"Wringing my hands in my lap
And they tell me it's all been a trap
And you don't know if you'll make it back,
I said, 'No, don't say that'"
CHIHIRO- Billie Eilish
*****

Warning: mentions of self harm.
***

Seven days.

It's been seven days since he last came to the club.

No contact, no phone numbers shared, no messages or calls capable to happen.

I slump down on the floor; my silver-satin clad back against the dark brown, wooden door of the makeup room. The color of it reminding me of Jungkook's eyes.

I've been going insane.

I have absolutely no idea when, or if he's ever coming back.

I'm addicted. Addicted to his heavenly scent, his strong pair of arms, and his gorgeous brown eyes.

Eyes.

I've always been complimented on my eyes. The golden iris surrounding the dark pupil like a crown is indeed enchanting.

I've always been quite fond of my eyes too — though, not anymore. Not when all these eyes feel now is sorrow and numbness. As my thoughts wind up, I feel a trickle run down the side of my face — tears.

The glittery makeup on my cheeks messes up a little with the stream of tears running down my face. Oh, how fun it must be — pulling out the despair inside of a person and letting it drain out of them as water. I could never understand the concept behind tears.

It's utterly quaint, how Jungkook comes over here to spend time with me, every single day. And the thing I could never understand is why no one else approaches him. I mean, he's handsome, caring, thoughtful and infuriatingly hot.

Most of our days is me snuggling up to him and breathing in his pleasing scent. Most of those hours are spent with his strong arms around me, murmuring sweet nothings in my ear.

I still haven't told him my name. I'm still his Angel. I'm still his 'Cielo'; whatever that word means.

As I get spiraled away in my own thoughts, I get glimpse of a memory I don't quite recall properly.

It's fading.

"My Angel is so cheerful on stage when he dances, which means you enjoy dancing," He states, his voice soothing. "But, when those bastards start insulting you in those miserable ways, why do you not stand up for yourself, my Angel?" I can sense the undertone of anger in his voice.

Jungkook's asking me about the humiliation I receive.

I don't have an answer. I do, actually. But, it's not the one he should to know. He won't want to know that. He shouldn't.

Instead of answering, I snuggle closer to him, whining softly. Sighing, he wraps his arms tighter around mine, "It's fine if you don't wanna talk about it, my Angel. But, please don't hide from me."

Upon hearing his words, I lift my head back up and place my lips over his for a quick peck. When I pull away, I find him frowning down at me, "What?" I ask.

"It's not fair, Mi Cielo. For you to be so insatiable and intoxicating," His eyes drop down to glance at my lips, "I..."

I can't recall his words after that; no matter how much I try. From going back and forth over this a thousand times, my head is starting to spin. I bring my knees to my chest, and curl up on the floor.

My eyes land on my reflection in the grand mirror before me, and I notice how impassive my eyes have grown to be. How my mother used to fawn over how I had the most lively and appealing pair of eyes.

I've lost that as well.

As more tears began to form behind my orbs, my eyes fell upon the tiny part of the faint scar running near my hip and disappearing in the white leather pants I'm wearing.

Sighing, I lift the waistband of my pants above the scar to hide it completely.

Out of all the secretive scars I have, that is the one I despise the most. The one which makes me feel utterly disgusted by my own body. It's like invisible fingers crawling over my limbs, dancing across my skin; and I cannot do even a singular thing to save myself.

No matter how much I yell at them or push them — they stay.

Just as the tornado of emotions and faint memories started whirling up in my brain, I hear a scratchy deep voice:

"Glitter, you're required in 5 minutes."

Another show. Another night of getting mistreated. Another eventful evening of being called names and touched everywhere I dislike.

Nodding, I get up slowly. I open the buttons on the cuff of my translucent white shirt, and give a seductive look to myself in the mirror.

Loving yourself.

Such a beautiful thing to listen and follow; but there's something about hating yourself to the point where you enjoy the harm inflicted on you. There's an unusual rush of confidence when you despise every cell of your body. Because, if one has accepted his flaws, and is not giving a shit about them— it builds up the rush of power. Where you don't get affected by other's opinions on you, no matter how negative they are; cause at the end of the day, you think of yourself worse than any other person's imagination could ever reach.

My small feet thump against the floor as I drag myself outside the room.

Just as I'm about to open the curtain to walk towards the stage, I spot him in a jet-black suit and a white t-shirt, smiling widely at me. My eyes fall on the bouquet of roses in his hands— they're golden... just like my eyes.

Jeon Jungkook is gonna be the death of me.