minsons

On his usual route to Walmart, Minho slid faster than usual, causing a nasty clanking sound against other cars, who were clearly unhappy with this arrangement. He spent almost fifteen minutes searching for a parking space, cursing every car—was everyone so eager to shop alongside Minho?! Quickly grabbing his basket, he began to wander around the store, hitting himself on the head to remember what he needed to buy. In less than twenty minutes, the basket was almost full: only the bread and meat sections remained. Finding the right shelf of steaks, Minho was about to pick it up and peacefully place it in his basket when a warm hand touched his cold, lifeless fingers. A man stood at his side, his appearance painfully familiar, a look that struck Minho somewhere near the heart. He froze like a marble statue, looking at the dark-skinned man calmly sorting through packs of marbled meat. The disaster had black pools combined with chestnut hair, an extraordinary, yet familiar face. The kind of face that Minho would drown in the apocalypse for their happiness. The small thing that attracted others' attention the most was the small scar-like abrasion on Lee Minho's right cheek, and the abrasion in his heart called "Han Jisung." The boy finally turned his gaze back to the paralyzed Minho and simply smiled, steering his cart in the opposite direction toward the dairy section. And that smile was like honey to his soul, and his heart finally began to beat again after facing the biggest mistake of his life.

Minho's deserted life was fifty shades of gray. A dried-up soul, and a heart beating only to sustain the "life" that He hasn't lived for a long time and prefers clouds. Every day, meticulously planned and scheduled, the routine chilled him, making Minho's heart icy. Sunday, his only day off, had him waking up at 6:30 a.m., unable to get enough sleep, a screaming child who simply wouldn't go to sleep, and the unconvincing comments of his mother, Minho's wife, were killing him, knocking him out. He couldn't remember the last time he felt alive. He goes downstairs, the smell of Americano and double shots wafts from the kitchen, his "beloved" wife hugs him from behind, her milky cheek slides over Minho's terry robe, but he doesn't move. He hates her without hatred. Strongly, but not so much that he would classify her as an enemy. "Darling, would you like to go grocery shopping?" she asked between breakfasts. But Lee would have to wait another minute for an answer. He nodded. He hid the bags under his eyes with a tightly pulled cap and an old plaid shirt that held the scent of purest love—Minho couldn't remember where it came from. Before leaving, he was overcome by the miracle he'd not seen born five years ago. "Dad, will you buy me a chocolate bar? Please, please!" The boy held the airplane in his hand and jumped in anticipation of his father's answer. — Ask your mother.