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Language:
English
Series:
Part 3 of Tangerine's Ficlet Collection
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Published:
2022-04-18
Words:
1,466
Chapters:
1/1
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9
Kudos:
21
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the principle of identity

Summary:

Jimin hasn’t been breathing enough since he could remember. He’s only taken little puffs of air, enough to keep him going. He’d only taken little specs of hope, enough to keep him moving. Always an almost that makes him question himself.

Notes:

This is a short yet deep exploration of identity, acceptance, and hope. If you're here because of the tags, then, hey you! You got this, alright? You're amazing! Always, all ways; in all forms, all mindsets; all tears. You're amazing, never forget!!

kathcobalt! hey, hi. is this weird? maybe, but this is for you. Thank you for adoring and loving comfort on renounce. I am glad that you find hope, love, and comfort in that fic. I thought of your words when I was posting this one and I just--understood you. This is for you and for the rest of us who just have those ungodly hours of doubt.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Jimin can’t breathe.

It’s 2:34 in the morning. The world’s asleep - a temporary pause, a breathing period - for a long day ahead. Everyone needs to pause once in a while. There’s a saying, that the principle of art is to pause, not bypass . Jimin used to think everyone deserves to be treated like that featured artwork in museums, adored and wondered. Jimin believes that every individual is an artwork and yet—

No matter how much he had tried, it seems he will never be an artwork himself. If human life is as worthy as any life out there, and living begins from breathing, then why can’t Jimin breathe? Why can’t Jimin fit in? 

Jimin finds the idea of looking for your perfect half stupid. He’s always believed - tried to believe - that he alone was perfect enough. 

Only, he can’t breathe. And breathing seems like a chore and not a right he deserved to have. It’s funny but every time Jimin lets out a laugh, it ricochets with a pain in his chest or tears he can’t erase.

Jimin hasn’t been breathing enough since he could remember. He’s only taken little puffs of air, enough to keep him going. He’d only taken little specs of hope, enough to keep him moving. Always an almost that makes him question himself.  

Sometimes he wonders if he’s born in the wrong place, at the wrong time, surrounded by the wrong people. Sometimes he thinks it’s all about having a different mindset, being the bigger man in any situation, and doing the right thing for all. 

It’s always about his sometimes, his efforts, his side. Sometimes he wonders if he doesn’t have the right to have a breathing period - a temporary pause - from all the accusations, discrimination, and fixation given to him. 

Accused of being not girl enough, discriminated of wanting to be a man, and fixated that Jimin doesn’t deserve—

To breathe. 

It’s 2:35 in the morning and Jimin coils in bed, his phone lying dead beside him. He’s always had trouble with sleeping since he was in high school so he’s used to staying up late despite having to attend work at 8 AM. The previous day wasn’t any different, he did his work diligently, prepared himself food, and watched as everyone else in front of him passed by together with time. 

And it aches, from the tip of his blonde locks to the last nail of his toe; to the first layer of his skin until the deep part of his soul. How can someone never be enough when Jimin’s been trying his best just to be someone?

It’s 2:36 and as the minute on his phone continues to change, his thoughts proceed to swirl on and on. He hates how these thoughts of questioning, accepting, and hoping spiral into a thick chunk of incomprehensible thoughts that only feeds his doubts. He wishes to find comfort with these thoughts instead. 

Comfort in the form of a warm embrace like how he would bundle himself while sipping a cup of hot chocolate on cold days. Acceptance in the form of complimentary smiles while he strides in the clothes he’d chosen that day despite being in a woman’s body. Inclusion in the form of soft touches, fond glances because he knows he doesn’t need to hear any more words. 

He had heard enough. He’s been questioned a lot of times and it only taught him nothing but mortification. 

No artwork should be shamed. Especially out in the open, for everyone to see. But Jimin has always been that optimistic child. He would always look at the other side, he’d let the girl out in him once in a while when being a man is too much. He’d let be the man in him take over when he’s feeling tired of being the lady he wanted to be. No words can fully explain what Jimin is, who Jimin is but he knows one thing. One thing that’s certain is that he knows who he is. 

