#“so that your loose seams weren't visible” AJSJBD I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

[astraystayreblogs]

MY GOOOOOD I REACHED TAG LIMIT BUT I CAN'T COPE

the whole breakup, it's perfect, very sad AND MY HEART HURTS but it's so in accord to her character, like it would be foolish to expect another outcome, your reasoning for the twin flames and it being too intense, too scary to face a mirror of yourself with the good, ugly and bad IS SO RIGHT and well thought. they both love each other, but they're scared of what revealing themselves would entail- having to face their own shortcomings and take their own advice. chan is so self-giving because he feels as if he has to, or else she'd leave AND THAT THOUGHT HURTS, and her feeling as if she's taking too much from chan and not wanting history to repeat itself, like, you've created such deeply well thought characters with so many layers that show through brilliantly in their actions and words. i hope you're proud of yourself because you're a phenomenal writer.

and the phone convo with Iseul, how everything came crashing down, HOW SHE NOW FEELS COLD AFTER LEAVING CHAN'S APARTMENT AND NOT COMING BACK I WILL CRY MYSELF TO SLEEP

and then Chan's breakdown just really twisted the knife inside me,,, the good boy bit, the way he sobbed i am unwell. and Minho!!!! he was just trying to protect Chan because he knows firsthand the consequences of what his ex did to him, but he doesn't realize that he just further cemented the ugly ideas yn has of herself. the way everything crashed down was so perfectly written, just THIS IS PHENOMENAL WRITING I'm kissing your brain rn

I CAN'T WAIT FOR BB5 MY BELOVED I HOPE SHE'LL FIX MY HEART CAUSE YOU SHATTERED IT, BUT BEAUTIFULLY SO.

ʚïɞ butterfly bandage - 04

note: this is part 4 of a series (part 1, part 2, part 3)

content: bang chan/reader, university au, themes of twin flames, themes of soulmates, reader is female and referred to with she/her pronouns, angst, self-sabotaging behavior, self-loathing thoughts, mentions of past unhealthy relationships, themes of death/grief, lots of crying (sorry), brief mention of blood

word count: 16.9k

“Do you believe in twin flames?” 

Chan’s question hung in the air for a moment, changing the atmosphere so drastically that you weren’t quite sure how to react. Before you could stop yourself, you let out a less-than-appropriate giggle.

“You don’t?” his voice came quieter this time.

“It’s not that,” you tried to contain your amusement. “It’s just…what a very Bang Chan thing of you to ask.”

Even through the dim light of your living room, you could tell that the smile he flashed you didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was being serious, you realized with a start, at least to some degree. 

“I mean,” you paused, searching for the right answer to such a heavy question—if there even was one. “I guess it’s something you can only believe in once you experience it for yourself, right?”

It was Chan’s turn to hesitate, nibbling on his lower lip in silence. Whether he was holding back what he really wanted to say, or simply lost in thought, you couldn’t decide.

“Why do you ask?”

“Dunno,” he said slowly. “Just wondering.”

“Huh. Really?”

It was a vague explanation, and you knew better than to accept it at face value. Knowing Chan, he wouldn’t have even raised such a topic with you if it hadn’t been weighing on his mind for some time now, longer than he himself may have even been aware of. The concept was more or less a mystery to you; a special sort of relationship that, judging by name alone, was brimming with intensity, if not defined by it. You wondered just how deeply Chan had immersed himself in its ideals, if it was one of those philosophies he’d adopted into his heart and spent sleepless nights thinking about, despite the superstition of it all, just as a way to understand the world around him—the people around him. Maybe, even, to understand himself. 

“I’ve just never really felt like this before,” an awkward chuckle escaped him, as if to lessen the gravity of what he was implying. “I feel like you can see right through me.”

See right through me. 

Your heart leapt in your chest. Immediately, you understood what he meant; the exact same phenomenon you’d been trying to wrap your head around since the day you’d first met him. You’d been so caught up in your concerns over how effortlessly he seemed to read you—seeing past every carefully crafted guise you could conjure up like it didn’t even exist—that you hadn’t ever considered he might be experiencing the same feeling on his end. The feeling of knowing each other long before you’d ever crossed paths. 

It had a strange effect on you. Elation. Dread. Had you felt like this before? In a certain sense, you knew that you had. 

The familiar foolishness of being prepared to give someone your all—of stubbornly believing that, somehow, you would never run out of things to give. At the same time, though, it couldn’t be more different. Chan couldn’t be more different. For the first time, you were faced with an unexpected obstacle in your efforts to trudge mercilessly down the path to your own detriment. He wasn’t there to usher you along like so many had before, feeding off your every step until your legs inevitably gave out from under you. He was there to guide you down a different path—one that was infinitely more pleasant, and one that you were infinitely less acquainted with. 

It couldn’t be more different because now, with every drop of yourself that you so willingly offered up to him, you fretted over what you might be draining from him in return. Chan was, after all, every bit as self-sacrificing as you, and then some. 

That didn’t even begin to cover everything else that surrounded your relationship. The magnetic pull that drew you to him wherever you roamed, the burning sensation that consumed your body any time he so much as crossed your mind, the insatiable desire to open him up and witness him in his entirety—to know every part of him like it was your own. 

If those were the kinds of things twin flames entailed, then, yes, you believed in them. You’d believe in anything that connected you to him. 

It dawned on you, suddenly, that you hadn’t spoken for what was probably an unsettling amount of time. The slightest bit frantic, you combed your brain for an answer, overtaken by an urge to reassure the boy next to you before he made the decision to never share an even remotely personal thought with you again. You didn’t doubt that he would. Despite his seemingly endless levels of understanding, Chan was sensitive. He wouldn’t forget.

“Did I say something wrong?” he chuckled again. It wasn’t even awkward this time, just bordering on defeated.

“No, no,” you cursed yourself for even giving him the chance to second-guess such an idea, for giving him any more reason to believe that opening up to you could ever be a mistake. “I was just caught off guard. Sorry, Channie.”

You shifted in your spot, turning inwards to get a better look at him. He wasn’t making eye contact—nothing new there—but it wasn’t just his usual timidity at play. It was something you could only describe as akin to shame, the expression of someone who had overestimated his importance and was now berating himself for ever having the audacity to assume he mattered. You decided, instantly, that it was a look you never wanted to see cross his face again.

“I think it’s the same for me.”

You didn’t think, you knew. You knew it better than anything else. Still, it was difficult to say out loud, even when Chan was sitting before you, looking ready to bare himself to you with a sincerity that you may not entirely deserve. 

He perked up a bit, and you relaxed the instant that fog of uncertainty cleared from his face, brightening it once more. “Really?”

“Do you…” you prayed that you wouldn’t sound completely insane in what came out of your mouth next. “Do you feel it, too? That weird sort of heat?”

His eyes widened, fingers flexing where they rested on his thigh.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, I feel it. When we first met, I thought you had a fever or something.”

A wave of sentimentality crashed over you all at once. You thought back to that day; that horribly clumsy first encounter that had you certain Chan would tell Changbin to please keep his strange friend far, far away from him in the future. The encounter that had ignited something you hadn’t been able to explain—something you still couldn’t explain, even six months later.

“I thought you were a human pressure cooker.”

“A pressure cooker?” he grinned, actually taking a moment to consider it. “I kinda am.”

That ever-present tug found your heartstrings again. But you knew he’d intended on it being light, a playful jab at himself that was truer than he seemed to understand. So, you didn’t dwell on it.

“Guess we’ve got the flames part down, then,” you joked.

“I’ve been reading about them.” His eyes twinkled, now encouraged. “They’re not exactly soulmates—more like two parts of the same soul. Kinda like you’re holding up a mirror to yourself.”

“Sounds poetic,” you murmured. He was speaking so earnestly, like he’d been longing for the opportunity to share these thoughts with someone all his life. You might’ve accepted anything he said in that moment as an absolute truth. “So, how do you know if you’ve found yours?”

“Lots of ways.” He pressed his lips together thoughtfully. “Shared experiences, for one. Uncanny similarities, and that feeling of…” he trailed off briefly, features softening. “Like you’re a part of each other, y’know?”

Each example stirred something deeper and deeper within you, rattling the windows and doors of your mind. Shared experiences. Uncanny similarities. A part of each other. Memories from that night two weeks ago swarmed you, demanding all your focus and ripping you away from the present conversation all at once. Chan’s flow of tears, his vulnerability, his dependence on you. How the cracks you’d caught glimpses of in just one of the many, many walls he’d put up finally spread far enough to send the entire structure crumbling unceremoniously to the ground. 

Not only that, but his uncontainable guilt the next day, and every day that followed. His profuse apologies for allowing you to see him like that, his promises to make it up to you, and, most heartbreaking of all, his subtle spike in attachment, as if he was afraid that now that you’d discovered a side to him that dared to be anything less than accommodating—anything less than convenient for you—you’d pack up and leave without a second thought. No matter how many times you’d reassured him that it was fine, good even, to allow himself to lean on you, he was nevertheless determined to return the favor. As if it was transactional, as if you couldn’t possibly have been there for him simply because you wanted to be. Because you loved him.

You were all too conscious of the fact that your promise to him back in July hadn’t been forgotten. The clock was ticking, with each passing second serving as a wrench to the bolts you’d kept so tightly wound up all these months—all your life, really. If Chan’s feelings were anything like yours, you knew he must be hungry for it, the opportunity to loosen the bolts himself and peer into what was buried inside. 

It was as invigorating as it was terrifying. The fear of being known, the comfort of being understood.

“A part of each other,” you echoed. “That’s…

“Kinda scary, yeah?”

“A little,” you admitted. “But I think my parts are in pretty good hands.”

Chan beamed, eyes crinkling and teeth peeking out under heart-shaped lips, flooding his face with a glow that washed away any remaining trace of his earlier reservations. Despite yourself, you smiled back, choosing selfishly to fall into his warmth. It wasn’t in short supply—not in the slightest, it was limitless—but inexplicably, you always held yourself back just a bit. 

