the consolations of philosophy
“It doesn’t make you vulnerable to allow someone else to love you, to be kind to you. Most of the time, we are not kind to ourselves, anyways.”
➤ Jungkook x Reader | ChildhoodFriends!AU & College!AU
➤ You will find: angst, fluff, implied smut, friends to lovers
➤ Word count: 21,546
Author’s note: Truly one of the most personal-driven and overly emotional stories I have written in a while. To be quite honest, I hesitated for a second before publishing it, but I believe I won’t regret this decision. Once again, feedback is always welcome. Title from this piece.
Days passed by monotonously.
At times, they passed in a homogeneous nebula of banausic resolutions, a haziness of venomous smoke that permeated her lungs and suffocated her from the inside out. Consolidated, it could be comparable to the vapor that performed slow-motion pirouettes in her bathroom after a shower; the same foretelling of looming storms neighboring the obfuscous skyline. It was the deprivation of vivacity; the apathy for each and every circumstantiality of her mundane chores, those being repeated again and again—a broken record, as she would contemplate, a vexatious rasping noise in the background of her every action, a recurring routine that leisurely strangled her with its hyperborean hands. Again: the outburst of opaque cinereal that came from cigars on the street; licking of conflagrant flames that illuminated gelid nocturnal alleyways. At least it was positive for some.
Other instances, it would be detected in the viscous hollowness that dwelled in her chest. We are all born with emptiness inside of us, her mother once verbalized. That pathless sentence was one of those fragments of ruptured dialogues that lived amongst her memories, reverberating and emerging when she least expected it too—yet, when she most necessitated. Some people, the woman speculated, decided to congest such lacuna with carnal desires: sex, drugs, food, alcohol; others preferred to spend hours upon hours haunted by the immersive universes of a good book, a movie, or frequent social interactions. Most, come what may, attempted to fill it up alternatively to properly learning how to endure the feeling. Lack of feeling. Whatever could describe it more properly.
Not solely monotonously: days passed lethargically, apathetically. Wintery, even—denuded of saturation and warmness. They came and went like self-perpetuating waves to the sands of a godforsaken beachside: crashing, cleaning, wiping away all traces that could have been left there aforetime. Undertow, drought, tormentous tides, and currents that led to the eclipsed oblivion. Comparisons aside, tracing parallels did not make those interminable hours any better; the ocean was still there, just as stupendous and immensurable. Just as empty.
But of course, those were not all of her days. Some of them, Jungkook was there to keep her company.