#— 김태진의 하루

[taejinfmd-archived]

base solo stage / aesthetic & self para

taejin doesn’t care enough to take any measures into his own hands about the set / setting of his solo stage — instead, he leaves it to his managers / bc to pick out the best which results somewhere in jeju. with nothing more than an acoustic piano / piano player (imagine the pic is with a piano not a guitar) to accompany the stage, the concept is : green minimalism. the only thing he takes is the personal style of himself, where he dresses himself in a white shirt and black slacks. he covers a slow and more slowed / lofi version of any song by sun. wc / 411

they want to see the fun side of you. you’re trying too hard to be an actor, and fans are upset they see less of taejin the idol when’s the last time you sang a non-ballad song?

it’s the criticisms upon criticisms that his manager compiles in a binder of paper — each one highlighting the current trajectories of where fans are, and where they stand in each place and time. taejin doesn’t care much, turns a cold shoulder. when seriousness as an actor consists of maintaining a certain mundane demeanor, polished off by the polite laughs and even more polite grins, he turns his head the other way of idol world.

yet, he relents by the time he’s in the studio, preparing a different type of song.

the song’s catchy in itself, a rap too fast — leaving the majority of the work up to the arrangement team, slowing down and cutting it up into a mold that’ll fit him.

in the meantime, he’s reading through the lyrics. finds the play of words, a cheeky pattern when it does a one eighty from who he is.

uptight, letting loose. his manager instructs him to learn the basics of the dance, a present for fans who have no hint to what comes soon.

-

when he stares in the mirror in rehearsals, the mic in his hand and the slowed down version of the dance, he looks like a fool. it’s a straight fool staring at his reflections in the slow-motion sway of his shoulders and arms as he sings, borderline rapping to the songs. it’s the vision of a boy dressed in a three piece tux, ready to head straight for an underground hongdae pub.

taejin laughs at himself. laughs at the scenario, makes a quick glance past his shoulders to the vocal instructor in the room.

“you don’t think this is ridiculous?”

“i think it’s funny. fans will get a hit out of this — like the clean cut trying to be cool with hip hop.”

taejin shakes his head, presses down on his ball cap. waits for a second before the song starts again, and he sucks in a deep breath to recollect his thoughts.

praise, complements. the more he gets, the more bc lengthens the leash on his collar, so he obliges. sings on tune, with each lyric, slowed down dancing and all.

but even that composure breaks as soon at the start of “yo what up my dawgs”.

[taejinfmd-archived]

solo photoshoot aesthetic / aesthetic & self para 

minimalism is taejin’s game, and what more can he do than serve fans with the artistic, intelligent boy of your dreams — thus, he picks a minimalistic studio space (the art easels / artworks are added on by the stylist to make the room less empty). his point was the counter the navy blue in his shirt / outfits with the bright orange sofa and the hints of orange spread throughout the room. why he chooses orange? because he had an orange that day and his manager told him he had to make decisions to finalize the photoshoot. warnings / none wc / 436

modeling at this point is a second job — or third, depending on how you see it.

it comes effortlessly when he walks into set, hair and makeup ready. outfit checked on, every wrinkle and every line smoothed and prepped for the cameras. first steps come in greeting the director, and taejin extends both hands out, cupping the director as he folds himself ninety degrees. “it’s a pleasure to be working with you. please take care of me well today.” his eyes crease into the standard celebrity smile, a pause for respect and he awaits orders.

by now, it goes easy.

the director motions for him to take seat of the sofa — “look away. stare into space, and not at the lens.” immediately, it registers a series of facial expressions from taejin. his head tilted low, staring right to the left of the camera, and his better side on display. year three told him his left side was better than his right, and now he makes the most use out of it.

he shifts his chin, from one side to another, head tilted back then fingers to his chin. it all falls to the beat of the clicking cameras as he barely moves his legs against the orange sofa — there’s isolated movements when the camera’s honing in on the close ups.

“okay good —“ the director replies, and the few takes of the first pose are done in a matter of thirty seconds before it’s time to regroup.

regrouping means shuffling to the make up and hair artists running frantic with their makeup puffs touching up the cheek, moving a spec of dust and spraying down the loose strands of hair. (it all goes down in five minutes — they’re professionals, even more so than him).

but see, kim taejin is vain.

he likes to look at himself underneath the lights, see how he’s captured in this moment in time.

so, he steps towards the monitors lied out on set as the assistants start to go through the first few cuts. each frame, slightly different, yet he can already pick out the b cuts from the a.

stop. his fingers point. “i think this one is the best out of the first few takes, there’s good lighting that supports the makeup artists’ work, and gives a clean feeling.” his hands weave themselves back into the crook of his elbows, crossed as he offers a pointed look in the direction of the director. “what do you think?”