Even now, you couldn’t escape that survival instinct, that pesky voice in the depths of your brain telling you to take him in moderation, to keep a distance before you grew accustomed to something you weren’t sure you’d be able to go back to living without. But it was a losing battle from the start, and it was far too late to fight it now, anyway. 

Chan’s hand brushed against yours, sending a gentle ripple of heat through your skin and pulling you out of the hole you’d been digging in your head. Before he could ask what you were thinking about—and he was going to, you could feel his flicker of curiosity—you spoke up again, throwing out a question of your own.

“How about you? Do you like your reflection?”

He studied your face, and the lapse in his reply might have made you panic if you weren’t so taken by the fact that, miraculously, he was holding your stare for longer than just a precious few seconds. Your fingers twitched against his, resisting the impulse to reach up and brush them over the tip of your nose.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “For once, I do.”

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

October’s pleasant chill came to an end, leaving behind a harsher cold spell for the incoming winter months. Bright orange leaves, once providing a golden canopy of light overhead, now littered the ground, dead and dull. Still, it was a sight to admire in its own way—a paper sheet shielding the grass from November’s sharp winds and more frigid temperatures, like the leaves had chosen to sacrifice themselves for the sake of protecting everything else. 

You tried not to think about it, how dangerously close graduation was drawing. The view of the finish line on the horizon wasn’t exactly a comforting one, not when it led right into another race—one that would be even more critical than the last. You didn’t want to think about what it would mean for you once your final semester was complete; what it would mean for your studies, your home, your friendships, Chan. The question of where you would go from here was always lingering in the back of your mind, and no matter how much it haunted your thoughts, you still hadn’t managed to find a sufficient answer. All you knew for sure was that whatever path you walked next, you wanted to be side by side with him, matching your steps and feeling your hand brush against his with each swing.

On a less cynical note, the uncertainty of where the future might take you made days like today all the more valuable, reminding you that, regardless of the tricks nostalgia might play, there were always new memories to be made and cherished. You shoved your hands into your pockets with a shiver as you entered the bowling alley, longing for Chan now more than ever. Just one touch from him, and all the cold nagging at your bones from the walk there would dissipate in an instant.

You felt his warmth begin to spread through your skin as soon as you spotted that familiar head of curls near the front counter. His hair swayed with the rest of his body as he rocked back and forth on his heels, looking absentminded. If you drew close enough, you had no doubt you’d catch a snippet of whatever melody he was sure to be humming. 

Before his presence could fully relax you, however, you registered who was standing there next to him, effectively countering his heat with a sharp chill down your spine. You hadn’t known he was coming. Changbin hadn’t told you he was coming. If he had, you surely would’ve found some excuse to stay home, or, at the very least, prepared yourself to deal with the guy who had so diligently been playing the role of bane of your existence these past months.

Channeling all your strength, you forced a smile and called out a greeting to the group. 

Two pairs of eyes lit up, and one pair narrowed.

“You’re here!” Changbin piped. He elbowed Chan lightly, a self-righteous look crossing his face. “See? I told you we weren’t late.”

You kept your expression calm as you approached them, but it did little to ebb the unease steadily piling up in your stomach. Without a word, Chan’s hand reached out for yours, and you wove your fingers together, barely suppressing an exhale when warmth kindled in your palm.

“I’ve just learned to give it an extra ten minutes before leaving to meet up with you, Bin,” you teased.

It was lighthearted, but he seemed to sense that you weren’t entirely joking. You exchanged an amused glance with Chan as Changbin’s smug look dropped into the frown of someone whose peace had been disturbed, suddenly reevaluating every occasion where he’d so gleefully believed that he was becoming more punctual.

“That’s messed up,” he huffed. “Maybe next time I just won’t show up at all.”

“You say that like you haven't done it before.”

“And as soon as I did, you stole my best friend.” He looked dramatically off to the side, passing your bowling shoes to you. “On second thought, I’d better stick around.”

Half-embarrassed, you cleared your throat and hooked your fingers under the cuffs of the shoes, surprised to find that he’d chosen the right size for you. Just as you opened your mouth to question it, you found your answer—or, rather, you felt it, in the palm of your other hand. You kept quiet to avoid setting yourself up for more playful jabs, but the affection that buzzed to life in your chest was too much to ignore altogether, instead manifesting as a grateful squeeze to Chan’s hand. It was something you weren’t quite used to, something you weren’t sure you’d ever get really used to: care down to the last little detail.

You’d made it a point thus far to stay focused solely on Chan and Changbin, not keen on confronting the source of the tension looming behind your smile. It was probably best not to utter a word to him, anyway, given the direction your conversations veered into every single time without fail. Regardless of which approach you took, regardless of how tightly you gripped the steering wheel, it always spun into something uncontrollable.

But as your eyes wandered casually over to the empty lanes further inside the building, you made the grave mistake of locking them with his—fleeting, but just enough to make your gut twist. You tore your stare away as soon it landed on him, bracing yourself for that inevitable surge of frost, a glare that spoke a thousand scornful words. 

“Hey.”

You wondered for a moment if you’d imagined it, or if Lee Minho was really speaking to you on his own accord. Granted, it was just a simple greeting, but strangely void of his usual disgust when addressing you.

It put you at a complete loss, thoughts scrambling to decipher what his angle could possibly be. You had half a mind to not even respond, but you knew that wasn’t an option when Chan and Changbin were right there, well within earshot. Instead, you settled for nodding at him with a quiet “Hello.”

“You look cold,” he commented.

“Well, it’s cold out.”

Not your most eloquent response. In your defense, you were still trying to make heads or tails of why he was bothering to acknowledge you. His words felt like a taunt in your paranoid mind, like somehow, he was fully aware of the chill that gripped you every time he so much as glanced your way. Mistrust bubbled up inside you, threatening to burst through the surface when he shot you a half-smile that was sickeningly sweet—far too sweet to be natural. To anyone else, it was nothing but friendly, but you knew better than that by now. The closer you looked, the more reminiscent it became of his usual sneer. 

“It’s a relief you’ve got someone to call on if you get sick, then.” He cocked his head towards Chan.

Suddenly, the gears fell into place in your head, making it very clear what Minho’s intentions were. You might have found it admirable, how seamlessly he put on the act, if not for the minor detail of it being positively infuriating. 

“I make a pretty good galbitang, didn’t you know?” 

Minho’s smirk faltered just barely, but before he could say anything else, Changbin finished up with the cashier and clapped his hands together with a bit too much force, startling everyone in the vicinity. 

“We’re all set!” he announced, turning to you.“Hope you’re good at bowling, ‘cause you’re gonna be carrying Chan.”

“Hey, hey!” the boy in question protested. “I score the most out of any of us!”

“A whole eight points,” Minho quipped.

Chan gritted his teeth, still, good-natured as ever. “That…was an off day.”

You willed yourself to chuckle in spite of the bad taste Minho had left in your mouth, for Chan’s sake, if nothing else. It was difficult to envision him not immediately excelling at anything he put his mind to, especially in the realm of sports. Given Changbin’s snickers, though, you had a sneaking suspicion that the jeers held some truth to them.

The four of you made your way over to the first open station, slipping on your bowling shoes and splitting up into two teams: you and Chan versus Changbin and Minho. A quick game of rock, paper, scissors, and it was decided that you and Chan would go first. Chan wiggled his hand to push back the sleeve of his jacket and picked up a ball from the rack, testing its weight a few times before deciding on it.

You figured Changbin would be able to hold his own on his team, but, as always, Minho was more of an enigma to you. Even if he didn’t exactly seem like the athletic type, anything you thought you knew about the guy could be taken with a grain of salt these days. He was the complete opposite of Chan in that sense, so unreadable that even the most sensible, the most intuitive of assumptions could turn out to be dead wrong. You could feel Chan’s emotions like they were your own; Minho’s emotions were ones you weren’t sure you’d ever felt.

“What do you think?” You gave Chan a nudge when he approached you, admittedly endeared by the competitive gleam in his eyes. “Do we stand a chance?”

“We’re the better team, no doubt,” he grinned. “But Minho’s got this insane luck. So, we’ll see.”

You tried not to let your own smile dim. Of course he did. It was all in good fun—on the surface at least—but the mere possibility of losing to Minho was one you didn’t even want to consider. He already had enough snarky remarks lined up in his arsenal without you adding to the ammunition.

Chan took a deep breath, lifting the ball up to his face, swinging his arm back in a low arch, and releasing in one fluid motion. It hit the polished ground with an impressive speed, but your glimmer of hope was crushed just a split second later when it rolled directly into the gutter.

Countless sounds exploded all around you at once, so loud you worried you might have to issue an apology to anyone nearby who had the misfortune of being subjected to them. Changbin’s delighted cackles, Minho��s wild laughter, and Chan’s mortified shout of dismay. You covered your mouth to avoid letting your own amusement show, but it made no difference considering that Chan’s face was buried shamefully in his palms as he shuffled his way back over to you, ears already beginning to tinge red.

“Another off day!” Changbin threw his arm over Minho’s shoulder, as if their victory was already guaranteed. “Guess the experience of age is worthless, after all.”

“His old man bones just can’t keep up,” Minho clicked his tongue wistfully. 

Chan peeked out from between his fingers, any attempt at a glare rendered harmless by the wide, hopelessly embarrassed smile plastered on his face. “One year!” he cried defensively. “This is your future, Lee Minho!”

Minho’s smirk stayed intact, unfazed by the prospect of such a sad fate awaiting him. You gave Chan a sympathetic pat on the back as soon as he was within reach, trying to meet his eyes.

“Cheer up, Channie,” you encouraged. “Can’t have our ace giving up so soon, can we?”

He managed a shy chuckle, hand reaching up to fiddle with his piercing. Whether it was the other boys’ provocation that had him so flustered, or the fact that you’d been there to witness the pitiful display, you weren’t sure, but you were determined to boost his morale before he had the chance to beat himself up over it. Even for something as frivolous as a game of bowling among friends, you didn’t want to leave any room for Chan to doubt his abilities. You couldn’t help it; you’d do anything to see him shine.

