#🌊🌊🌊 just bringing back the night she realized it

[the-thieves-gambit]

@clubsmarties

I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you.

Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

[aleksatia]

What would the LaDS do if MC just had enough of the whole secret keeping/manipulation/stalking/controlling behavior and ran away? Like she made sure all of the ways they're keeping tabs on her don't work anymore, secretly leaves to live elsewhere, and never comes back? Like she's GONE gone and can't be found.

Thanks so much for the question and the idea — it made me spiral beautifully into angst territory. 🖤 At first glance, this is how I imagine things would unfold in my headcanon.

Every LaDS reacts differently, and honestly… some of them never really recover. I poured my heart into each of their perspectives, so if you see it another way, I’d love to hear your take. Always open to different interpretations — especially when it comes to pain like this. 😌✨

UPD: Requested continuation is here:

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Zayne (coming soon) | Xavier (coming soon)

🦅 Sylus

(He doesn’t lose things. He takes, he keeps. But this—this is loss. A slow-rotting, world-tilting, soul-gnawing kind of loss.)

The Moment It Hits

It’s a shift in the air. An emptiness where something vital used to be. His breath catches, fingers tightening around the crystal glass of whiskey.

He calls you. Nothing.

He tracks you. Nothing.

He tears the city apart—contacts, satellites, underground networks. Nothing.

Then it hits. You’re not hiding. You’re beyond reach.

Does He Blame Himself?

At first, no. You’re just being difficult. Testing limits. He trained you too well in the game of power.

Then the days stretch. The silence rots in his gut.

Maybe he pushed too far. Held too tight. Loved too hard.

But if he had been softer, would you still be here? No. You were always going to run. He just never thought you’d win.

First Day

He sits in his study, staring at the last glass you touched. His fingers hover over the rim, but he doesn’t pick it up.

The Nest is in chaos, men scrambling for orders, but he says nothing. Just listens to the empty resonance where you used to be.

He doesn’t sleep. He barely moves. And when dawn breaks, he realizes—you’re still gone.

First Week

The silence is unbearable.

He smashes a mirror. Then a chair. Then an entire fucking room. But the noise doesn’t bring you back.

Music. That’s the answer. The organ swells under his fingers, but the sound doesn’t fill the void. It just makes it worse. The walls of his mansion tremble with the weight of his grief, but no one dares to stop him.

The first time he says Kitten, it’s barely a whisper. The second time, it’s a growl. The third—it’s a plea.

First Month

He kills a man just for saying your name. He kills another for looking at him wrong.

The city learns to be silent.

The organ plays every night, each melody heavier, darker—until one evening, he simply stops. Because music is agony now.

He thinks he hears you sometimes. A shift of fabric. A sharp inhale. But he turns, and there’s only the crushing weight of absence.

Five Years

People say he’s gone mad. That he talks to ghosts. That he’s lost his edge.

They don’t understand. He hasn’t lost it. He just has nothing left to prove.

He still feels you. Somewhere distant. Beyond his reach but never truly gone.

New Relationships? Don’t be ridiculous. He fucks, maybe. But no one’s ever allowed to touch his soul again.

He doesn’t chase anymore. Because one day, the universe will break in just the right way, and you’ll be within reach again.

And when that day comes—you’re not running anymore.

🌊 Rafayel

(He always smiled through pain. Painted beauty over grief. But when you disappeared, not even art could hide the collapse.)

The Moment It Hits

He waits three days before admitting to himself that you're really gone. Not late. Not upset. Gone.

Your studio key still sits on the shelf. The mug you always used — untouched. He tries calling. Messaging. Pretends he's not panicking.

Then he checks every port, every passage, every gallery, every alleyway where your soul might've left a trace.

You’ve vanished. And he knows—you didn’t want to be found.

Does He Blame Himself?

Every minute.

He retraces every word, every joke, every lingering glance he didn’t take seriously enough.

Maybe he should’ve said it clearer. Or sooner. Or not at all.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried so hard to keep it light, you would’ve known how deep he really felt.

First Day

He draws you. Over and over. Not from memory — from guilt.

He tries to remember how your mouth looked when you smiled through frustration. How your eyes dimmed when you thought he wasn’t watching.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t sleep. Paints until his fingers bleed.