“kim taejin has an eye for himself.”

the complement bolsters another smile-jerk reaction from him. now, he sets off for take two.

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / english lessons

bc signs taejin up for random english lessons — and the instructor starts with the hardest concept that taejin’s never gotten. aka: kim taejin can’t pronounce his r’s and ‘th’ in english. (this isn’t meant to be offensive, just that literally koreans 20+ learning english usually struggles with the ‘r’ and ‘th’ in ‘that’ sounds at least from my personal experiences) warnings / none wc / 443

despite the titan schedules and stages that put him from one city to another, kim taejin has a lot of time on his hands.

time that renders itself already taken by the force of bc, usurped from his fingertips as his calendar on his phone alerts him for the first block of his free day: english lessons. times change, but he’s always been a seoul boy at heart. knows the streets of chungdam all the way to hannam like the back of his hand, eloquently taught the abc’s of history.

yet, if there’s any weakness — it’s english.

and with the times changing and the music industry no longer catering to the masses of korea, he’s forced to adapt. adaptation only becomes harder as his wrinkles harden, and he’s an aged boy with nothing more than ‘hello, how are you? i’m taejin. nice to meet you.’ automatically glued on the tip of his tongue.  heavy reliance on a translator and the english letters all becoming a confused mess once it clicks inside his head — maybe, it’s why bc sets him up with a tutor.

it feels like he’s that grade school boy again, bringing his ipad and his notes along with his pens and pencils to the table bc’s set up for him inside their company. and when he looks up to see his english teacher — an older man, which taejin figures belongs in the english department of any one of SKY, he knows today, there’s no easy way out.

“hello, take care of me well today.” taejin greets half-way before he’s shushed by the palm of the instructor.

“to get better, you’ll have to use english frequently. we’re only using english today.”

his instructor’s accent is perfected enough that taejin assumes one of two things — gyopo, or just someone who’s kept his head too far deep in the books for the years. but he holds that thought, leaves his response in a nod.

“okay, teacher.”

he knows as soon as the words leave the tip of his tongue, he’s already haphazardly wading in the shallow waters. an accent that strikes alarmingly born and bred korean, which brings a smug grin across the instructor’s face.

“we’re not learning any sentence structures today — instead, we’re working on pronunciation.” his instructor takes a pause, adjusts his glasses and his glare that lands straight on taejin. “we’re going to do ‘r’ and ‘dat’ sounds today.”

taejin blinks, leaves his eyes shut when he’s flashed back to the childhood one on one tutoring landing him straight down the middle of the situation he’s in now.

r, th, erl. he’ll never get it, not then and not now.

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / 혼밥 

taejin goes to a meal by himself, and finds this feat now easy / second nature. he goes to a 맛집 all by himself, and has some sort of inner satisfaction because of it. warnings / food cw wc / 424

there’s other ways he could spend his time — practice rooms, outfit fittings, or sleeping his limited hours in seoul away. yet, kim taejin finds his time driving around, a hand on the steering wheel as he turns the corner and into the parking lot. 

a new hot place, plastered on social media. his peers rave, and he’s only one that follows the masses when he finds himself right before the lunch rush of office workers. 

food, and it’s all supposed to taste the same. but boredom and a lack of desire to cook anything from the confines of his kitchens lead him to the newest naengmyeon house nearby his apartment. but even public outings have precautionary measures. the first when he conceals half of his face with a mask, the second when he keeps his sunglasses glued onto his face and the third — the power of a simple ball cap. 

early on in the years, he’d want to scream. drag his manager across the streets of seoul to fulfill the lonely void of no company while eating. but slowly, even that starts to become a burden on those he extends hearts out for — enough so, he’s just found some ease in the lunchtime lines of eating alone.

one step through the door, and he keeps his gaze down to the floor. avoid eye contact, and that’s the first tip he’s learned after all these years.

he holds one finger in the air, a signal for a lonely hon-bap. but after so many years, even hon-bap consisting of grilling meat on a platter doesn’t phase him anymore. 

when his gaze peeks past the sunglasses, taejin only sees an elderly woman working alone before the entire rush hour of customers come in. the sight puts him at ease, the luxury of peeling away each layer of his ‘normal’ get-up before he’s seated in the hidden corner of the restaurant. 

the pan on the wall’s a menu, and when he scans the area, it’s the version of an old run-down restaurant, using the years of history etched into every trace of the food. four options, and by the time the elderly woman places a cup and water, taejin turns his head towards her. “one bibimmyeon, and one serving of galbi, please.”

her eyes widen as skepticism writes along her tone. “are you sure you can handle that? that’s a lot of food.”

taejin nods, the smile of a golden boy shining through. “of course, i’ll be sure not to leave any leftovers, boss.” 

