particular concentration, he always has. A concentration that does not acquiesce to the outside. Its captive is her. In his memory, she’s alone. In his heart, he deems the isolation deliberate, the emergency flare shot above the stranded water. An opportunity to extend his hand again; he takes it. Sorry. His words attempt it gingerly, tentatives yielding trepidation he feels himself fumbling through. About back then, I mean. His laughter, deliberate and coy. My Mom had told me that we couldn’t talk anymore. You know how our families are.

She had left, in the same, uninterrupted silence.

“Oh my — ... Sabrina?” His words receding in a babbled chuckle, like he’d been incredulous, here to refute that same skepticism. “Is that you?” Duplicitous, his accompanying smile keen. “I thought I saw you over there. Hey.” He sits beside her again, this time particularly dauntless, body maneuvered coolly with a knowingness, countenance unreadable, though his eyes speak again. Narrowly, with an intent discernible only through progress. His hands uncurling its carried glass upon the tabletop in a slow and invitational push toward her. 

“I was going to come over here sooner but I couldn’t believe my eyes, you know? It’s actually been so long. Wow.” Gentle with audible daze, gaze almost devouring where it rests against her, scrutinizing her expression to each nicety. He recollects himself quickly, glass cited within a confirmatory nod, gesturing encouragingly for her indulgence. 

“Oh, hey. Try this. You might like it.” A wink. “It’s pretty fruity.”

@chrsab

#chrsab #do you like ... titles ? #i can do one ... #i could nawt think of one but i can try! #let me know if this works or it needs something changed. <3 #threads‚ chrsab.

[sunanchr]

The gift feels heavy in his hand. Another mainstay tethering him to their metaphorical boat. It’s always that in his mind’s refuge. The two of them stranded amidst water that’s only deepening. A very blue abysm, whose alienation he doesn’t quite grasp until he’s turned over his shoulder, seen what’s unrecoverable, nonretractable. The permanent things, all surging like a torrential current, shoving them out somewhere no one else could really reach. 

The gift is an anchor in that sense. Makeshift and deployed yearningly, a (maybe mutual) plea that they stop where they are. That’s enough, they go no further, they stay right here. It means, however, that he sleeps on the boat, wakes up on the boat, in the blistering sun and the pouring rain. No longer adrift at sea but no closer to any shore. 

They’re just there. 

It’s an unremitting cycle the gift keeps him apart of. How could he ever leave when he’s there at the apartment door? Tiffany link bracelet boxed so cutely, even engraved (Shakespeare’s thirteenth sonnet, first line), staring narrowly as if the door were some impassable object. It wasn’t. He recollects this as he fishes out a copied key.

“Hey.” His greeting is cautious, aware, louder only in that moment. It’s their special rigmarole, walking away into a few, scattered days of silence, coming back unannounced. He had cried last time though; his shakiness now was in account of that. “Sorry,” volume settling once he’s neared a familiar living space. “I know I should’ve texted you back but I didn’t know what to say or how to say it over text, you know? It’s hard.” His pause is deliberate, gaze dropped to monitor his shoes as he removes them, navigating inner trepidation. “It still is hard, honestly. I know I don’t say it often but I do really lo—”

Another pause, the same apprehension swirling tumultuously into a very violent asphyxiation, stabbing once and digging the blade deep. His stare is even somehow chokingly lost, his mouth agape, unspeaking. Hansol ...  and Sabrina. A cake between them.

“What the fuck are you doing? What the fuck is this? Are you — ?” Dumbfounded, his accusations split between them scathingly. “Me? You do this to me?”

@chrbhs @chrsab

#chrbhs #chrsab #threads‚ chrbhs. #threads‚ chrsab.