First Week

He keeps thinking he hears your voice in the wind. That you're just out of frame.

Sits by the harbor, waiting for a boat that never comes.

Finishes a canvas. Stares at it for an hour. Then sets it on fire.

Tells himself he’s fine. He lies beautifully.

First Month

People ask where you are. He says you're traveling. Or healing. Or chasing a dream.

But the gallery knows — there’s a new collection in the works. All unnamed. All in shades of drowning.

The walls of his home are covered in your outlines. He keeps the lights low. Pretends it’s intimacy, not absence.

The world starts to lose its color. For a man who once saw millions of shades, everything dulls. Muted. Grey.

He stops using yellow entirely.

First Year

He vanishes beneath the sea. A whole year. Gone.

They say he swam through old ruins, sang to coral reefs that didn’t sing back.

He gathers shells—perfect, fragile—and crushes them into powder, making pigments no one's ever seen.

But they all come out grey.

When he finally resurfaces, his skin is colder. His voice is softer. His art—wordless grief on stretched canvas.

When asked what inspired them, he says: “Nothing. She’s not mine anymore.”

And when no one’s looking, he traces your initials into wet paint. Every time.

Five Years

He exhibits a piece called "When Silence Learned to Scream." It sells for millions. He doesn’t show up to the opening.

He no longer draws faces. Only fragments—lips that look like yours, fingers that used to hold his brush.

He’s touched people. Kissed some. Loved none.

He still sets a second cup of coffee. Still leaves the balcony door unlocked. Just in case.

The color never comes back. He just learns to fake it.

He doesn’t wait. He just… exists beside the ghost of you.

✈️ Caleb

(You were the only thing that made him feel human. Now, he’s just another machine built for war—functional, efficient, and dead inside.)

The Moment It Hits

He notices the silence first.

Your messages stop. Your routine shifts. Something’s off, but he tells himself you just need space. You’ve always needed space.

He checks on you through the usual systems—his eyes, the satellites, the passive trackers he swore weren’t invasive, just precautionary.

Nothing. Not disabled. Not broken. Gone.

His knees hit the floor before he can stop them. His hand wraps around the metal tag you gave him—the one he swore never to take off. It digs into his palm so hard it leaves a mark.

Does He Blame Himself?

He doesn’t even need to ask. Of course, it’s his fault.

Maybe if he had held you a little looser, if he had let you breathe, if he hadn’t always been watching, waiting, bracing for the day you’d run.

Maybe if he had been less Caleb and more someone you could love without suffocating.

But it’s too late now.

First Day

His body stops feeling like his own. Like his mechanical arm, the rest of him loses sensation.

He moves, eats, speaks, salutes—out of habit, not need.

But sometimes, when no one is watching, the pain surfaces.

And when it does, it swallows him whole.

First Week

He takes every mission no one else wants. The more dangerous, the better.

Tells himself he’s just doing his job, but deep down, he’s testing fate. Daring it to take him.

It never does.

He always comes back. And he hates it.

First Month

He stops cooking. No more spices, no more warmth, no more shared meals.

Only bland, military rations. Fuel, not food.

He doesn’t touch your photo albums, but he doesn’t throw them away either.

Let them rot with him.

First Year

He hasn’t eaten apples since the day you left.

Too sweet. Too alive. Too much like you.

The dog tag you gave him is still around his neck. A brand. A wound. A curse.

He tries. Once. With a woman from the med bay. She was kind. Gentle.

But when she reached for his hand—his jaw locked, his throat closed, his stomach churned.

He excused himself. Never tried again.

Five Years

His name is legendary. His rank? Higher than anyone imagined.

The man who never dies. The ghost pilot. The one who walks away from wreckage without a scratch.

He used to hate attention, but now? Now his inaccessibility makes women chase him more. He lets them. But never sees their faces. Never lets them touch his scars. Never lets them hold him the way you used to.

Because pain is all he has left of you. And he’s not ready to let it go.

🧊 Zayne

(Some men burn in their grief. Some men drown in it. Zayne? He freezes. The world still turns, the city still moves, and he walks through it like a ghost wearing a doctor’s coat. Precise. Detached. Functioning. But never living.)

The Moment It Hits

He finds out through absence, not presence.