[taejinfmd-archived]

schedule self para / on the way to bc family concert rehearsals

taejin’s talks with his manager — a cheeky glimpse into their tit for tat banter in the early hours of the morning warnings / smoking tw wc / 415

“do you want to tell me who’s idea it was to schedule so many concerts back to back to back?” taejin’s voice is stark, etched with a layer of annoyance inside the early hours of seoul. he’s already sitting back on the bus, clad in the sweats leaving him to rehearsals for the day. his manager sits up front, glasses askew — taejin already knows what expression’s painted on by now.

“bc entertainment. who else would it be? you only have that company to blame.” a snarky response, and he’d expect nothing less than the person who knows him better than anyone else by now. a near decade, and taejin’s seen his manager through each and every tireless schedule, jetsetting from one country to the next, shuttling him to and forth.

(he’s always grateful for his manager).

“why would bc think a family concert and a string of titan concerts would be a good idea?”

“most bang for your buck — sometimes your fans don’t show up to the bc ones because the only ones they’re interested in is titan.”

touche, and concession begins when taejin starts to lean back on his chair, tossing his arms to his side. eyes closed, feeling the waves of the car moving.

“kim taejin, you’re ten years into your career and you’re asking stupid questions. go take a cigarette break because who knows when you’ll get one when you enter rehearsals.”

it pains his pride, in the ironic sort of i-don’t-want-to-admit-you’re-right way. but he’s already waved the white flag high and large in the air, slipping out his pack of esse’s and drawing a light to the end of the thin stick. one inhale, and by the time on the exhale, he stares in the front view mirror. “that’s one thing i do envy about your job — you’re able to smoke wherever without the worry of sasaengs coming into your view.”

“if we’re being honest, i can’t let sasaengs get a sight of me smoking or else they’ll petition bc to fire me for being a bad influence on you. you know, it’d ruin your pretty boy image. additionally, i technically can’t smoke when you’re on stage — i have to monitor you.”

“are you always so clear-headed in the mornings?”

his manager laughs, cracking open the window by an inch before taejin takes another inhale of the cigarette. morning talks, and he’s never won one battle against the man he considers his best friend. 

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / alcohol woes

taejin drinks whiskey, thinking of his first legal drink he shared with his father. warnings / alcohol tw, alcoholism tw wc / 437

there’s a few things in life that doesn’t change: his mother’s number being the first on speed dial, his father always being an arms distance away. and the taste of brandy that sinks into his tongue after a long night.

he doesn’t know when he got his first taste of 30 year ballantine’s whiskey — or he does. he remembers it the strike of twelve right as the year switched over from twenty twelve to twenty thirteen. normalcy comes in waiting in line on new years, identification in hands at the local pub surrounded by a group of friends, waiting for the first taste of cheap soju. but kim taejin’s normalcy’s when he’s at his family’s pension in the country side, his father already hours beyond the bedtime of working hours. and the whiskey poured as he extends both hands cupping the crystal glass, waiting for the first sip.

when he looks back, it’s funny. the way he remembers the wrinkle of his nose, the squeamish pull-back from the first sip. funny how that sort of taste grows into a taste of nostalgia that brings him back each night he ends on a schedule.

like father, like son.

his father explaining the luxuries of whiskey, and some hyperbolization on how whiskey rests on the shoulder of the family business. (back then, two sips. he’d been rendered drunk — barely remembers the haziness of the conversation). 

all he knows is, whiskey tasted bitter that night. and at times, it still does.

still, he remembers the fondness of the first legal taste of alcohol on his tongue. remembers it each time he brings the glass to his lips, taking in a languid sip, watching the skyline of seoul from his apartment. 

loneliness doesn’t feel as lonely when he holds onto those memories.

the only difference between back then and now is the sobering feeling of drinking. drinking to feel sober, finding no shift in a mental place when he’s on his third glass. one leg over the other, his fingers tap against the glass one by one wondering if this is a phase of adulthood. perhaps, it’s all about growing up — learning to love the things you once thought was bitter, and feeling normal where once you were out of place.

things change easier done than said. it’s the paradox of growing up, and now he’s falling close to his thirties, no push or shove in what comes next.

