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Red started as blush, slow burn that creep up neck, then blossomed. We understood the language of that hue, it wasn't a facile flush of human passion. No. It was the raw, arterial thrum of determination. We called it like, “Bloom! We are beautiful, aren't we?”

Names flickered in the whispers of the wind that snaked through broken skylights. A single, red petal of rose, shed from a thorn-wreathes bloom across our eyes; we painted our lips a little red, like the shade of bruised sky. A little darker it goes as clocks tick and passed by. One.. two.. and three seconds of quiet moments until a metallic tang taste sipped through our tongue, down to the throat. Scorch and binds. As our mouth recall—PARK MINJU from ILLIT! We shouted. We start to wonder, “Were we chasing for phantom?” or maybe a dream that had left long since it turned into dust?

“We are truly angels.” A glimpse of light that had once been ours, opened a trail of fire. Lead us deeper behind the eyes of scattered kin, (https://t.me/+gDPrIhj0di41NDA1) 𓋜

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