You were always predictable in small ways. The way you fidgeted when nervous. The way you always texted before vanishing for a few hours. The way you left traces of yourself in his space, even when you didn’t mean to.

But one day, all of it stops.

Your number disconnects. Your bank account closes. The security cameras catch nothing. Too clean. Too final.

You didn’t just leave. You erased yourself.

Does He Blame Himself?

No. Not at first.

Because blaming himself would mean accepting that he miscalculated, and he does not make mistakes.

He spends months analyzing. Running simulations. Mapping out every logical reason why you left.

None of them make sense.

Then, one night, while sitting alone in his office, he makes the mistake of asking himself the one question he’s been avoiding—

What if it wasn’t logic? What if it was just pain?

That’s the first time he doesn’t sleep.

First Day

The hospital is quiet. Too quiet.

He operates. He consults. He performs at peak efficiency because the alternative is stopping, and stopping means thinking.

At the end of the day, he unlocks his apartment and stares at the empty space where your things used to be.

He stands there.

Just stands there.

First Week

His routine doesn’t break. Not once.

5 AM runs. 12-hour shifts. Research until 2 AM.

No deviations. Because deviations lead to cracks.

The first time someone mentions your name, his scalpel slips.

It never happens again.

First Month

He starts closing doors he once left open.

Stops looking at his phone. Stops checking messages.

Your coffee order is deleted from his usual café’s system.

He doesn’t erase you. That would be emotional.

He simply moves forward.

First Year

He doesn’t say your name anymore.

When people ask, he says you’re gone. No details. No elaboration.

But his residents whisper.

How their attending stopped smiling. How he works more than sleeps. How his precision became ruthless.

They never mention the fact that he never, ever, takes cases where patients have your eye color.

Five Years

The rumors are true. He has a daughter.

No one knows the mother. No one dares ask.

He never talks about it, never brings her to the hospital, but he leaves every shift at exactly the same time—always back before she falls asleep.

He teaches her to count constellations on the ceiling. Reads her anatomy books like fairy tales.

She has your eyes. People notice. Whisper. But no one asks.

And when she laughs—it’s a sound that shatters something in him.

When she asks, “Was Mommy like me?” He pauses. Looks at her. Then, softly: "She was... the part of you I’ll never be able to explain."

He never married. Never will.

And sometimes, when the room is too quiet, and she’s asleep in his arms—he looks at her face and wonders if loving someone this much was ever ethical.

🌌 Xavier

(He doesn’t fall apart. He folds in. Quietly. Gracefully. Like a dying star still casting light no one realizes is already gone.)

The Moment It Hits

It starts with your resignation.

No dramatic exit. No farewell. Just one line in the system: “Resigned. No forwarding information.”

You, who lived for the Hunt, for duty. You, who said this was everything.

He tries to message. Silence.

Asks around. Friends. Colleagues. Command. They say you just… vanished.

Then one day, he walks past your old apartment—someone else lives there.

Your scent, your presence, your trace in the universe—gone.

Does He Blame Himself?

He tries not to.

Tells himself you were always drifting, always meant to disappear.

But the silence between you, the things he never said— “Stay. I need you.” “I was never calm, I just didn’t know how to show it.”

They echo in his mind louder than any explosion.

He doesn’t hate himself. But he never forgives.

First Day

He stays on duty longer than needed.

Doesn’t take off his coat. Doesn’t go home.

Doesn’t even speak, unless the mission demands it.

At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders if you’re staring at the same stars.

First Week

He starts bounty hunting again. Harder. Deeper into uncharted zones.

He sleeps more—but worse. Dreams flicker like static.

When he returns, they say he’s become faster. Colder. Lethal.

No one dares ask why.

First Month

He stops wearing light colors.

White fades into grey. Grey fades into black.

He says nothing about the change.

But those who know him realize: he’s mourning.

And it’s a mourning that will never end.

First Year

Women try. Of course they do.

He’s distant. Beautiful. Untouchable.

He lets a few in—physically. But only when the emptiness claws too loudly.

He never sees their faces. Never lets them stay the night.

One once whispered, “I could love you, if you let me.” He didn’t respond. Just walked away.

Because you never had to ask. You already did.

Five Years

He’s still hunting. Still tracking the lost, the dangerous, the damned.