(he pulls out his phone, texts a simple “아버지 시간 되실때 연락주세요. 술 한잔 하고싶습니다. / dad, when you have time, let me know. i want to grab a drink with you.”)

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / friendships

friendships aren’t easily created, least not the kind that always has an open arms welcome. there’s the superficial ones but always the brick wall in between.  warnings / none wc / 402

does he have any friends? sure.

but it’s the question that digs like a knife like a sore spot that keeps getting aggravated by the same questions over and over. he has people, people to talk empty nothings with — how’s the weather? what are you up to? how are you?. but doesn’t everyone? 

friendship, and he’s never had a full grasp on what it means. younger years in school leave everyone as a parasite, sucking one connection to the next — rumors of his parents settling the basis for their welcoming hellos (as if sucking up to him would bring their parents upper on the occupational ladder). truth of the matter is, kim taejin can’t relate.

can’t relate to sharing a lunchbox in the school cafeteria — sharing the special little traces of mom’s touches, when his lunchbox was curated by a chef each and every morning. he can’t relate to what it means to march to the nearest hakwon, spend the last few minutes in the street corner, buying a 500 won ddeokbokki cup, when the family chauffeur’s been the first in line to pick him up after school. doesn’t even know what it means to kick the soccer ball in the neighborhood park when his own front yard’s the only grass he’s ever known.

a sad childhood — but he doesn’t think of it like that.

it’s all about opportunities — how he’s filtered out the majority of phonies wanting to claw up the social ladder, and share his goods. they’re parasites, at least — that’s how he’s always thought of it.

friendship now in 2021, and he still doesn’t know what it means.

there’s a layer of privacy, a brick-wall that stands high in the middle between him and the passing souls he meets. curiosity peaks, and he extends a hand out — a hello, a high five. curiosity brings him to small conversations, yet never leads to the open arms entrance into his life.

maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s the test of too many years in titan.

all the money in the world, but there’s a cliche that’s true: money doesn’t buy friendship, it lengthens the distance.

so, with his cold stares and ambivalent expressions, he carries on. one step after another, looking forward with no regard to looking back. each person’s conversation making a lasting impression that only holds until the moment ends. taejin wonders, will he ever find a friend?

[taejinfmd-archived]

schedule self para / thoughts on the 10 year anniversary

being pigeonholed into an image for so long, and the only thing inevitable is defeat and pure acceptance that there’s no such thing as a taste of freedom. warnings / none wc / 424

ten years a near decade inside bc’s wall and he feels complacent.

complacency comes in a multitude of ways — from the way he’s become a pack mule of fan service, jumping from one schedule right into the next. from the way he’s followed every single order, at the beck and call of the bc superiors with nothing more than a mental protest of a few words. complacency becomes martyred when the second home of ‘bc entertainment’ headquarters feel nothing more than a prisoner’s cell.

it wasn’t always like this.

wasn’t always the reflexed groan that left his mouth any time bc called. maybe, he just attributes it to the lack of motivation early on.

where things where simpler in the goal to action ratios, expectations of nothing only to fall above and beyond any time the praise and comments of netizens kept him on his toes. but now, he’s at a standstill when greed lines the edges of his teeth and he tries to sink himself into more work. acting, accolades that extend praises cross borders — it falls short when bc beats him to the punch, pigeon holing him into the same old boyfriend roles.

no more accolades, and just pure expectations. now, freedom doesn’t exist ten years later, despite popular belief. the cliches don’t fit the mold when he’s given little to no chances to speed across the scenes and into the lines of scripts. instead, he’s left standing in between the end of rpm promotions and the celebration of ten years time.

ten years, and he realizes. a lot’s changed in a decade.

his members no longer feel like family — but have they ever? 

more like strangers, acquaintances that brush shoulders from time to time. the same old fanship services, playing the role of happy-go-lucky friends on stage. no stake to wedge itself right in the center of the facade when it’s been kept up with for so long. ten years, and there’s no ability to venture out, unveil the truth in the person on stage versus out. 

because all these years, he’s played to the duality. the duality of the peach-tinted boy next door and the  defeated beggar next door. he’s a beggar that craves for the satisfaction of something bigger than a life like this. he wants the taste of success on another level, wants it to define the outline of what composes him.

yet, he’s left shit out of luck when the only thing bc feeds is the field of peaches in the garden next door.