2:37 and Jimin curls in on himself under the sheets. He can see his tiny form from the window, reflected faintly by the dim fairy lights surrounding his headboard. He lifts an arm and wiggles his fingers one by one, eyes strained on the glass. He curls and uncurls his fingers and then stretches his hand, eyes still at his reflection. 

When he looks at his hand, a soft pale glow of gold alights his skin.

“I’m still me,” Jimin whispers in the cold room. “It’s the same.”

Because it is the same, his hand and the reflection of his hand are the same. It may be blurry since he’s a foot away from the window or maybe his windows need some cleaning, but the structure, and the way his fingers move are still the same. No difference, no peculiarness, nothing. 

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder and maybe, just maybe, people he’d met have poor eyesight. Because the thing is, Jimin’s still the same. 

He’s always been the girl his parents raised in this world. He’s always been the man he thought of himself ever since high school. He’s always been the person he prided himself to be. 

“I’m still me,” Jimin chokes, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. It’s funny how he gets into this type of headspace when the world’s dead and no one can give him aid. It’s also funny that he finds comfort in doing this when the world’s dead and no one can give him aid. He prefers it this way. 

This way, he can try - little by little - to heave his chest peacefully, slowly, and in control. It may be shallow but it’s better than tiny puffs of air that can only give him a fake sense of hope. There’s only a limit to how one can withstand pain and Jimin knows that had he abided with what everyone told him to do—

You’re a girl, you should stay that way.

 

You can never be manly enough. You’re not a man, get it out of your head.

 

You’re sick, you need help.

 

You’re full of shit

 

—he’s as good as dead.

No artwork deserves to be forgotten. Jimin doesn’t want to be forgotten, because he never changed. He’s still the same. He’s not dead, he’s here and trying his best to breathe. 

See, the thing is, he’s always liked it this way. He’s liked this the best. Sacrificing sleep is nothing compared to sacrificing his sense of safety and identity. He was forced to build a bubble around him, shielding himself from everyone but at the same time, caring for them still. He‘s supposed to build walls around him, walls with thorns at the top and everywhere so no one can get in. But Jimin’s always been that caring, soft, and sweet person. He never failed to consider people’s feelings even though he’s been given consideration the least, if not, totally ignored. 

And maybe, that’s Jimin’s true beauty. That is Jimin’s purest identity. That is his sense of hope—to continue to care because if there’s anyone who has felt great pain for being shunned away, then it’s Park Jimin. 

Park Jimin. The nonbinary transgender with the brightest smile and the most wonderful heart. The girl in him is never different from the man he wishes to be. You’re the same , his heart whispers, nothing has changed , his mind agrees. 

It’s 3:30 AM. The hand in the air is now plastered on his chest while his free hand wipes away the traces of tears. He cries to himself, thoughts sailing, sailing, and sailing against the thrashing waves in what one can deem as dark thoughts. And he continues to sail on, with tears and shaking shoulders under the sheets. 

Jimin realizes that he’s drowning. He can’t breathe because he’s drowning. He’s being pulled down, an anchor made of silly thoughts pulling him deep. He chases it down, allowing the thoughts to consume him. He knows that after being pulled down, the next thing to do is swim up. 

Just so he can breathe. 

Again. 

Fully this time. 

He knows who he is, but it’s never going to be easy. But it’s okay. He’d waste a lot of tears just so before he closes his eyes, he can once again, smile. 

He’s the artwork waiting to be appreciated, an artwork that has already been given recognition for being crafted. He’s here, the present, existing, and with a heavy exhale, his doubts leaving his chest, Jimin looks at his reflection again. 

“I’m still me,” Jimin says, voice hoarse and cracking. “You’re me,” Jimin raises his arm and reaches for the window. “Always, will. Never not enough. We’re more than enough.”

 

Notes:

Feel free to chat I am here :]

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