As expected, Changbin was a force to be reckoned with as the game carried on, managing to score steady points for him and Minho’s team with a consistent flow of spares and strikes—that was, when he wasn’t stepping over the line and fouling himself. You were positive it wouldn’t have even been an issue if Minho didn’t point out his mistakes every single time, eventually spiraling into a full-blown argument between the two with Changbin loudly demanding to know whose side he really was on. 

Between their bickering and Chan’s bubbly laughter, emitting fondness with every squeak, it almost felt like old times. You almost felt light, just as you had during those spring days spent studying in their apartment. Bumping your shoulder against Changbin’s to keep him focused as you listened to Chan ramble on about thermodynamics with thinly-veiled adoration, taking more and more frequent breaks each passing week just as an excuse to snack and chat with each other, laughing quietly to yourself every time Minho would, inevitably, disturb the study session and antics would ensue between the three boys—more often than not, pulling you into an ambitious new cooking experiment or an hour long tangent to debate the strangest existential topics known to man. In retrospect, it had been the closest to carefree you’d felt in a long time. 

“Just throw the ball like a normal person!” Changbin shouted, snapping you back to the present.

Minho sniffed, not breaking eye contact with him once as he bent forward, spread his legs, and tossed the bowling ball carelessly through them. To your astonishment, it rolled down the center of the lane; steady, and by some miracle, steering clear of the gutters all the way to the end. The incredulous sound you let out was only rivaled by Chan’s stunned yelp, half-impressed, half-horrified as the ball managed to knock over a respectable five pins.

It became clear, in that moment, that Minho’s aforementioned luck was very much real, and it operated just as erratically as his own mind did. With each increasingly bizarre stance and tactic he implemented, he was scoring dozens of points before you knew it.

Chan never quite seemed to recover from his initial fumble, and, as much as you wanted to win, it was undoubtedly adorable every time he sank into a crouch, wailing miserably into his knees after yet another failed attempt at gaining some momentum. He was trying to be a good sport about it, even with Changbin and Minho’s taunts making the task near-impossible, but you could still feel the fire of frustration behind his every awkward glance at the monitor and apologetic smile sent your way. 

Fortunately, you were able to score enough points to keep the gap between your teams from growing too wide, even pulling a few strikes here and there. It was a bit silly how seriously you were beginning to take the game, but you were fueled on by the desire to lift Chan’s spirits—and, on a pettier note, a desire to see Minho lose. By the time you reached the final round, you and Chan were only behind by nine points.

“Hope I haven’t been too heavy for you,” he remarked, sheepish as he picked up the ball for his last turn.

“I don’t like hearing such defeated words from Bang Christopher Chan,” you frowned. “C’mon, show me some of that showcase confidence!”

He ducked his head with a puff of laughter, thumbs gliding over the sleek surface of the bowling ball. “That was different.”

“That was in front of a crowd of strangers,” you agreed. “This is just me.”

“Exactly,” he hummed softly. “It’s you.”

It took you a moment to understand what he was getting at, only fully registering it when you spotted the rosiness of his cheeks flushing into something deeper, something much more noticeable. Acutely aware of Minho and Changbin’s eyes on you, you tried to keep a straight face, even if every cell in your body called for you to cup Chan’s face and press a kiss to his pouty lips right then and there. He was unreal. It was unreal how, even now, he could charm you so effortlessly—accidentally, even.

“Alright,” he sucked in through his teeth, seemingly reaching a verdict. “Do you think you could turn around? Just this time?”

You blinked, dumbfounded. When you said nothing, he lifted his gaze to give you a look that, despite the absurdity of his request, was resolute as ever. That was all the convincing it took for you to indulge him. 

Changbin watched curiously as you turned your back to the lanes, but you made no effort to explain yourself, figuring it would only be all the more embarrassing for Chan if his plan ultimately failed. It was too easy for you to picture his concentrated expression in your head as you waited patiently for him to make the shot—eyebrows furrowed with a striking intensity, but lips twitching in a way that betrayed his excitement underneath.

The heavy thump of the ball against the polished floor met your ears, and shortly after, the crashing of pins, followed by a chorus of disbelieving shouts. You spun around just in time to see Chan rushing back over to you, beaming so wide that his cheeks eclipsed his eyes. 

“You can’t be serious,” your voice turned up into a squeak as he pulled you into a triumphant, bone-crushing hug. “No way that worked.”

“Told you,” he sang into your ear. “It’s you.”

Any disappointment Changbin might have felt over losing was crushed by sheer delight when it became apparent to him what had just happened. “Oh, this is too much,” he howled with laughter, leaning against Minho—who, you were surprised to find, had a faintly amused smile on his face, as well. You looked away as quickly as you caught it, driven by that feeling of alienation, an understanding that it wasn’t a sight for you.

In honor of your victory against all odds, Chan decided to head over to the concessions stand he’d been eyeing since you’d first arrived at the bowling alley. Changbin jumped at the chance to tag along, setting panic off in your mind the instant you realized what that meant for you. You stood a bit too quickly, offering to join and help them carry back the snacks, only to be waved off with a reassuring smile from Chan.

Despite your discomfort, you relented, deciding it’d be best not to rouse any suspicions. You slumped back down in your chair as the two walked away, leaving you and Minho sitting directly across from each other in silence.

It wasn’t long before you began to run out of points of interest to look at other than him. Your eyes shifted awkwardly from your shoes to the monitor, from the monitor to the ball rack, from the ball rack to the distant lanes, and right back to your shoes. The cycle repeated for a good few minutes, and just as you reached into your pocket to fish out your phone in a last resort to quell the awkwardness, Minho decided to speak up. Oddly chatty today, you noted. 

“Didn’t see you at Chan’s birthday party.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What of it?”

“Just thought it was interesting,” he pointed out. “Since you care about him so much, and all.”

There was a laughable irony there, that the person who was the sole reason why you hadn’t shown up to celebrate Chan, was now questioning why you hadn’t—an irony that, you were willing to bet, he was well aware of.

“I didn’t think I was exactly welcome,” you said plainly. 

“Showing up uninvited is nothing new to you, is it?”

You clenched your jaw. “Look, Minho, I’m really not in the mood,” you hissed. “What exactly are you trying to gain from all this?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering about you, too,” he bounced off you with ease. “I’m kinda curious—did it make you feel better about yourself when you visited him? Felt like you proved something with that soup?”

“Proved something?” You didn’t bother to watch your volume this time, thoroughly set-off in a matter of seconds. “If you think I have anything to prove to you, you’re fucking delusional.”

Even as you spat the words with an uncharacteristic lack of restraint—and decorum—a wisp of doubt brushed past your mind, the same way it had the day you’d confronted him after checking on Chan. Why did he sound so sure of himself? Why did you even allow yourself to entertain his accusations?

What did he know that you didn’t?

He leaned back in his chair, whatever harsh retort that was on the tip of his tongue immediately being cut short when he spotted Changbin hobbling back over with an armful of snacks.

“Someone go help Chan out!” he called. “I don’t think he can carry everything himself.”

Minho rose from his spot before you had the chance to, eyes glinting as he shot you one last look. “You should get that temper of yours checked out,” he suggested under his breath. “Chan might like it, but others won’t.”

At that, he slunk off, leaving you with nothing to do but fume in frustration as Changbin made his way over to you. He dropped his stash on the table with a self-satisfied whistle, picking up a bag of chips and passing it to you.

“Here,” he offered. “Chan got these for you.”

You caught a glimpse of the brand—your favorite. It brought a smile to your face just in time, wiping away your scowl before Changbin could get a proper look at you, but even the warmth glowing in your chest wasn’t enough to erase the residual tension left behind by Minho. Changbin squinted as he settled down next to you, popping open a bag of his own.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you replied quickly. “Thanks for the snack.”

He crunched down on his shrimp chip with a suspicious hum, not convinced by your dull tone in the slightest.

“Are you having fun?”

“Of course,” you smiled, only half-feigned. “Chan and I just won, didn’t we?”

Changbin chewed thoughtfully a few times, breaking his inquisitive stare to shoot a glance over his shoulder, exactly in the direction Minho had disappeared to. When he turned back to you, his expression was more solemn; knowing.

“Is it Minho?”

You couldn’t find the will in you to hide it, picking uncomfortably at the plastic bag in your hands. “I guess I didn’t expect him to be here.”

“Oh,” he frowned. “Did you ever end up talking to him?”

“I did.”

“And?”

You shrugged. “He just doesn’t like me, simple as that.”

You tried to keep your voice casual, unaffected, but Changbin’s reaction to the news made it difficult to maintain. The fact that he seemed so genuinely puzzled almost rubbed salt in the wound, like he’d had the utmost faith that a simple conversation was all it would’ve taken for the two of you to sort things out. Amidst all the complicated feelings you had on the issue, a new one joined the fray: guilt. You hadn’t been able to make it work. If anything, your efforts had sent the situation spiraling into something much worse. All you could do now was ensure that a problem as ridiculous as this wouldn’t reach anyone else—Chan, most of all. 

“I don’t get it,” Changbin muttered, brows scrunching together. “I never got the feeling that he doesn’t like you.”

“You definitely would if you saw the way he talks to me.” As soon as the words left your mouth, you nearly cringed over the self-pity laced in them. You didn’t want to be a victim in this situation, especially not if it meant pressuring Changbin to pick a side between you and Minho like you were children fighting on a playground.

“I can have a chat with him, if you want. See what’s really going on.”

“No, no,” you dismissed it like a reflex. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You sure? It’ll be easier for me to get through to him.”

“No, Bin. Seriously,” you paused, not having intended it to come out so sharp. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, but it’s alright. I’d rather handle it myself, y’know?”