[taejinfmd-archived]

schedule self para / preparing a solo stage

he only releases the bare minimum, so he only has one option to sing to. he’d rather not, but bc orders — you have to prepare when you’ve been caught lip syncing one too many times. warnings / none wc / 420

vocal lessons come and go, and he’s already been in a week straight coming from titan promotions.

one faulty stage, and he’s shot himself in the foot when taking the easy way out, mouthing the words offers a place of bad press, minuscule or not. any bad press, and bc has him strapped away to the practice rooms, training one by one before the concert preparations take over — it all means he’s shoved into another room, sound proofed within a sea of mirrors.

he stares at himself, looks down on the notes given — prepare for your solo stage. never a performer, and he’s released the bare minimum vocally. yet, there’s still some expectation to give a full-out live performance after the small blip on rpm promotions.

the practice rooms are like a second home. he knows how to navigate each button despite the technophobe that’s engrained deep. 

one quick swipe of his finger, and he knows that the room’s already equipped with his backtrack. already in tune to the switch of his voice, and he turns the mic on — check, one two. and the echoes give enough vibrations, and he’s viscerally able to hear the play-back despite his in-ears being far off somewhere else.

there’s ease to this, an almost mundane boredom that stretches out when he sings lifelessly to the mic. no stage, no crowd. it’s himself in a place so foreign — as if music had been anything remotely close to a passion. but he abides, knowing freedom doesn’t taste good nor is it anywhere palpable when he doesn’t follow harsh restrictions.

his voice echoes out the first lines, and the tune forces him to wince. wrinkle his nose, and quirk his head back before he replays and fidgets once more with the settings. there’s the echoes, then the bass. the volume — nobody can hear, but he still feels like he’s being watched under a microscopic big brother-esque cctv paranoia.

he tries once more, another joust at something that he accepts at a standard average. nothing more, nothing less — he can already visualize the sing along chants from the crowd to cover for any thing he falls short of.

instead, he imagines something new. a director’s approach picking in the pauses of the song in between chorus to second verse — the cue to where to let the mic fall towards the crowd to have them pick up the loose ends. it’s easier this way, less work. more profit — perhaps, bc breaches deeper than he thinks.

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / last day of fan signing

taejin answers one question the last day of his fan sign. ten years, and when you have debutees born in 2003, he think he’s a hag.  warnings / none wc / 413

by the time he’s back in seoul, it feels like closer to the edge of being finished.

completely done, and no longer subjugated to what bc picks and chooses. at the same time, it feels like home when he’s void of any translators, on stage — clad in the loose jeans and loose shirt, styled to the boyfriend the audience envisions him as.

it’s easier to smile on stage. easier to laugh along, playing the role (at this point, each and every step of the fan signing’s been a role to play, no push nor shove).

he falls right on the stool, coming off the ends of his cover. the billboard pushing out, having the series of question — any question by now’s not one he hasn’t answered before. memorized the lines of each stereotypical answer that’s been prepped by bc at the start. still, he feigns a sense of surprise — opening his mouth, hand rubbing on the nape of his neck when the first post-it note asks: how do you feel about being ten years in the industry? 

taejin hasn’t thought about it much. no time to think, just observe when he’s no longer the rookie in the hallways of a music show nor the first in the pecking order of things to do. instead, a near decade causes him to feel the only thing — old. too old for the stage lights and the ornate outfittings, too old for the fan service and impromptu aegyo that’s six years past the limitations. and too old to be yanked along into obedience by the hands of a company.

but, there’s a caveat — he’d be fifty, and bc would still pull him one way to another.

taejin takes a sip of the water next to him, pulling his cheeks up into a coy smile as he stares out into a crowd. “i feel old.” honesty comes half-coaxed with a playfulness when he lets out a light flit of laughter, the crowd echoes. he follows. “i feel old when i have people debuting ten years younger than me, and i feel older when titan’s songs become their trainee practice songs. still, i’m still grateful that i’ve been in the industry long enough. and the majority of that is all due to you — you’ve all given me the strength and the ability to carry on my endeavors.”

sweet, the kind that hits too much in the flattery of things he doesn’t mean. still, bc should be proud.