He walks through warzones like a shadow of starlight.

No one has seen him in white in years.

They call him a myth. A legend. A ghost.

But he’s just a man who would trade eternity for one more day with you.

Just one day.

Just once—to see your face again.

[yokumirumerafan]

Can I request how the Demon Slayer Characters would react to being reunited with Y/N who went missing on a mission but later returned minority injured but alive regardless. I know it’s a bit odd but I’m a sucker for reuniting fics.

Have a great day/night!

AHHH YESSSSSSS THAT ANGSTY COMFORT GOODNESS 😭💗 we eatin’ SO good today omg… this is such a sweet request and not odd at all!! I’ll split the reactions for ya like always—gonna hit you with Hashiras n' Kamaboko Squad

🌸 Mitsuri Kanroji She sprints at you the second she sees you. Full-on bawling. “Y/N-CHANNNN!!! I THOUGHT I LOST YOU FOREVER!!” Hugs you so tight you might break a rib, but then starts frantically apologizing and fussing over your injuries. She makes you a giant home-cooked meal and doesn’t let you out of her sight for a week.

🔥 Rengoku Kyojuro He holds his composure until you’re right in front of him, then suddenly he’s on his knees, hugging your waist tightly. “You have returned…thank the gods.” His voice cracks a little. He treats you with such care while helping you recover—quiet and more serious than usual, guilt simmering behind his smile.

🌫️ Muichiro Tokito Silent. Just stares at you for a solid minute. Then walks up, pokes your forehead and says, “…I knew you’d come back. You’re not allowed to do that again.” Sits beside your bed the whole time you recover, pretending he’s “just resting” but actually watches over you like a hawk.

⚡️ Sanemi Shinazugawa “WHAT THE HELL TOOK YOU SO LONG?!?!” He’s yelling, not because he’s mad at you, but because he’s mad at himself for not going after you. You get pulled into the most aggressively protective hug of your life, and he doesn’t even care about your injuries. “You scared the absolute shit outta me, dumbass…”

🐍 Obanai Iguro He clenches his fists when he sees you, jaw tight, eyes wide. Then: “…You’re hurt.” Softly. He wraps your wounds in silence, barely speaking, but Kaburamaru curls around your hand like he’s missed you too. When you fall asleep, he quietly whispers, “Don’t leave me like that again…”

🌊 Giyuu Tomioka Completely frozen when you return. Everyone else is shouting or crying and he just—stands there. Then finally walks up and pulls you into a hug, tight and trembling. “I thought you died.” It’s the most emotional you’ve ever seen him.

💎 Gyomei Himejima Falls to his knees and cries instantly. Holds your hand to his face. “I prayed for your return every day… thank you for coming back to us.” He doesn’t leave your side at all during your recovery, and even makes sure no one disturbs your rest.

🎨 Shinobu Kocho Smiles at you when you come back, even jokes: “Hmm~ That’s quite the dramatic entrance.” But when she’s treating your wounds, her hands are shaking. “I was worried sick. Don’t do that again, Y/N… or I’ll poison you myself.”

🍡 Kamaboko Squad Reactions 🍡

💚 Tanjiro Kamado Breaks down crying the second he sees you. Tanjiro cries LOUD and UGLY. “You’re okay… You’re okay…” He doesn’t let go of your hand for hours, constantly asking if you’re comfortable and warm enough and if you need anything at all.

💖 Nezuko Kamado She launches at you and hugs you tight while squeaking and purring like a kitten. She stays by your side in her mini form and won’t let anyone else take care of you except for herself.

⚡ Zenitsu Agatsuma WAILS “Y/N-CHANNNN I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONE!!!” He’s dramatically sobbing but also won’t stop checking your bandages and bringing you soup. He stares at you constantly, as if he can’t believe you’re real.

💪 Inosuke Hashibira Charges you full speed and tackles you—only to realize you’re injured and panic. “WHAT THE HELL! WHY’D YOU GO AND SCARE ME LIKE THAT?!” Grumpy but protective. He camps out next to you and glares at anyone who comes too close.

🔫 Genya Shinazugawa Silent tears. He sees you and his eyes go wide, and then he just walks over and crushes you into a hug. “Don’t… don’t do that again. Ever.” It’s the most emotional you’ve ever seen him. He checks on you 24/7 even when you’re asleep.

