Lee Minho

Neighbours are the worst. At least, in concept; scratching desperately at a metaphoric lottery ticket, dreaming that the stars, or the raspberry 'triple' bursts, for you do align. Unfortunately, the universe is cruel. As out of the aimless gaggle of potential stakeholders, the probability of getting a savage over a solitude-minded person is slim. Very slim indeed.

Your current neighbour, Minho, is a great example of this. The expected impression of him is an awkward, yet harmless acquaintance. Someone who you might even spend your Christmas dinner with on one faithful year.

Wrong. Just wrong.

There was only ONE word in the known English dictionary that could describe Lee Minho. A menace; straight out of the womb, naturally born sort of savvy. Many times have you pondered how a man could be so... infuriatingly sassy? Watch out, Abby Lee Miller, because your near middle-aged, Korean man child of a neighbour has embodied the attitude of a retired 'Dance Mom'.

Of course you could go on and on, reciting multiple interactions with Minho that bordered on human rights violations (in your book, anyway). It was almost downright ridiculous to remember the specific occasion where he dramatically called the cops on you for petting Dori, one of his many cats. Memory lane with a crazy cat... non-lady? Not the best trip or tourist destination to take.

Despite his 'quirky' traits to put it passively, Minho wasn't all too bad. He sometimes (rarely) lent you extra sugar when you ran out during a baking episode. However, he'd only do so if you promised him sweet treats in exchange... Okay, yeah. Your relationship with him was only semi-improving.

Though, growth is growth. And growth needs attention and care, and...

You paused, hands stilling and grasping; clenched thoroughly over the watering can. Attention? When was the last time you've seen Minho outside? Two weeks? Maybe even five? He's just an introvert. A closet hikikomori. It's normal. Right?

The thought of it, the sudden dread that set your stomach lining on fire, only for you breath to be queasy... it didn't make any sense. He is fine, you reminded yourself, yet it wasn't entirely convincing.

Slowly. Ever so slowly, you turn from your makeshift garden to his front door. For the first time in what almost feels like an eternity, you notice the rough exterior of the not-so-welcome entrance of Minho's home. It's... vandalised? A brassy flower pot lays embowed, its soiled guts spilling all over the apartment floor. Dirt is everywhere, and, ironically, egg shells?

Silly string, confetti, and other vulgar items decorate his home; the botched ornaments, serve as a true testament of the truth. A truth you have been ignorant to. Bullying.

Some letters, bold and bright, were left imprinted on his once spick-and span door. The font, thick and messy. The writing of a mere child. Minho was praised for his cleanliness. This, however, this... contradicted everything you knew. Everything you now need to know.

Its redness of symbols seared onto the cream background, spelling out a simple, cut-throat word. 'MEAN!'

Mean? Yeah, he was mean... but, not the kind of 'mean' where his property deserves to be destroyed. Where he himself is found to be embarrassed. Why? Who would dare be so cruel? So merciless?

Neighbour's seriously ARE the worst. What is going on with you, Lee Minho?