It had been made abundantly clear to you that you were, in fact, doing a terrible job at handling it yourself, but Changbin didn’t need to know that. The last thing you wanted was to grant Minho the satisfaction of Changbin revealing just how much his behavior was affecting you—or, even worse, the very real possibility of Chan catching wind of it. You could already picture Minho’s scornful stare, voice dripping with mockery as he ridiculed you for needing to call on Changbin to protect you, for not being able to fight the battles that, in his head, you’d instigated with your mere existence. The thought alone made you shudder in your spot, visibly enough for Changbin to notice.

A strange look crossed his face, one you’d only ever really seen on a few rare occasions before. It was grounded, mature; a side to him that, oftentimes, you tended to forget existed because he traded it out for something less intense. Without him even needing to say a word, you knew that his attentive instincts had kicked in, and once they had, they would be difficult to shake. 

“You just seem upset,” he said at last.

“I’m not,” you insisted. “Sometimes people just don’t get along. It’s not worth stressing about, so, please don’t say anything to Minho. Or Chan.”

He eyed you for a few seconds longer, and briefly, you worried that he may actually let his stubbornness get the best of him. It was comical, in a sense, how you’d grown so accustomed to disregarding your own emotions in all facets of life, that being faced with a shred of compassion felt more like a hindrance than anything else. Fortunately, the concern was short-lived. With a grunt of agreement, Changbin popped another chip into his mouth. 

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

The relief you felt upon hearing those words increased tenfold as you spotted Chan returning with Minho from the concessions stand, loaded with snacks and drinks that even his long arms could hardly contain. He was smiling, no doubt still giddy over your unexpected win and the victory meal that was lined up for him. That was all it took to make you absolutely certain of your decision.

“I’m sure. Thanks, Bin.”

You wanted to be the reason for Chan’s smile. If it meant securing his happiness, then you could deal with it, no questions asked. 

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

The shrill ping of your laptop—a sound you’d come to despise in recent weeks—rang out to notify you of a new email in your inbox, breaking your focus so that you lost your place in the article you’d been reading.

Huffing to yourself, you clicked off the page begrudgingly and switched to your email tab, reluctant to see what academic horrors were lying in wait for you. As expected, it was a followup message from your lab instructor. With the fall semester drawing to a close in just under a month, the pressure was on for you to complete your research paper in time to have your findings included as part of the final study. Having your name on a published academic paper was an essential goal you had set for yourself as an undergraduate; something to give you an extra edge in the fiercely competitive field of astrophysics. The only problem was, (save for the grueling amounts of time and effort it took to reach that point) you had to get your draft approved before it was too late, a task that was beginning to seem impossible with every new response you received from your instructor.

Today was no different, a fresh wave of stress washing over you as you read the contents of her email. Another extensive list of revisions, a reminder of your approaching deadline, and, most troubling of all, another order to have your progress peer reviewed by at least one other student as part of the physics department protocol. Alarm spiked within you. You didn’t have a lot of time.

Before you’d even finished reading the email, you reached blindly for your phone, fumbling with the passcode in your haste to unlock it and open up your messaging app. 

you (9:23 p.m.) hey! sorry to nag about this again but have u had the chance to look over my paper?

You tried to get a grip on your impatience, telling yourself that it was just the incessant desire to be done with the process already that had you so on edge. But all it took was a few minutes of waiting for you to start tapping your fingers anxiously against your desk, debating whether or not you should try calling instead before you succumbed to the unreasonable levels of foreboding stacking up inside you.

Then, at last, a reply. Any reassurance it might have brought you instantly dwindled as soon as you read it.

iseul 🪷 (9:34 p.m.) omg… omfg no i totally forgot

You pressed your lips together. In a way, you couldn’t exactly say you were surprised. Not in the slightest, actually.

you (9:34 p.m.) okay no worries are u still able to? the deadline’s pretty soon

iseul 🪷 (9:39 p.m.) i’m not sure tbh i’m kinda busy rn so i’ll lyk later on a date ;P

Your heart sank, panic shooting through the roof. It’d been well over a week since you’d first asked her to look over your paper, and you’d made a conscious effort not to press the subject too much to avoid coming off as pushy. Now, you wished desperately that you’d been firmer from the start. Surely, then, she would’ve realized how important it was to you. Surely, then, she would’ve prioritized it.

You took a deep breath, mind frantic and scrambling for a solution. It found one almost immediately, like second nature, but you pushed the thought away as soon as it came. You didn’t want to bother him. Absolutely not. 

As you continued to wager the possibilities, however, it became more and more evident to you that there may not be any other option on such short notice—or, maybe, you just felt a selfish need to reach out to him in that moment, knowing you would be met with nothing but that certain warmth. It was a foreign desire, completely unlike you, and you weren’t sure you liked how often it wormed its way into your brain these days.

You’d consulted a handful of other friends before Iseul, all of which shared your major; a double-edged sword in this case. While it made them reliable candidates for peer review, the issue lied in the fact that they were all preoccupied with their own capstone research. Even without the added weight of having to complete an extensive documentation by a strict deadline like you had, the amount of work their labs required was more than enough to keep them busy. 

Changbin was no exception. You’d already been hesitant to ask him from the start—which was, frankly, a bit ridiculous considering he’d demonstrated time and time again how dependable he could be if the situation called for it—so when he’d apologetically told you that he wouldn’t be able to get to it before at least another week, you’d dropped the subject without a second thought. It would be too far late by then, and bringing it up a second time would only put an unnecessary pressure on him. Even if you got a response in a timely manner (a pipe dream in itself), his answer would be the same, and your paper would more than likely end up falling into Chan’s hands, anyway. 

You tapped your thumbs together indecisively, trying to approach it with a clear mind. Maybe it was okay. Maybe it wasn’t wrong to allow yourself to rely on him just a little bit, to lean into that warmth you’d been so determined to ration for reasons you couldn’t fully grasp.

Maybe, it wouldn’t be so unforgivable to take your own advice, just this once. 

Steeling yourself, you hit Chan’s contact before you could talk yourself out of it. All it took was a matter of three rings, and you heard the other line pick up. That was another detail you’d noticed lately, another subtle shift in attachment that made your chest tighten when you lingered on it for too long. He was much more responsive ever since that day in October, texting back uncharacteristically fast and calling uncharacteristically more often compared to the usual, comfortable periods of absence between the two of you. It was as if he was on standby for you at all times, ready to jump at the opportunity to meet your every beck and call in case there was something—anything—he could do for you.

“Hey, you.”

In spite of everything, his melodic lilt soothed your nerves. It always did. 

“Hi Channie,” you couldn’t mask the stiffness in your voice. “Are you busy?”

“I’ve got time,” he chirped. He didn’t say it, but you knew what he meant; he had time for you. “But first, guess what I’ve been working on.”

Fondness tugged at the corners of your mouth. “What?”

“Not telling,” you could practically hear the dimples carving their way into his cheeks. “You gotta guess.”

“Hm. Could it be what I think it is?” 

“Dunno,” he giggled. “You’re the one who can see right through me, yeah?”

You let the pull at your lips form fully into a smile. “In that case, you’d better not break your promise.”

It wasn’t difficult to envision the look on his face, the pure giddiness it etched into his features to know that you’d caught on with ease. Speaking in riddles because he could; a language only the two of you could understand.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he hummed. “So, what’s up?”

You faltered, having nearly forgotten your reason for calling him in the first place. The cheerful rhythm of his voice and the charming tune of his laughter had almost been enough to sway you, to change your mind and shield him from the academic nightmares that he was no stranger to. But anxiety spiked within you all over again as you were reminded of your looming deadline, providing all the push you needed to latch on to him with an embarrassing speed.

“Actually, I…” you began slowly. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

“Anything,” he said it without an ounce of hesitation, ready to comply before he even heard your request. It made your heart swell—with affection, gratitude, and something else you couldn’t quite place. 

“So, Iseul was supposed to review my research paper draft before I submitted it for the final publication but…but I don’t think she can anymore,” you hoped to sound nonchalant, not wanting a single drop of your unease to spill on his conscience. “I know it’s a lot to ask on short notice, so it’s absolutely fine if you can’t, but—”

“Of course, I can.”

“Really?” you swallowed. “Thank you, I…”

A critical thought crossed your mind, bringing the sense of calm that Chan always enveloped you with to an immediate halt. You felt stupid for not considering it sooner, for allowing yourself to be so short-sighted, even for just a moment.

“Your project,” you said suddenly. “Your mentor gave you an extension, right? Did you finish it? Because you need to work on that instead if—”

“Nah,” he assured you. “It’s all done, don’t worry.”

You paused. It was just your inner saboteur making excuses, probably—grasping for any reason at all to pull back before you committed to burdening him with your troubles—but why was it that every single time he told you not to worry, it only worried you more?

Still, you forced your reservations to the side. Maybe he sounded so terse because it was still a sensitive topic for him, something he couldn’t think back to without the guilt that surrounded that night plaguing his mind all over again. It made you soften with sympathy, and a faint hope that, just maybe, your gentle words as you’d bathed him had pierced through the fog of doubt in his mind—enough to compel him to be honest with you about this.

“O-okay. Then, yeah, I’d really appreciate your help,” you exhaled. “Thank you, Channie.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmured. “The least I could do, really.”

You nearly laughed out loud. The least he could do. As if he owed you something, as if he didn’t do more for you than you could ever express simply by being himself.

He could read you with such ease—could catch on to your every thought and sentiment, however fleeting, like it was the most natural thing in the world—but the view of him from your eyes? The sight of himself from a lens of pure, unadulterated adoration? That was one thing he’d never be able to truly comprehend.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

“I didn’t lose it.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Lose sounds so…so harsh,” Changbin protested. “I just happened to put it somewhere and can’t remember where that somewhere is.”

“That’s a relief,” you snorted. “You had me scared for a second.”

“It was an accident, seriously!” 

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” You gave him a good-natured shove as the two of you shuffled down the hall side by side, a sight that had become commonplace for anyone who frequented the physics building. “But if I were you, I’d get to searching.”