🩷 Douma “Oh, you’re alive! How fun~!” Pretends he’s not bothered, but there’s a frantic twitch in his eye and he’s way too clingy after you return. Refuses to let you go anywhere alone ever again. “You almost broke my heart, darling~♡”

🔥 Akaza Instantly goes into panic mode. “Who did this to you?! Where were you?!” He’s so angry and guilty, even if it wasn’t his fault. He tends your wounds in silence, but his hand is always gripping yours tightly. He swears to never let you out of his sight again.

🦠 Kokushibo He stands still, the way a statue might, and then slowly walks over. “…You live.” He’s visibly shaken. Offers no words of affection, but spends every moment by your side. Your favorite drink appears next to your bed. He does everything silently—but it’s his way of showing care.

💀 Muzan Kibutsuji Absolutely livid—but hides it behind a chilling calmness. “You were gone. You almost died. I should kill whoever let that happen.” He has a protective obsession. You’re immediately moved somewhere safer and watched constantly. But when he thinks you're asleep, he sits beside you, gently brushing your hair from your face with a soft sigh.

[yuseonghqs]

🌊 GREETINGS FROM YUSEONG BAY !

JUST LANDED: OLSEN, SVEERE. / / FROM: NEATHERLANDS. / / AGE: 26.

–––– ( FOLLOW ? ) / / ( READ MORE ? ) / / ( MAILBOX ? )

TW BRIEF MENTIONS OF ABUSE

in 2005, there are three central facts that make up sverre olsen’s universe:

1. his favorite color is red.

well, mom says that he likes red anyway, so it makes sense for him to like red—too young to argue on it, too old to fully align himself with it, he wears his firetruck red 75% off parka with something that could almost be pride if he weren’t so embarrassed.

he’s not embarrassed because it’s red.

he’s embarrassed because the sleeves are too long, the shoulders are too boxy, and if he dares to zip it up, it swallows him completely. seven years old and he already doesn’t like how he looks; he’s got mom’s influence to thank for that, but when he tries to tell her he doesn’t like it, she tells him he will. she also says something about how clearance items can’t be returned anyway, and he’ll get used to it after wearing it a few times. he’ll have to, because he’ll be wearing it next year, too. says she bought it big so he’d have space to grow, but he’d keep growing whether he had the space or not, so he knows that what she means is ‘it’s cheaper this way’.

sometimes he hates his mom for being cheap, but he loves her, too, so he wears the jacket.

2. manners are more valuable than morals.

so when he’s begging for scraps, he should never forget to say please.

dad always gives him the same talk before sending him in to pizza paladino at 9:50pm more nights than he cares to count: smile (but if that doesn’t work, cry), say please, say thank you, say my mom is sick, say my dad is working late, say yes, my mom is home and so is my older brother (never tell them you don’t have a brother), ask if they have anything left and if they say that they don’t, ask if they’re sure. 

the speech always ends with “i’ll be waiting behind the building” and it takes sverre longer than he should to realize why they can never go in together, just like he can never figure out why they won’t just eat the food out of their pantry.

still, he does what dad tells him to and it usually works. no one wants to see a kid go hungry, so the teenagers and almost-adults send him out with a stale pizza on some nights, bags of breadsticks soggy with grease on others.

3. some people never should’ve had kids.

he hears pizza paladino’s manager (a man with frown lines deeper than dad’s) say that one night, right as he’s pushing the glass doors open at 9:50pm. he’s too young to be completely aware of himself, let alone of the stigma constantly attached to poor people, so he doesn’t really know that it’s about him until the girl with the glasses dismisses her manager.

she smiles at sverre in a way that’s almost apologetic. almost. instead, it’s tired, but he doesn’t understand that either, so he smiles back.

“my mom—” he starts, well-rehearsed. but then she interrupts him to ask if his mom is still sick, if she’s doing any better at all, and that’s not part of the script, so he stumbles.

“well. i don’t… know. i’m not sure. she’s just… sick.”

he stands there, stiff and awkward. he looks at the manager, sees him looking out the glass doors at something further back. he doesn’t think about what it is until his hands are full of greasy paper bags and he’s on his way. dad isn’t out back this time. no—today he’s standing right outside, smoking one of his lucky strikes.

the last thing that he hears before the door shuts behind him is this: “what a fucking loser.” he’s never sure whether it was about himself or his father.

