Minho is . . .
Minho is a friend.
Minho is that shy smile that tints your cheeks pink when you make eye contact and swiftly look away, hoping that no one noticed your blush.
Minho is contagious giggles that carry across a room and make you crack an easy smile as you laugh too.
Minho is that unwavering confidence that pushes you out of your comfort zone and makes you act.
Minho is an arm over your shoulder, a simple touch that makes you feel not so alone.
Minho is that one person who you click with on a whole other level.
Minho is midnight runs to the corner store when you feel you’ll go crazy, so open and honest in the dead of night.
Minho is a push and pull of teasing and flirting that you hope no one looks into, but they are blind to the caress that lingers and the way your heart races with every second it does.
Minho is suggestive words laced with alcohol; cherry lips curled into a smirk – a dare – with eyes that give way to anxiety within.
Minho is trembling fingers that trace your cheek, breath shallow and nerves on fire, hyperaware; of the sound of the party outside, the cold wall at your back and the warmth radiating off the man pinning you to it.
Minho is apprehension and uncertainty, but you are ready to swan dive into the unknown.
Minho is the stolen touches that follow, a series of firsts that exhilarate you in a way nothing else has.
Minho is a back pressed against a bathroom door, frantic hands clawing and tugging, lips hungry and body craving release.
Minho is hushed voices at 2 am, when everyone else is asleep and you can voice your frustrations out, letting your heart bleed itself dry without peering eyes and ears.
Minho is rough sex in the back of the car; the kind that fogs up windows and rocks the vehicle in an obnoxious way; the kind that leaves you sweaty and breathless and aching.
Minho is that striking panic that holds you in place as you watch the one you love, unable – or too cowardly – to do anything to stop it.
Minho is the heartache that drives you wild and makes you scream yourself hoarse as you lay in the carnage of your outburst, with the music still blaring to drown out the sound of your sobs.
Minho is the forehead against yours, a shared breath while you pretend that it’s just you two alone in the world.
To Jisung, Minho is more than a missing piece of him.
Minho is his soul.