“C’mon, it could be anywhere!” he complained. 

“I’m saying this for your own good, Seo Changbin. Do you really wanna suffer through finals without your lucky charm?”

Changbin’s face dropped, a horrified look of realization parting his lips and widening his eyes.

“I’ll find it,” he mumbled, so serious that you couldn’t hold back a snicker. “For you, of course. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?”

“Uh-huh,” you said plainly. “Once you do, custody of Cinnamoroll is going right back to me.”

You weren’t upset about it, not really. It was honestly a miracle that he’d been able to keep track of something as trivial as a pencil for so long in the first place. Though, you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t an undeniable feeling of wistfulness there, to think that the prized possession that had initially brought you and Changbin together was now missing. You weren’t exactly the superstitious type—well, maybe that had changed just the slightest bit as of late—but it almost felt like a bad omen of sorts.

“That’s too cruel,” Changbin whined. “I’ll never let him out of my sight again, I swear.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing at you in anticipation of a response; but you were lost in thought. A sea of inhibitions that, funnily enough, had inched further and further up the shore in recent months, months where you’d been objectively happier than even your highest points over the past few years. 

You were certain your change in demeanor wouldn’t go unnoticed by Changbin—he’d tapped far more into his observant side as of late, ever since he’d come to learn that you and Minho weren’t nearly as in harmony as he’d led himself to believe. Between his added scrutiny, Minho’s pointed, all-knowing glares, and Chan’s ability to tune in to even the finest shift in your emotions, you didn’t think you’d ever felt more uncomfortably seen in your life. You felt like you were being watched from all angles; nowhere to hide, no way to maneuver yourself so that your loose seams weren’t visible.

“Wanna go bowling tonight?” Changbin suggested, breaking your stream of consciousness before you were completely pulled out to sea. 

“Why do I get the feeling you’re so into it these days because it’s the only sport you can beat Chan at?”

“I can beat him at billiards, too!” he retorted. “Besides, it’ll just be you and me. Pretty sure Chan’s busy with makeup work.”

You froze.

“What?”

It took Changbin a second to realize that you weren’t walking beside him anymore. He stopped in his tracks, turning to give you a strange look.

“Y’know, that big project with his mentor. It’s due tonight, I think.”

Your stomach dropped. All at once, dread consumed you, at such an alarming rate that it felt akin to plunging into ice cold water on a hot, sunny day. You didn’t want to believe it; you wanted to tell yourself that Changbin had to be mistaken, that Chan had finished his work days ago like he’d told you, and that he certainly hadn’t taken on the burden of reviewing over twenty pages of scientific jargon for you when he still had a very crucial, very future-defining project of his own to complete.

Even as you tried to convince yourself, even if you wanted to cling to the faith you’d put in him more than anything, even though you knew Changbin was notoriously bad with dates, deep down, you already had your answer.

Changbin’s expression grew heavy with concern. “What’s with that face?”

You cleared your throat, praying that your words would come out steady. “Nothing,” you replied quickly. “I just thought he’d already finished.”

He opened his mouth to say something—most definitely to question you further on why you looked like you’d just seen a ghost—so, you spoke up again before he had the chance.

“Anyway, yeah, let’s go bowling tonight. See who the real ace is.”

The playful challenge, strained as it was, seemed to ease Changbin’s misgivings a bit. He flashed you a smirk, taking the bait immediately.

“Haitai Bbasae shrimp chips are my favorite, by the way.” He bumped his shoulder against yours. “So you know what to buy me when I win.”

You rolled your eyes. “Forgot about your pencil debt so soon?”

Your joking did nothing to seal the pit of apprehension that had opened up inside your gut. In fact, it deepened with each step you took, as if your body was physically rejecting the idea of you walking anywhere other than directly towards Phase 8 of the campus apartments; directly towards Chan.

You all but forced the muscles in your face to relax, solely to avoid rousing Changbin’s suspicions again. Already, you were regretting your decision to meet up with him later that night. Spending even an hour or two pretending like the thought of Chan—cooped up in his room, undoubtedly running on minimal sleep and an empty stomach, bloodshot eyes locked on his laptop screen as he struggled to meet the most important deadline of his academic career, all because of you—wasn’t eating away at your insides wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park, even for you. 

You told yourself it was just an overreaction. You were jumping to conclusions. Maybe taking your mind off of it tonight was exactly what you needed; enough time for Chan to finish his work, and enough time for the fog that always seemed to cloud your rationality when it came to him to clear up.

You’d mull it over properly, and then you’d talk to Chan. Everything always worked out when you talked to Chan.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

As it turned out, subjecting yourself to a constant back and forth argument for two days straight—a trial where you were playing the role of judge, jury, defendant, and prosecutor all at once—served no real purpose other than to drive you to the brink of madness.

The more you’d tried to reason with yourself, the more convinced you’d become that the situation was, in actuality, far more dire than you’d initially believed. It appeared so simple on the surface, a harmless white lie that was said only with the intention of easing your worries, to displace some of the weight from your shoulders to his. You loathed the fact that you’d managed to spin such a kind, loving gesture, such an authentically Chan gesture, into something so unpleasant. But knowing what you knew, knowing Chan, it went deeper than that. You never would’ve allowed yourself to shift that weight over to him if you’d known he hadn’t been relieved of his own first. 

It was for that reason that when Chan had called you earlier in the day to see if you were free to meet up—a timing that only spurred on your paranoid thoughts, given that he was no doubt reaching out to you because he’d finally submitted his work—you’d all but jumped at the opportunity. You needed to see him, his crinkled eye smile, his face well-rested and bright. You needed to be certain that you hadn’t ruined everything for him.

Each step up the stairwell to unit 8-325 added another layer to the anxiety piling inside of you. It was a sensation you’d experienced once before; that strangely chilly day in April, trudging your way up alongside Changbin, completely oblivious to what the universe had in store for you. Completely oblivious to the warmth you would be met with, the part of yourself that you hadn’t known you were missing until you found him.

You gave the front door a few knocks, a bit harder than usual, just in case Chan had his headphones in. Before the gusts of wind blowing through the hallway could even begin to chill you through your clothes, the door swung open. Despite everything, your heart sang at the sight of him. Eyes sleepy, and, as predicted, accompanied by those dark bags he carried around far too often for your liking, curls ruffled, hoodie wrinkled, smile lazy—just prominent enough for one of his dimples to peek out. 

You wondered if he’d been napping. The idea both calmed and unsettled you; the comfort of knowing he’d gotten some rest, the fear that he’d needed to catch up on sleep because he’d been pulling all-nighters to complete his work. Because of you.

“Hey, you.”

“Hi, Chan.”

You hadn’t even noticed the issue with your greeting until he tilted his head curiously.

“Scary,” he giggled. “Am I in trouble?”

You padded through the doorframe and slipped off your shoes, keeping quiet long enough for his grin to waver. It nearly made you grimace. Two words in, and you already couldn’t tolerate the idea of speaking to him with anything but the utmost care. 

“Sorry.” You chided yourself for being so pointlessly intense about it. You didn’t even know the full story yet; there was no need to stir unease in him like that. “How are you, Channie?”

“All good, now. I missed you,” he added.

You knew he must be wondering why you hadn’t hugged him yet. So, you leaned into his arms the very instant they outstretched. You took in his scent, his body heat, the peaceful beat of his heart. You wished the tranquility that he washed over you would last. You wished you could fall fully into him and just pretend like nothing was wrong. But then, where would you go from there? How many more times would he do something like this? How many more corners of himself would he cut until, before you knew it, you were doing the exact same thing to him as so many others had done before? The question itself was enough to scare you, let alone what the answer may be.

“I missed you, too,” you murmured. Mustering all your willpower, you pulled your head from his chest, taking a few steps deeper into the apartment with Chan following suit. 

You braced yourself, and then you tested the waters.

“So, did you finish your project?”

A heavy pause, then an awkward laugh.

“Oh, yeah. A few days ago, remember?”

You said nothing. Instead, you turned to look at him properly, not bothering to mask the doubt written all over your face. His gaze fell, and you knew, immediately, that you’d been correct.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “It’s done now, no worries.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your desire to be gentle with him was already beginning to battle it out with your urgency to get to the bottom of this, to decode what had been going on in his head when he’d made such a potentially disastrous choice for your sake. Chan reached up for his earring, eyes still averted as he rolled the silver hoop sheepishly between his fingers.

“Are you mad?”

Mad. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. The idea that you could feel anything but boundless affection for him was so incomprehensible to you. No, you weren’t mad. You were frustrated. Because you knew he saw no problem with what he had done, because the damage had been to him and no one else.

“Of course not. I…I’m really grateful you were there for me,” you began, and the hopeful way he raised his head almost made you want to leave it at that. “But I’m just a little concerned that you kept this from me, Channie. I wanted to be sure that you had nothing else on your plate before asking such a huge favor of you.”

He smiled, clearly oblivious to how much you meant it. “It’s no problem, really. I wanted to help.”

Your stomach churned. Of course he wanted to help, you knew that more than anything. Two years ago, he’d only wanted to help, too. That was the detail that had unnerved you most in the 48 hours you’d spent dissecting it all—the eerie similarities between this situation and the one Chan had poured his heart out to you about just a few weeks ago. Once you’d noticed how they paralleled each other, it was impossible to ignore, to the point where that became the driving force for your need to set things right, to put your foot down before history repeated itself.

“Don’t you remember what we talked about the other day?” you prompted, as delicately as your growing tension would allow. “What if you hadn’t finished your work in time because you were too busy helping me? Graduation is less than a month away—why would you ever risk that?”

Chan shifted his weight from side to side. You could tell he was starting to grow uncomfortable.

“This is different.”

“How?” you pressed. “How is it any different? You nearly let me jeopardize your future all over again.”

“I don’t understand,” he chuckled softly. “I finished in the end, didn’t I? There’s really no need to worry about me.”

You took a deep breath. You weren’t getting through to him.

