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—why doesno one else care?
OCTOBER 3: KIM SEOKJIN
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most of the songs he sings are old, mellow folk tunes, perfect for his slightly-out-of-tune acoustic guitar and tapping foot. kim seokjin doesn't get much money out of it, but street-side singing is as close of a career—aside from his smoothie job—he'll get.
the sidewalks of the city are crowded with pedestrians stumbling against each other to reach their destinations, eyes glued to their phones and demeanor cold as ice. seokjin hates this about the city. everyone acts like miserable zombies, mouths half agape in yawns and incoherent gibberish against black phones.
so seokjin takes his musty guitar from its fraying leather case (a gift from his late uncle), places a cerulean pick between his long fingers, and strums a few chords.
only a few moments after opening his mouth does he attract a crowd. it's a schedule-type of thing; seokjin sings around six or so in the evening, when the sun is just about to set and people are tired as hell, desperate for some relaxation (oh, he understands it all too well).
he's heard several things about his voice from city-goers; some call it smooth, some call it nasally, some call it beautiful. all seokjin knows is that when he sings, he attracts a crowd bigger than any other street-side performer does.
so he continues to sing. even when his hat on the concrete ground is overflowing with money and clanking coins, even when the sun has dipped below the horizon and the skies turn navy blue, even when the traffic of the city overwhelms his lungs.
it is around eight when seokjin finally takes a break, throat parched and two bottles of water extinguished. he smiles meagerly at the applause, thanking a woman profusely who gives him several bills, and brushes dust off his jacket. most of his clothes are run down, scavenged from the clearance corners of department stores.
if only he had enough money to learn.
he leans back on calloused fingers and stifles a yawn, eyes on the misty clouds overcasting him. "man," he breathes. "man, oh man, oh man."
if only.
the distinct jingle of coins makes seokjin look up, and he finds a boy rolling on his heels in anticipation. maybe he's another street performer? seokjin clears his throat and smiles, head tilting politely.
"hey, want me to sing you a song?" he asks. the teenager looks up, eyes wide and dark. seokjin can't help but look at the guy's dirty clothing, at his malnourished skin, at his shaggy hair with a slight grimace.
