Little Outing
934 Words
Saturday mornings belonged to Jimin.
Taehyung had tried to cancel at least seven times between midnight and 6 AM, drafting texts he never sent. I'm tired. Maybe next week. The shop needs me. But Jimin knew his patterns. At 9:15, a message arrived: I can hear you overthinking from across the city. Be outside in twenty minutes or I'm coming up.
So Taehyung pulled on his softest jeans—faded, paint-stained, comfortable—and a cream-colored cardigan that hung past his wrists. He tucked his hands into the sleeves like a turtle retreating into its shell and stepped into the gray Seoul morning.
Jimin was already there, leaning against his secondhand sedan with a paper bag of pastries and a grin that could power a small city.
"You look like a Victorian ghost who got lost on the way to a cemetery," Jimin announced, shoving a warm croissant into Taehyung's hands. "Eat. You're paler than usual."
"I'm not pale. I'm artistic."
"You're anemic. There's a difference." Jimin tugged him into the car before Taehyung could manufacture another excuse.
They drove to Hongdae, that sprawling neighborhood of indie shops and hidden cafes where nobody looked twice at two boys holding hands between stores. Jimin loved loud patterns and clashing colors—today, a neon orange sweater that made Taehyung wince. Taehyung loved soft textures and neutral tones. They were a study in contrasts, walking shoulder to shoulder through the autumn crowd.
"You need new shoes," Jimin said, steering them into a small boutique. "Those loafers have been with you since university. They're developing feelings."
"They're comfortable."
"They're horrible!. Here take a look at this—" Jimin grabbed a pair of butter-soft leather boots with fleece lining. "Try these. They'll make you look like the ethereal bookstore fairy you secretly are."
Taehyung blushed. "I don't want to be a fairy. I want to be invisible."
"You're 5'10 with a face that belongs in a Renaissance painting. Invisibility was never an option." Jimin pushed him toward a bench and knelt to remove Taehyung's shoes—an act of such casual intimacy that Taehyung's eyes stung. "Stop looking at me like that. You'd do the same for me."
"Would I?"
"No. You'd probably have a panic attack in the shoe section and hide in the dressing room. But your intentions would be good."
Taehyung laughed—a real laugh, startled out of him like a bird taking flight. Jimin beamed. That was why they were friends. Jimin collected Taehyung's rare laughter like pressed flowers, treasuring each one.
The boots fit perfectly. Taehyung bought them without arguing, which made Jimin gasp in mock horror. "Who are you and what have you done with my frugal disaster of a best friend?"
"Maybe I'm turning over a new leaf."
"You're turning over a new shoe. Don't get dramatic."
They continued looking inside the indie shops, Jimin getting excited over every little thing and showing them to Taehyung, while Taehyung just watched how his best friend could be able to show so many emotion over the littlest things in comparison to him who barely shows any emotion.
They ate lunch at a tiny tteokbokki spot tucked behind a vintage record store. Steam fogged the windows. The elderly owner knew their orders by heart—extra spicy for Jimin, non spicy for Taehyung with extra fish cakes. They sat in a vinyl booth, knees touching under the table, and talked about nothing in particular.
"So," Jimin said, twirling a rice cake on his chopstick. "Any dream visitors lately? The mysterious shadow man you've been drawing?"
Taehyung nearly choked on his food. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please. I saw your sketchbook last week. Tall, dark, brooding, looks like he'd fire you for breathing wrong. You've drawn him, like, twelve times."
"He's not—I don't—" Taehyung's ears turned a hue of pink. "He's just a face. An imaginary face."
"Mhm." Jimin's eyes sparkled with mischief. "An imaginary face with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. An imaginary face that you've been obsessively sketching at 2 AM while listening to Lana Del Rey."
"I listen to classical music."
"Same energy." Jimin leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Tae, when was the last time you even looked at someone? And I mean looked. Like, butterflies-in-your-stomach, can't-breathe, maybe-this-person-could-touch-me-and-I-wouldn't-run looked?"
Taehyung set down his chopsticks. The steam from the tteokbokki curled between them, warm and obscuring.
"Never," he admitted quietly. "I've never looked at anyone like that."
Jimin's teasing expression softened into something tender. He reached across the table and squeezed Taehyung's hand. "One day. Maybe sooner than you think. And when it happens, I want front-row tickets to the meltdown."
"You're terrible."
"You love me."
Taehyung smiled—small, genuine, reaching his eyes for once. "I do."
They finished eating and wandered through a record shop where Jimin loudly sang along to a SHINee song, embarrassing them both. Taehyung bought a used copy of a Chopin nocturne, the vinyl crackling with age. As they walked back to the car, the late afternoon sun breaking through clouds, Jimin slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Same time next week?"
Taehyung leaned into the warmth. "Yeah, same time next week."
And for a few hours, the world felt almost bearable.
Hi! there!🌱💜
Please ignore the mistakes—I'm learning as I go.
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Thank you for being kind to me baiii BORAHAE!💜💜
- Writer