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / vocal lessons

at one of the stages, taejin gets caught lip syncing (badly) so he hits up yoo young jin, his old vocal trainer now turned producer (maybe related to sm’s yoo young jin or not idk, take as you will i’m sm trash). and heads down the path of nostalgia. warnings / none wc / 448

singing lessons rarely come anymore, especially after the fifth year tapers off into world tours and constant promotions.

yet, here kim taejin stands. ten years in, sitting in a small practice studio booth with his vocal trainer from 2008. at this point, they’re like family — knows enough ins and outs about how his own voice works, and in return, taejin knows the strict adherence to warming up and loosening up each run of his voice.

at this point, he should take it with gratitude. the vocal trainer who’s shed away the roots of prepping trainees to go full-fledged producers inside bc. yet, with one call and one text message, taejin’s already here scheduled in for the next hour.

his vocal trainer shakes his head back and forth, the index finger and thumb pressed against his forehead when he heaves out a sigh. confusion? or just disappointment, maybe just humored by the audacity of this situation at hand. “taejin, why are you here? why are you in vocal lessons again?” there’s a glimmer of laughter hidden in the voice, a grim stoic expression to say otherwise.

and if taejin had to give a reason, he only suspects it’s the latest compromise of a stage where he’s caught red-handed lip syncing along, poorly when his mouth overcompensates for the backtrack. (newsflash: he’s never been a good lip singer — especially when titan’s days consisted of no backing live ars, and everything honed in on the vocal talents alone).

taejin carves out a sheepish smile, a hand tucked behind his head as he hides his gaze away. it’s embarrassing, of course it is. being relegated back into the days of a trainee, ten years now shattered because of one stage.

“because, i got caught lip syncing, and the fans weren’t having it. apparently, i’m not a good lip syncer.” he replies, flitting his gaze back towards the trainer. in hindsight, he probably should’ve known it was a bad idea to feed into the hawk eyes of the fans, their ears picking up on his vocal changes from 2000 whatever until now. if he thought he’d fool them, then he’d just be a fool himself.

luckily, his trainer gets it. files it away as a funny joke when he pulls up the keyboard closer, clicking away the notes that signal for the first warm-up runs of his enunciation.

“from the top — we’re going to pretend it’s 2008, and you just joined bc. just for old times sake.”

taejin takes this with dignity, lets his head hang loose as he unravels his voice starting from the ‘mas to the pas’ of his vocals, bringing the sounds in and out.

nothing’s changed.

[taejinfmd-archived]

self para / sasaeng paranoia

no sasaengs, but he always feels like he’s being watched. no sense of privacy and years of the same old shit, over and over again — it leaves him back to expecting the worst. warnings / mentions of stalking tw, sasaeng talk tw wc / 414

it feels like he’s being watched.

but that’s impossible when he’s on his fifth move, and this time to a place where security remains tightly held. a private escape, sealed and completely pocketed away from any wandering eyes — his mother made sure. his brother double checked, and his father stamped it away.

yet, when he walks into the echoes of an empty apartment — the echoes feel like reverberations of violations with each step that slowly picks into his space. 

it’s not empty paranoia, at least not when his phone number’s become a hot spot spread amongst underground forums. each one highlighted and secretly passed from place to place. no reprecussions, sasaengs are ruthless, crawling underneath each crevice he has stripping him of his sanity one place at a time.

(internally, he damns himself for giving dubu a five star treatment at some dog hotel, kilometers away).

externally, it’s the opposite when his eyes go on guard, wide alert despite the dwindling hours of sleep he’s missing in on — not like he was promised any in the first place. taejin holds his breath, one then two before he finally settles into the place of peace on his sofa. restlessness still continues on when his knees jump up and down, feet tapping against the ground off-beat with his fingers jittering across the leather.

he tells himself he’s just being paranoid. too much of an over exaggeration when the move’s been a near year, and freedom of any too-close-for-comfort contact has been void for a few months. then again, it could be that their antics have swept up, and he’s been the one oblivious and tinged in the rose-tinted blindness of his own busy schedule. 

but see, kim taejin’s been conditioned to be a creature of habit. 

the pattern of too many bodies trailing him closely behind. watching each and every movement, documenting his own close inner circle into the storyline they’ve written him in. it all towers down to the eerie feeling that never leaves — instead, acts like a stain upon him, never budging. it all dwindles down to the final straw, paranoia or not.

his hand pulls his phone out, speed dial number three. 

“okay, i’m turning the van back around.” his manager knows him better than anyone else — knows the precession of events that play like deja vu.

because when all fails, and the company around him falls short of anyone closer than arms distance, he has his manager.