/

age brings on awareness, and awareness alters the things that sverre knows to be true. by 2012, his universe looks like this:

1. his favorite color is beige.

sure, it’s beige, but it’s only beige because that’s the color of his grandma—of the porridge that she makes him in the morning after he’s spent a night at her house (“at a friend’s,” he tells his parents, and grandma always keeps his secret), of her favorite sweater, of the duvet on her guest bed.

the thing about grandma is that she’s honest. she wants to know why sverre comes over so often, and sverre tells her like it is: he used to sorta have friends, but they always wanted to go out and do things, and he never had the money to participate so they stopped inviting him. “it’s fine, anyway,” he tells her (with bloodshot eyes, with chapped lips), he just doesn’t want mom and dad to know. if they knew, they’d feel guilty, and they shouldn’t feel guilty.

grandma says that they should.

she says that the statements ‘i’m doing my best for my child’ and ‘it’s still not enough’ can coexist, and when she says it, he believes it.

he doesn’t want to hate his parents, but sometimes he does. other times, he dreams of making things better for them.

2. manners are more valuable than morals.

so when the man of the house raises his fist to his son, he’d better apologize.

it’s just that times are hard for everybody and sverre likes to talk too much. he takes up too much space, he asks for too much, he eats too much, he costs too much—worse still, he’s in the age of attitude and when dad says ‘i’m trying’, sverre asks if he’s sure.

everything changes in a half-minute: it starts with dad at the stove and sverre standing in the doorframe, watching him. it ends with his nose bleeding and dad’s hands balled into fists at his sides.

later that day, dad cries and no one’s there to calm him other than sverre, so he tries his best with what he has which isn’t much when it comes down to it. had he been coddled more as a kid, maybe he’d go for a hug, but as it stands, the most that he can come up with is a hand on dad’s back.

he says he’s sorry, he says that hurting sverre is the last thing he’d ever want to do and that he doesn’t know what got into him. he’s just been stressed lately. tired, too. everything’s just so much.

sverre repeats it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay and unknowingly sets the tone for the rest of his adolescence.

3. some people never should’ve had kids.

that’s what the school counselor tells him the one time that he stops by her office, both prefaced and followed by apologies.

he can’t say that he blames her—what else is there to say after a kid who’s only just introduced himself to you tells you that he’s tired (not physically, but mentally) and not sure how to fix it? that his dad hit him a couple days ago, but it was just a one-off thing and he knows he deserved it anyway? that he’s lonely? that school’s such a fucking drag, and no matter how hard he tries his grades don’t get any better, so he’s not sure what he’s going to do from here?

right. most adults would look him in the eyes and apologize first, then blame the parents. but sverre’s always loved his parents, mostly.

so he tells her that it’s not their fault either. asks her what the point of talking is if she doesn’t know what to say.

on his way out, he grumbles something about missing his lunch period for this load of bullshit.

/

the universe, circa 2016:

1. his favorite color is black.

well, not really, but doesn’t every angsty teenager go through this phase? black eyeliner, black nails, black lungs if those warnings that his mom gives him every time she catches him smoking one of dad’s lucky strikes are true—eighteen is gruesome and his fashion is the worst part.

he dyes his hair black with a cheap box-dye kit. he says it’s because he figured it would look cool, but it goes without saying that he does it for the attention that a stained bathtub is sure to bring.

he expects dad to be the angry one, but mom’s the one who speaks up. she doesn’t mention the bathtub, just his hair. she hasn’t touched him in god knows how long, but she touches him now, cold fingers pushing through his fried curls.

“why would you do this, sverre? you’re such a handsome blond.”

dad says that the black looks good.

both reactions make him feel unusually loved.

2. morals are more valuable than manners.

in other words, mom and dad were wrong all along.

it doesn’t matter how many times he says please, thank you, yes ma'am or no sir, there’s not a single university in europe worth mentioning that’ll take him in without money or extracurriculars. fuck the gpa; it’s nothing without decor.

“i told you you should’ve played soccer,” dad says, and something about it makes sverre want to hit him—but that wouldn’t be moral or polite.

