Rouge

He saw her twice after reading the note, and only once did he take action.

She was stirring her coffee in the same pastry shop he’d visited a week ago. Time had flown by so fast, recordings and interviews jerking him around Korea nonstop. He was craving sweets and a break from the other four temperamental boys inside the apartment. He liked the pastry shop, he really did. But what he also enjoyed was the underlying possibility of her being there (that pastry shop being the only café/desserts shop in a mile radius).

He couldn’t help but take a seat across her.

Her hair was nicely tucked underneath a cream colored beanie. She was leaning her chin on top of her gloved hand, the elegant coloring on the wool causing him to wonder where she’d bought them. She was wearing a bright red overcoat, something that caused him to notice that she was all but averting attention. She seemed to be drinking hot chocolate instead of coffee, he noticed after smelling the air.

She was playing around with a pencil, looking down at something Seungho couldn’t discern from his position. He grabbed a menu and skimmed the words, far too concerned with the redhead. She, on the other hand, kept staring at the TV on the corner of the shop and tapped her pencil to an undefined rhythm. A waitress finally walked towards him and took his order. He kept staring now and then, waiting for his slice of chocolate cake.

He felt a bit disappointed, somehow expecting her to –on any moment- turn around, blush, and bid him good morning. But she never –not once- turn around to acknowledge him. Not until the pencil between her fingers slipped and rolled away from the table. It was then that he felt his blood chill and his spine go rigid. He immediately looked down at his cell phone (which he was playing with) and pretended ignorance.

She didn’t say a word.

He felt his ears grow hot with the more than likely accusatory look she must’ve thrown his way. But it never came. He heard the chair scrape the floor as she readjusted her seat and continued doing whatever she was doing. She didn’t gasp with shock, or ‘tsk’ed’ with annoyance. All she did was calmly sit down and scribble away.

It annoyed him. He didn’t want to admit it, but it annoyed him. He felt slightly (for Seungho could never admit such feelings) taken aback. He felt his cool demeanor melt away with his embarrassment. She had left a note saying such things, but she didn’t confront him face on? He felt some of his pride crack. Perhaps she was toying around with him; that could be it. Enjoying how he stared at her window like a lost lamb snickering in a corner while shuffling tarot cards. For all he knew, she could be part of an obscure –

“Your cake, sir.”

He smiled politely and gave a slight nod. His mind was getting ahead of himself, he knew. He decided to shrug off his entire prior hypothesis and indulge himself with cake. He decided to think to himself he did not care, and the curiosity nagging him regarding Junhyung would, eventually, fade away. He slowly tucked little redheaded Min to a remote corner in his head; desperately attempting to rid himself of future mistakes.

“Bon appetit.”

He looked up with a startled jolt, unknowing of what to respond. She was holding a sketchbook to her chest, her cold flushed cheeks twitching upwards with a pleasant smile. He blinked twice before smiling back and thanking her. It wasn’t until she turned around to leave did he notice that her smile hadn’t been so amiable; instead, it reminded him of a smirk G.O would offhandedly wear.

Seungho breathed in deeply, biting a forkful of cake and chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. He felt oddly embarrassed that the only thing he could do was thank her good wishes. But he reasoned that, perhaps, there was nothing else to say at the moment. It wasn’t as if she’d initiated a conversation. She hardly looked at him.

Finishing his cake he decided, with some annoyance that if he wanted to ask questions –which he certainly did want to- he was going to have to approach her. He nearly groaned at the thought. Seungho was not dumb by any means, or slow, but dealing with women had always been so troublesome for him. He always regarded them as another species and felt both respect and confusion towards them. He’d definitely had his share on them, and learned some wise tips for understanding, but nothing compared to the redheaded oegug-in that had more backbone than any girl he’d personally met.

All the girls in his life, with some few exceptions, had always approached him. Not the other way around. But he’d always have a nice phrase on the tip of his tongue for rejections. He was too much of an involved student to ever let females sway his attention from excellence. There had been few, and few they were. But this girl, this audacious girl that had caused such a problem in the media; he’d have to man up and approach her.

The opportunity never arose.

MBLAQ was nearing their new single debut, after a whole year, and they were making preparations. In fact, he left the city to go on a national tour for three days. They were busy to the point in which they slept while their makeup was applied. Seungho even fancied the idea of fainting and catching, at least, a few hours of sleep he desperately needed. They’d been three painful weeks, and his whole anatomy was screaming gratitude when they returned to their well earned resting place.

Truth be told, Seungho was for more excited in seeing his window than his bed. He didn’t want to admit it, god no. But he still felt strong (and awake) enough to press his hand against the cold glass and peer into the window below.

‘Not even a good-bye?’

He felt something inside of him smile, but his face muscles were far too exhausted from smiling twenty-four hours a day, so he settled with a light smirk. The paper cranes and half-finished paintings were rearranged, all surrounding a lone desk that was far too messy and occupied for his taste. His breathing hitched.

Lying on top of the desk was a pair of folded arms, a dark mass of hair delicately cradled between them. He felt something in his chest squeeze with something akin to gratitude and tenderness. He wanted to approach her and say something. Anything. But he believed that was of no use. There was nothing he could say; he didn’t know what. So he wrote it. He ripped off a page in his notebook –where he kept his lyrics ideas- and wrote on it with scratchy handwriting.

‘Good night, then.’

That was how their second encounter ended.