“But what if you hadn’t? What if you failed because of this?” You didn’t miss the way he shrank back when you spoke the word, only feeding into your own distress. “Not just that, it can’t have been easy to finish all that work at once. I don’t want you taking on more than you can handle again, especially not for my sake.”

“It’s okay,” he said lightly, almost dismissive. “It was my decision, y’know? If it’s you, then it’s okay.”

Normally, the words would’ve melted your heart. They would’ve made you coo and fawn and swoon over him and his insurmountable selflessness. Now, they only frightened you. If he was willing to put something as important as this on the line without a second thought, you didn’t even want to think about what else he might try to sacrifice for you.

“Chan…” you hesitated. “I need to know that you’re not gonna do something like this again. I need you to promise me that you’ll put yourself first in this relationship, at least when it matters most.”

His expression darkened, just the slightest bit. It was a look you’d never once seen cross his face, one that felt so unnatural that you didn’t know what to make of it. But the feeling it evoked was one you understood all too well. The feeling of having a core part of himself confronted; challenged.

“I—” Chan sucked in through his teeth. “I don’t think I can promise you that.”

Your heart sank. The dread that had been slowly creeping its way up on you since you’d first arrived, now consumed you in full. He wasn’t going to stop. He was never going to stop. Not for you, or anyone else. Certainly not for himself.

“Please,” you tried again. “Please, tell me you’re not gonna put me in this position.”

You could tell, just from the bewildered look he was giving you, that he was having trouble piecing it together in his head, that he was struggling to decipher why you would ever even ask such a thing of him. Why you weren’t jumping at the opportunity to take advantage of him, to use him for all he was worth, like so many others did. 

“You’ve got to stop treating yourself like this,” you continued, not liking the way you were losing control of your voice. “If you keep giving and giving there’s not going to be anything left of you to give.” 

Chan remained silent, and for a split second, you felt a glimmer of hope that he was starting to grasp the message you were trying to send. But it was nothing more than a candle in the wind, blown out before it even had the chance to illuminate anything.

“And what about you?” 

You tensed. “What?”

“Could you make that promise to me?” he asked quietly. “Would you stop hiding things from me if I asked you to?”

Just like that, the mirror was turned on you.

“That’s…you’re changing the subject. This isn’t about me.”

“Really? I think it is.”

You held your ground, determined not to let him steer the conversation away from himself. “I know my limits, Chan. I wouldn’t hide anything serious from you.”

“Then why have you still not told me about what happened when you went home?”

It was unusually direct coming from him, just short of accusatory. You were reminded, once again, that even the parts of yourself that you thought you might be able to slip past his attentive eyes, he was well aware of—more than he ever let show. Even when he caught on to every minute detail, even when it filled his head with concern for you, he remained considerate as ever; waiting patiently until you were ready to open up yourself. At least, until now. 

“And…why haven’t you told me about what’s going on with Minho?”

Something twisted deep within you. He’d noticed. Of course he’d noticed. You’d done a horrible job in hiding it—and even if you hadn’t, he would’ve sensed something was off, anyway. He always did.

When he gauged your reaction, Chan’s face dropped into something heartbreaking, eyes flashing with a resigned sort of fear. 

“Do you—”

“No.” You couldn’t hide your revulsion towards what you were sure he was going to ask, denying it so fiercely that it at least seemed to convince him right away. “That’s not it at all.”

“Okay,” he exhaled. “Then, what’s going on? You can tell me everything. I’m here to listen.”

Countless emotions fought for control over you all at once. Dismay. Exasperation. Vulnerability. Love. Even now, he was finding a way to focus on you, to make sure you were okay amidst your attempts to get him on speaking terms with his self-preservation. It was a testament to everything you adored about him, and everything about him that made you feel utterly helpless. You needed an escape route, a window to break out of before that pure, sincere gaze of his cast its spell on you and made you do something that you were sure to regret. Because you always regretted it, every single time. You couldn’t tell him. Not about Minho, not about home, not about her, not about him. Not because he wouldn’t care, but because he would. He would care so much that all your pain would become his.  

It was your turn to break eye contact, brushing your thumb over your nose. “It’s not something you need to hear, right now.”

“Then, when? How can I be there for you if you won’t let me?” Desperation began to seep into every word. “You promised, didn’t you?”

“I know,” you swallowed. “But that’s not the point of all this. You don’t owe me anything for what happened in October, okay? You don’t have to feel guilty just because you let yourself lean on me a bit.”

You meant the affirmations—you knew you did. So why did they suddenly sound so unconvincing? Like something you’d never believe if spoken to you. Chan pressed his lips together, and though he didn’t say it, you could tell he knew exactly what you were doing.

“If this keeps up, you’re going to hate me,” you said plainly. “You’re going to resent me for all the times you helped me when you should’ve helped yourself.”

His fingers curled around the sleeve of his hoodie, picking at its loose threads in a way that betrayed how high his tensions were running beneath the silence. 

“Why are you so sure that’s gonna happen?”

“Because…because I know you.”

“Because you do the same thing?” he asked sharply.

He wasn’t going to let you get away with it today. He was tugging at each of your seams, peeling back the adhesives to reveal what you’d let fester underneath. You were trapped. Cornered by someone who you’d come to trust more than anyone else in the world—but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. 

“Maybe I do,” you relented. There was no use in hiding it, not when he sounded more sure of himself than you’d ever heard him sound before. “That’s why I know it won’t end well. I need you to stop this, for your own good.”

“Don’t,” Chan interjected. “Please, don’t talk about what’s good for me. It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh my God, Chan,” you let out a hollow laugh. “Am I supposed to agree with that?”

Of course nothing had changed. How naive, how fucking foolish of you to believe that one conversation could ever be enough to undo the ideas that had been hammered into his being by everyone around him his entire life; so extensively, so persistently that, as time went on, he began to do the hammering himself. You were positive now, that everything he’d revealed to you that night in October, as gut-wrenching as it’d been on its own, wasn’t even the half of what he’d been through. It was just a single star in a constellation of hurt.

Minho’s words echoed in your head. He was right. You weren’t special. You would take advantage of Chan just like everyone else, whether you wanted to or not. Your ex’s words echoed in your head. He had been right. You were a liar. You couldn’t even apply your own words to yourself—how could you ever, ever expect them to get through to Chan?

“These…types of relationships don’t always work out, right?” 

You didn’t want to use the term he’d used before, it felt unnecessarily cruel in that moment. Ever since he’d first brought the subject of twin flames up, you’d spent any free time you’d managed to get your hands on reading about them. That kind of connection could be transformational, sure, but the further you delved into the phenomenon, the more you came to learn that it could be just as harmful under the wrong circumstances—destructive. Two individuals who shared such core similarities were bound to experience problems far deeper-rooted and far more intense than anyone else, after all. Most people didn’t take kindly to being faced with their own traits completely unfiltered—the good, the bad, the ugly. A mirror that reflected them in their truest form. 

“Maybe we’re not ready to see these parts of ourselves. Maybe we just bring out the worst in each other.”

Each word made your tongue feel drier and drier. You didn’t dare to look at Chan as you spoke them, certain you would break the very instant your eyes locked with his.

“Maybe,” you paused. Your heart was pounding, so loud that you felt it in your ears, making it impossible to think straight. There was still a chance to take it back, to change your mind before destabilizing the foundation of everything the two of you had so carefully built until now.

Ever since you’d met Chan, you’d thought that you’d been growing, learning, healing. You’d thought you were reaching a point where you wouldn’t need to hold yourself together anymore, because you would simply be…together. No adhesives. No loose seams. Just whole. 

But here, you had him. The kind of person you’d only ever encountered once before in this lifetime, the kind of person you used to dream of knowing again. Someone who noticed every little thing you did for him and returned it tenfold, someone who loved you and meant it, and yet, somehow, you couldn’t make it work in your mind. You couldn’t shake the dread, the belief that it was all temporary, conditional, transactional. Like if you made one small misstep, it would all be lost.

In retrospect, you really hadn’t learned a thing.

“Maybe we should end this. Before we start to hurt each other.”

Chan’s breath hitched.

“What?”

“I d-don't want to hurt you. And if this continues, I'm going to.”

His hand lowered from his ear, crossing over his chest to cup his neck instead. Covering his heart, shielding himself.

“More than this?” his voice cracked. “I think this hurts more than anything else you could ever do to me.”

There was no way to conceal the effect it had on you. A physical, throbbing ache in your chest.

“Chan,” you begged inwardly for him to understand—for him to just know it, the same way he knew everything else about you like the back of his hand. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you ruin yourself for me.”

It made sense, now. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you were saying what you needed to hear. The realization made it all feel infinitely more despicable. Could you even say you were doing this out of care for him? Or were you just a coward afraid to confront this part of yourself?

That was what you always did, after all; you ran. You ran from your ex, your home, your family, your friends. The moment you were faced with any kind of obstacle, you left. And this was no different. You were no different than anyone else who had abandoned Chan in the past. If anything, you were worse. A hypocrite who had the audacity to shame the people who had harmed him, then turned around to do it yourself.

“If you’re gonna leave, just do it, please.”

You wished he sounded at least a little angry about it. You wished he wasn’t so ready to accept it. You almost wished he would snap and lash out and yell, voicing every vicious thought you were thinking about yourself in that moment. A liar, a manipulator, a hypocrite. Cruel, awful, selfish.

You wished he would be a little more selfish.

But there was no contempt in his eyes, no vitriol. Not even the beginnings of tears. It felt worse—far worse. He was saving them. He wasn’t going to cry until you left.

The only emotion you could read on his face was exhaustion. By your own volition, you were no longer the reason for his smile; you’d become the reason for his weariness.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I'll let you be, now.”

You waited. For what, you weren’t sure. There was no one to swoop in and put a stop to this; you were the one who’d started it. Still, you waited. For yourself to change your mind, for Chan to change his mind, for something about all this to change.