3. some people never should’ve had kids.

this time, it’s a conclusion that sverre comes to all on his own. not out of contempt for his parents, but guilt. it’s just the way things go: when a kid’s brought up in a family that can hardly afford them, aren’t they bound to imagine a world without themselves in it?

he sees his dad without reasons to drink on the weekends, his mom without reasons to work so many hours that she hardly sees her family:

in this world, dad would be a professional soccer player (maybe retired by now, but with enough money to live comfortably) and mom would be a doctor, still working hard but with more to show for it. a stronger sense of accomplishment.

sverre olsen comes into the picture and the perfect world fades—he cries too loud, he grows too fast, he wants too much. there’s no time for either parent to go to school and hobbies are cast by the wayside.

if he were his father, he wouldn’t like himself much, either.

/

2021:

1. his favorite color is blue.

and this time he means it.

blue for all the girls who told him how handsome he would be if only he had blue eyes (and how many hours he spent staring into the sun, promising them his eyes could look blue if the lighting was right), blue for the lake where so many of his summer days were spent tossing crackers to ducks and sticking his feet into the pond despite signs saying not to get too close, blue for his father’s beat-up car that he always promised to pass down to sverre (and then totaled before he ever could), blue for the logo of jeju national university—

a school he spent a semester abroad at halfway through his undergrad studies, and one that starts to look a little bit like paradise as he’s applying for the gks grad scholarship with the help of his academic advisor. he looks better on paper than in practice, so he thinks his odds are good.

2. morals and manners are equally important.

because leaving his parents feels like the morally correct thing to do.

he’s not home much anymore, anyway. only on the weekends, but they can tell that his dedication is dwindling and they’re not paying his tuition just for him to tap out so close to the end, so sometimes they talk and sometimes he listens.

dad says that they ought to kick him out, encourage him to learn to live independently. mom says that he’s still so young and he’s still in school for now. dad says that won’t last forever.

he can’t blame them, anyway—he’s never fully applied himself anywhere, ambition dying with those long-lost pizza paladino pleas and he’s genetically predestined to fall through on each and every one of his promises, but that’s just the thing. it runs in the family. he knows that they look down on him, and sometimes he wonders if they know that he looks down on them, too: a cracked mirror, i hate what we are.

it’s a sunday when he tells them that he’s going to south korea.

3. some people never should’ve had kids.

because as much as they hate to admit it, mister and misses olsen’s lives are exponentially better without a child eating all of their food and taking all of their money.

sverre knows this because he sees their posts on facebook. they’ve been dining at restaurants more often, going on dates. dad seems happier and mom swears that his anger’s gone dormant, so sverre must’ve been the source after all. (she doesn’t say that part, but he knows).

and korea’s really not what he’d remembered it as being, but he doesn’t have the heart to admit that he wants to go home because what the hell would that make him look like? nothing good, he’s sure. 

he stays, and he does what he knows best: makes the most of what he has and hates his parents only a little bit for not giving him more.

[365partygirl305]

Chapter II: Who Was That Girl? Into Deep

Warnings: angst, mention of near death incident, mention of drugs, repetition of past trauma/near death incident, and nightmare

A/n: The following content may be unsuitable for younger readers. Reader’s discretion is strongly advised.

Matty’s pov

I could have sworn someone rescued me. That girl. Her beautiful voice. That familiar melody. Her touch was so soft.

My mates and I are on the couch again in the aftermath of my near death. I am so fucked for this.

“Mate, you could have died. We’ve been worried about you,” George begins. “And you’re telling us some saint saved you?”

“Yes,” I reply. “A girl saved me. I can’t describe how beautiful her voice is, her touch, that melody. I can’t get it out of my head even if I try.”

“Are you in your delulu era?”

“I’m not delusional!”

My frustration grows more like a balloon that is about to burst. I swear she’s real. I just need to find her.

“Are you seriously going to that beach again?” Adam asks We don’t want you to get hurt or killed.”

“I’m serious. I need to see her again.”

“Jesus Christ, mate. You do realize that you’re gonna repeat that again.” Ross noted, his tone annoyed at this point.

I’ve had enough. “So what if it repeats? Will it stop me from finding her? This is nothing like my heroin addiction! It’s a girl I keep seeing in my dreams for fuck’s sake! It’s been haunting me for days!”