You took one last look at the apartment around you. The stray socks, the scattered water bottles, the half-done dishes. You wondered if it was the last time you would ever see it. You hadn’t been prepared to leave it all behind. You hadn’t been prepared for any of this. 

You took one last look at him—the boy you loved. His gaze was still downcast, a detail you were, pathetically enough, grateful for. You weren’t sure you’d be able to keep it together if he met your eyes; if he looked at you with anything other than that unfettered adoration you’d come to rely on, despite every one of your instincts commanding you not to. You wanted to tell him that you loved him, to leave him with something to hold on to, but you knew it would do nothing but twist the knife. There was no way to make him understand that because you loved him so much, you had to end this. You weren’t going to let him make you his accomplice in his self-destruction, and you weren’t going to subject him to witnessing your own, either.

You turned to leave. Every step you took towards the door felt like your heart was being ripped further out of your chest. 

Your heart was there, across the room, watching you go.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

bin 😑 (monday, 1:09 p.m.) what’s this what’s this??? looks like somebody’s late for class~

bin 😑 (monday, 1:32 p.m.) ur srsly gonna leave me all alone on review day???

bin 😑 (tuesday, 4:42 p.m.) guess what i found ><

bin 😑 (today, 12:17 a.m.) i’m really being ignored… huuu ㅜ

Two days had passed. You were only aware of that fact thanks to the timestamps of Changbin’s texts. You’d skipped your classes on Monday, the first time you’d missed class the entire year—ever since you’d started university, really. 

It was a stupid decision, but, well, you were no stranger to those. You probably would have done well for yourself to attend your lectures. After all, the distractions that came with drowning yourself in academics had proved to be effective even when you were at your most miserable. That was exactly why you hadn’t gone. You didn’t deserve to distract yourself.

Eventually, though, it’d become too much to bear. Sitting alone in your apartment, with nothing to do but torture yourself with thoughts of him, of what you’d done, of the way everything had fallen apart before your very eyes—by your very hands—was a punishment that you decided you wouldn’t even wish on your worst enemy. Which, funnily enough, was probably yourself.

You didn’t deserve to miss him. You didn’t deserve to worry about him. You didn’t even deserve to wonder how he might be doing. Still, you did, anyway. Selfishly.

You squinted at your laptop screen, a harsh, white light illuminating your face. Unnatural, nothing like the soothing glow of the moon outside. It was sure to be in its Waning Gibbous phase by now, the same way it had been the night you’d first fallen for him. But it had been cloudy for two days straight. No sun shining down on you to balance out the chilly autumn air. No stars decorating the sky. No moon to watch over you at night.

It took you a few seconds to process the sound of your cellphone buzzing against your desk. Your eyes flickered over to it, lacking the energy to even turn your head fully. It was Iseul. Given how late it was, she was undoubtedly calling about some problem or another. So, for the first time, you let it go to voicemail. 

But nothing was ever that easy. You didn’t even have the chance to find where you’d left off in your notes before she was calling again, not even bothering to leave a message or to give you time to call back first.

It was probably best not to answer. You were in no state to answer.

You steeled yourself, and you took the call.

Before you could even say hello, her distressed voice ran through the speaker. 

“Can you come over?”

For once, you wished you’d been wrong about why she was contacting you. You wished that this friendship, which was usually a comfortable constant for you, a way for both of your needs to be met, could be put on hold. You wished she saw any value in you other than what you could do for her.

“Right now?” you tried to keep calm, telling yourself that it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. How could she? You’d never let her. “I…I’m kinda busy, sorry.”

“This is important,” she sounded serious, but you knew it was more than likely that this was just another case of a very solvable issue being blown wildly out of proportion in her eyes. “I really, really need your help.”

You said nothing, not even finding it in you to string together an acceptable excuse. 

“Are you with Chan, or something?”

A physical pang in your chest. 

“Uh, yeah,” you lied. 

“Oh.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched across the call. Normally, you’d fill it, say something to keep her from feeling awkward. 

“It's really late, Iseul. Can we talk tomorrow?”

“No.” You were taken aback by how abruptly she responded. “I need your help now, I'm so serious. Can you please just come for a bit? I'm sure Chan wouldn’t care.”

Another blow from your oblivious assailant, straight to the gut. You felt short of breath.

“Maybe I can help over the phone?” you offered weakly. “What’s going on?”

“No, no, no, you have to be here! I just lost my whole fucking essay file and it’s due at 6:00 a.m. and you know I don’t know shit about computers!” her tone grew frantic the more she rambled on. “I have no idea how to get it back, I'm seriously about to cry.”

An essay. The very same thing that had led to all of this. That was more important than the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside you, destroying everything in its path. Of course it was. How presumptuous of you to think otherwise. The absolute gall of you to think you deserved any amount of time to feel sorry for yourself.

You gritted your teeth. She doesn’t know.

“Okay, okay. No problem. I can just tell you how to recover it.” You left out the fact that she could’ve easily searched it up online and saved you both the trouble.

“I’m not gonna know what or where anything is!” she objected. “Can’t you just come over and fix it? I'm freaking out. You can go crawling back to your stupid boyfriend after if it matters that much.”

She wasn’t thinking with a clear head, probably—letting her stress speak for her. But it was a push too far.

“I’m not your fucking babysitter, Iseul,” you spat. “You can’t just snap your fingers every time you want me to solve a problem for you. Figure it out yourself.”

The line went silent. Long enough for you to perfectly envision her hurt expression in your head.

“What?” it came quiet, meek. Everything unlike her. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I'm tired.” You rubbed your eyes, trying to get rid of the building sting. “I can't do this right now.”

“That’s n-not an excuse for you to talk to me like that,” her voice trembled. “I didn't do anything wrong!”

You heard a faint sniffle, and as exasperated as you were, it crashed guilt over you all the same. You didn’t want to make her feel like this. 

“I’m stressed so stressed out and you know how hard I’ve been working on my grades so I can get into grad school. Is it that crazy for me to call my friend for help? Like, am I wrong for thinking you care about me enough to save me from failing this fucking class?”

Each word, so tone-deaf, so lacking in self-awareness, added to the pressure filling up your head, heightening it so much until it was unbearable. 

“Do you ever stop to think about the way you talk to me?” you snapped. “Or is it too much to ask for you to consider someone else’s feelings for once?”

You were being harsh, unreasonable too. Every fiber of your being screamed for you to take it back, to do what you were supposed to do and just go help her. But your conversation with Chan—everything that had led up to that doomed, wretched conversation with Chan—was all too fresh in your mind, manifesting in the ugliest of ways against someone who didn’t deserve it.

You wanted to blame her. You wanted it to be all her fault. If she had just been there for you when you’d needed her, none of this would have happened. Even as you tried to convince yourself of it, you knew it wasn’t true. What had caused everything to crumble between you and Chan ran much deeper than that simple favor. The flaw was in the very foundation.

“I consider your feelings all the time! Are you kidding me!?” she exclaimed, offended by the accusation without taking even a moment to consider if it had any merit to it.

“Right,” you said bitterly. “That’s why you only ever reach out to me when you need something.”

You could practically feel her indignation burning up on the other end of the call, and you stopped to ask yourself just what the hell you were doing. This approach would never get through to Iseul. She was far too proud, far too sensitive to receive any kind of message when delivered so tactlessly. That was why your friendship had worked all this time, why you were one of the few people who got along with her. You were nothing if not tactful, enough for the both of you.

“So what!? Friends are supposed to be there for each other!”

“Yeah,” you deadpanned. “They are.”

Another spell of silence. You wondered, briefly, if she was catching on to what you were implying, but the moment she spoke up again, you knew it’d been nothing but another baseless hope.

“Don’t lie to me and say you wanna help me then!”

“I’m not lying to you!” you retorted. “I want to help you. Every single time you come to me, I want to help you. That’s the problem!”

You’d never even raised your voice at her before, let alone to this degree. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was frightened by it—yet another point on your list of reasons to feel guilty. 

“So I’m just a problem to you,” she concluded. You could hear the sobs beginning to build in her throat. “Great, thanks.”

“Iseul, that’s not—”

“Forget it,” she hiccuped. “It must be so hard for you, right? You’re so fucking perfect and I’m so fucking selfish.”

The line went dead, leaving you gripping your phone with such intensity you worried it might actually crumple under your fingers. Of all the ever-changing things in this world, the one you’d always been able to control was yourself. But it seemed even that was too tall of an order these days. 

Maybe you really did need to get that temper of yours checked out.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

One hour later, you found yourself, once again, trudging miserably up a flight of stairs to meet your impending fate. Cold, exhausted, and filled to the brim with anxiety. You’d forgotten to throw on a jacket before leaving your apartment—far too preoccupied with the round table discussion taking place in your mind, one that was still well underway even as you impulsively made the decision to leave. By the time you reached the fourth floor of the complex, your teeth were chattering.

You gave the door a few knocks, drawing your hand back as soon as you did to rub it against the other, your best attempt at generating some warmth. There was no response for nearly a minute, and, with a tinge of fear, it dawned on you for the first time that Iseul may have very well given up and gone to sleep after your phonecall. It made your insides lurch. How could you have done this to her? How could you have let yourself be so caught up in your emotions that you treated hers so carelessly?

Why did you feel so cold?

Panicking, you knocked again, this time with a bit more force. It was nearing 4:00 a.m. now, there was still a chance for you to fix things before her deadline. There were so many things you couldn’t fix, you needed to make something right.

Finally, just as another shiver ran up your spine, you heard the click of a lock. You didn’t have the opportunity to collect yourself before the door creaked open.

The frown on her face only deepened when she saw who was standing before her. Lips curved sharply down, eyebrows lowering, eyes cleared from any residual redness, but still puffy—that strangely rejuvenated look after a good cry.

“What do you want?”

You flinched. “I’m here to help.”

She studied you without a word, but you didn’t miss the way her features mellowed the slightest bit. However coarse and uncaring she tried to make herself, she could never truly contain her expressiveness. 

You could see her weighing the options in her head, and, even as the biting chill on your skin wore your patience thinner with each passing second, you waited. You at least owed her that much.

“Fine.”

She turned, leaving the door open for you as she stalked into her apartment. With a sigh of relief, you followed.

You joined her on the couch, keeping a careful distance from where she’d slumped down. She slid her laptop over to you on the coffee table without making eye contact. It was open on a word document, two pages into her attempt at rewriting her essay. Not far off, you spotted a few stray tissues on the table, smeared black with mascara.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

You picked up the device, placing it in your lap and getting to work. Iseul’s eyes flickered over to you, more obviously than she probably thought, as you began clicking away, opening up the settings of the program and accessing the version history of the documents.

“Can you fix it?”

“Yeah.” You tilted the screen towards her. “There’s an autosave feature.”

She blinked, trying to keep up with your ministrations as you recovered the lost file with just a bit more fiddling around.

“Here. Make sure it’s the right one.”

Furrowing her brows, she scrolled through the pages and pages of her work, unable to mask her elation when she confirmed it was in fact her full essay, completely preserved from where she’d left off.

“It is.”

“Good.”

More silence. You wondered if that was your cue to leave. You’d done your job. You’d made yourself useful. There was no need to stick around.

Then, she said it; quiet, demure. 

“Thanks.”

A simple word, solidifying the belief that none of this had been worth it. Putting your feelings first was never worth it.

“Of course.”

A deep breath. 

“And, listen, Iseul. I'm sorry about what I said on the phone.”

She lifted her head, looking directly at you for the first time that night. 

“I was really stressed out about my own stuff, too, and I let my anger get the best of me. So, I’m sorry.”

Her expression changed, and though she looked like she was already prepared to forgive you, she didn’t quite say it yet.

“Is that really how you feel about me?” she muttered. “Like you’re my babysitter? Am I just a burden to you?”

A burden. It was such a heavy word, you knew it couldn’t be correct. Still, how could you explain to her that you were the problem in this situation? Worrying yourself with details about her that she didn’t even ask you to worry about, wearing yourself down without ever bothering to tell her, then snapping when it all became too much. 

It was an issue entirely of your own creation. She’d have to be as stupid and maladjusted as you to understand.

“No,” you said firmly. “You’re my friend, of course I wanna help you.”

“…But?”

“But…” you bit your lower lip. “Sometimes it feels like you just expect me to do things for you. Like, you don’t care about what I have going on as long as I can be there for you.”

You couldn’t explain why you felt near physically ill. You’d known this girl for three years, been friends with her for two, and spent practically every day with her for one. So why did being upfront with her seem like the most terrifying thing in the world? Like you were exposing yourself to a predator, completely vulnerable if she chose to swoop out and attack.

“Oh.” 

“I’m always gonna want to help you,” you explained softly. “So, sometimes, I just need you to care enough about me to make sure that I can.”

You could tell she still felt wronged, and maybe, she had all the reason to. The way you’d gone about it was less than ideal. All that care you’d always tried to treat her with, nullified in a matter of seconds, just like that.

“I guess I never thought of you as the type of person who’d need that.” She picked at the skin around her nails. “But sure, okay. I’ll try.”

You leaned back against the cushions, exhaling. It seemed unreal to you, all things considered, that you’d reached this point. That telling her what you’d kept buried in your heart for so long could have ended in anything other than disaster. 

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Iseul turned her attention back to her laptop, high-strung as ever as she scanned over her paper once more. A thought seemed to cross her mind, and when she spoke up again, you could tell she was doing her best to sound casual.

“Are you gonna go back to Chan, now?” 

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“No.”

“You can go,” she mumbled. “I get that you’re like, in love with him, or whatever.”

The sting was back in your eyes. The pounding was back in your head. The chill was back in your skin.

“Chan and I aren’t together anymore.”

“O-oh.” 

Then, more troubled. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I…I didn’t know.”

You straightened yourself up, forcing a feeble smile.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “Let’s not talk about it.”

Iseul frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m tired.”

“We'll talk later though, right?”

A lump rose in your throat. You could only bring yourself to nod.

For the next hour, you sat, unmoving, as the sound of Iseul’s rapid typing and frustrated huffs filled the room. Once she’d made the finishing touches to her paper, she submitted it with plenty of time to spare, lifting the weight off both of your chests. You sank your head back against the cushions just as she shut her laptop, a sigh of pure relief easing her nerves and yours.

Through her window, you could see that the sky outside was still blocked out by the low-hanging clouds, but even so, the world grew a bit brighter as day began to break and the sun began to inch its way up behind them. Iseul rested her head on your shoulder, and you at last allowed yourself to succumb to the fatigue that had been gripping your body for the past two days.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

When Chan's eyes blinked open, he wondered, faintly, if he’d been drifting off. 

It wouldn’t be the first time. Exhaustion consumed him so perpetually these days, not even standing upright could prevent his head from hanging and his eyelids from drooping. He adjusted his vision to take in his surroundings—kitchen, he realized for the first time—but the fuzz in his mind didn’t clear. That was nothing new, either. It hadn’t left him since you had.

He hadn’t slept in three days, not for more than just twenty or thirty minutes at a time. Not even enough to complete a single sleep cycle. Not even enough to dream.

He’d been kept awake by thoughts of you before, more than he’d ever be confident enough to admit out loud. But it was different now. He used to be perfectly content lying wide awake, staring at his ceiling with the giddiest of smiles plastered on his face over the mere memory of you. It had been better than any dream his mind could conjure up. Now, he wished, more than anything, to drift off instead. At least that way, he could be in a state where he didn’t have to think at all. Or maybe, if he was lucky, a state where he could dream of you, to pretend like you were still here with him.

The shattering of glass snapped him out of his thoughts all at once. With a start, he registered that he’d dropped the cup of water he was holding.

He stared blankly at broken shards, scattered amidst the puddle spreading across the wooden floor. He should probably clean it up. The remains could hurt someone. 

He sank down to collect the pieces. Changbin liked this cup, he remembered suddenly. He’d gotten it on vacation. He was probably going to be upset. 

An unexpectedly sharp sliver of glass grazed Chan’s thumb, cutting it open and earning a slight hiss. He winced, dropping the fragments he’d gathered in his palm.

Blood began to bubble up on the surface of his skin, and he brought the injured finger to his lips. 

“Good job, Chan,” he mumbled, unsure of why his eyes were starting to sting. “You’re a good boy.”

The words didn’t calm him down like they typically would. In fact, they had the opposite effect. He didn’t want to hear himself say them. He wanted—

He curled into himself, shrinking under his clothes and barely managing to keep his balance as a sob racked his body. He pressed the wound closer to his lips, trying to get it to stop bleeding.

He didn’t even process the sound of the front door unlocking, or the approaching footsteps that followed. A familiar pair of green sneakers shuffled into his blurred field of view. Chan lifted his head, tears falling freely as he met Minho's deep stare.

He looked concerned, but not surprised. Not in the slightest.

“What happened?”

Chan kept his thumb to his mouth, chest aching from the cries he was so desperately trying to hold in. 

“I’m okay,” he choked out. “Just c-cut my finger.”

Minho crouched down, coming face to face with the older boy. “Let me see.”

Reluctantly, Chan held out his hand, placing it in Minho's waiting palm. Minho gave a light click of his tongue, as if unimpressed by the injury. 

“It doesn’t look that deep.”

Chan squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a fresh wave of hot tears down his cheeks. “Feels like it.”

Minho hummed, half-sympathetic. But it was soft. The same way Chan would hear him murmur to his cats back home. He let go of Chan's hand, lifting his gaze to look him straight in the eyes, unfazed by how red and swollen they were.

“What did she do?”

Chan sucked in a shaky breath, nowhere near ready to talk. Minho waited for a few moments, then rose from his spot, opening the medical cabinet to find something to treat him with. He turned his back to sift through their sparse first aid materials, and the absence of his scrutiny was enough for Chan to muster up enough courage to answer.

“She left,” he managed to gasp. “Think it’s over.”

Minho said nothing.

“A-and, please, before you say you told me so…it’s not the same.”

Through the soft hiccups and shallow pants that filled the room, a sigh met Chan’s ears. 

“I got tired of telling you that a long time ago,” Minho replied. “And it never made me happy to be right, for the record.” 

He lowered himself to Chan’s level again, ripping open the antibiotic packet he’d retrieved and pressing the alcoholic wipe delicately to the cut. Chan tried not to pull his hand away as the harsh burn rippled through his skin.

Once the wound was thoroughly cleaned, Minho put the bloodied wipe to the side and wrapped Chan’s thumb with a bandaid. Chan tried to rasp out a thank you, but it only came out as another pathetic sound. He never felt more pathetic than when he cried in front of Minho. Minho, who he was supposed to be strong for. Minho, who, even at his lowest, only betrayed his heartache before others with a subtle twitch of his lips or a few rapid blinks, shooing his tears away for later.

Minho redirected his attention from the now patched-up injury, stone face softening when he caught the uncontrollable shake in Chan’s shoulders.

“It’s okay.” He rested his hand on Chan’s back. “You’re okay.”

Chan took a deep breath, scolding himself, berating himself, screaming at himself to get it together. To stop being so fucking pathetic. He’d cried so much already, cried until his head throbbed and his lungs ached. He was surprised he had any tears left in his system to begin with. Minho’s voice was gentle, but Chan knew what he must be thinking. He knew the frustration, the judgment, the disappointment that must be boiling beneath his composed visage.

“I c-can’t—” he swallowed down another gasp. “Can’t be okay without her.”

“You can,” Minho said simply. “You’ve been okay before, you will be again.”

“Really hurts.”

“I know.”

“Feels…” Chan touched his index finger to his thumb, running it along the smooth texture of the bandaid. He pressed down, just hard enough to draw out the light pain. “Feels like I lost a part of myself.”

Minho frowned, hand pausing its rhythmic movements along his back. He stayed quiet for several heartbeats, letting the weight of the admission fully sink in.

“Tell me everything.”