The silence rings so loud in my ears. Everyone is stunned. Why did I bring up my heroin addiction and my cocaine addiction I had back then? Have I gone mad?

Ashamed of myself, I bolt out the door, ignoring the pleas and apologetic demands.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

The sand in my hand falls in a neat pile as if it is an hourglass. The shores of the sea is where I calm down. The melody in my head plays again. I feel like I’m haunted by some ghost or something. My mind is plagued of her. She’s everywhere I go. Her eyes, her soft skin, her voice echoing in my ear.

I walk to the water, trying to see if she’s there. The haunting sounds push me further. The water rises up to my chest at this point. If I go under again, will she be there? Will it all stop? Will I end the madness for good? Will the world be better off without me?

I take a deep breath and go under. Her voice still echoes, the melody staying in my mind. Curious, I swim farther and farther into the blue. Deeper and deeper I go, the water temperature starts dropping. It is so cold, yet peaceful, but I am running out of air. So I swim up to the surface.

I break the waves with a huge gasp. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe. You have all the time in the world to search for her. She’s still out there. So, I take another chest full of air and dive again.

Adrenaline rushes through my body as I swim deeper to the bottom, seeing if there is any sign of her. Nothing. Only the haunting sounds of her voice in my head. Are my mates right? Am I delusional? No! I’m not giving up on this yet!

Deeper and deeper I swim, ignoring the fire in my body, my mind counting the seconds of breath holding while at the same time I feel the fire again. My lungs burn once more to the point of resurface.

I float to breathe a moment. Relax, I think. Relax. You’re okay. You’ll find her. I’m sure she’s out there somewhere. That saint who saved you from your doom. One deep breath more and I’m back searching.

The ambience of the ocean calms me down a bit despite the loud sound of her voice. My head feels dizzy, but my gut says I must continue my search. The longer I hold my breath, the longer I can last underwater. I continue to swim further, ignoring the familiar flame in my body and the burning of my lungs.

I find myself in a similar spot where my car was. Where she found me. The past replaced what was in my mind and it is the night I almost died. Fear of death and almost about to die, I swim up to the surface, my hand reaching out to the light. Everything turns black for a split second before a pair of hands hoist me up to the surface. Was that her?

I look under face down. It is her. She’s wearing a dress that shimmers in the sunlight beneath the waves. She must be the one. She must be. I am then betrayed by claws instead and was pulled under.

“What have we here?” A voice says in a menacing tone. My body is still shaking from the grip.

“A human I see. Looking for someone who saved you? She’s not here. She’s away. Sure, she can be the one who saved you-“ I am slammed to the bottom again. “But she’s not going back. Long gone. Give up. Accept your fate.”

I want to speak, but only bubbles fly out my mouth as I accidentally breathe the saltwater. I want to go home. My mates need me now. They’re not ready to lose me. I get myself free from the invisible grasp and swim higher. Once again, my body stop working. I smile. The world fades to black…

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

I gasp for air, not realizing I was dreaming again. The girl was there. But something is forcing her back. What was it?

I have no time for analyzing. I try to take deep breaths, just like how my therapist taught me. But the panic stays. The same dream has been haunting me for days. The water felt like it’s human. Being slammed into the bottom. I look at the time.

1:02.

“Fuck me,” I whisper to myself.

“What has gotten into you, mate?” George grumbles after I began the call. I had already drank 5 bottles of wine at this point.

“I see her in my dreams. The death of my girlfriend is so bad,” I’m rambling again about what’s going on in my mind right now. “That girl I saw. The one who saved me. I see her everywhere.”

“Hey, relax. I see you’re not delusional now.”

“I still miss Amia.”

“I miss her too. She was a good one.”

I start shaking again, tears streaming down my face. The pain of losing her in the car accident has been haunting me. So is the mystery girl.

“It’s gonna be alright,” George coos on the other end. “Y’know, we’re all here for you. I know you’re grieving harder than ever. We got you.”

“I’m sorry I blew up at you guys. I’ve been an absolute mess since the incident and Amia’s death.”

“It’s alright, mate. Do you want me to keep you company for the night?”

Through recovering sniffles, I say, “I would love that. I love you, man.”

“I love you too, mate.”