#AND it. Has a story so its like actually mentally stimulating

[oflgtfol]

also i really did not anticipatw the way my boredom would manifest on the road trip. so sorry to everyone who gave me music suggestions, they were all good but it was hard to not go insane with songs that i dont recognize and couldnt sing along to. i’ll have to check most of them our when i can actually sit down with them and focus. so ironically i actually had to turn to story driven media. i listened to a few musicals and then by the halfway point of my return back i actually started to listen to my very first ever podcast and yknow what it fucking worked. shoulda been podcasting the whole way

[dangopango00]

The Amazing Digital Circus and Escapism

A/N: Just watched and I LOOVEEEE cooking theories for these kinda of Youtube Series even if they turn out to be wrong so Heres the incomprehensible youtube comment I made just now bye

I like to put preliminary theories for series like this and my theory for this is that the circus is some kind of representation of escapism and/or maladaptive daydreaming

1. There's a shit ton of religious symbolism, maybe suggesting that the circus is supposed to be “heaven” although it has underlying hellish elements. For example, cain being portrayed as god and the fact that he doesn’t seem to really get why anyone would want to leave. In contrast, his name references the brother of abel who was cursed by god for his jealous rage. Not only this but, how everything is generally upbeat but there are momentary mental breaks when they are brought back to reality.

2. Reality is often blurred: The characters are real people but its suggested the lines are easily blurred like in the fact that pomni gets attached to a character that was never real to begin with or the fact that cain hints that it can be hard to tell the difference between real characters and npcs

3. Anecdotal but the fact that everyone seems to have a different vision for how the adventures should be played out: Jax wants action and violence, ragatha just wants something stimulating and pomni wants something comforting; the fact that jax gets upset when his vision isn't fulfilled feels very similar to mishaps when maladaptive daydreaming

4. Glitches and the video game setting overall: Idk if its just me but in maladaptive daydreaming its very easy for the mind to wander or mess up, causing a “glitch” in the story which I think is very similar to the glitches in the show

More UTC

5. The concept of VR itself is pretty much one step away from active escapism and although a bit of a stretch, I think the fact that the characters can’t take off their headset references their unwillingness to live in reality rather than actually being forced

6. Character behavior: How pomni goes from extremely weirded out to accepting and even slightly enjoying the circus feels very reminiscent of how it feels to first start maladaptive daydreaming as its an entirely odd thing to do but when you get into it it turns out to be fun and you keep doing it for hours. Ragatha is also interesting because she seems to ignore reality in favor of keeping herself sane, even ignoring devastating truths she realizes when she moves on from her mental breaks so quickly which is pretty much what maladaptive daydreaming is.

7. Exit: When pomni makes it to the exit and sees the desk setup with the headset, she began to lose her mind and instead of going forward to the next door she started going back (i think). I think this was her momentarily remembering how she felt like nothing in real life but in the circus she could be the main character (i think she struggled with feeling like nothing in the real world because of how much she brings it up and sympathizes with gummigoo, probably feeling like an npc irl) though either way she leaves the scene, likely not wanting to remember how her life was before.

8. Abstraction: Since we haven’t seen much of it Im still not completely sure but if I had to guess— I think abstraction is when you completely separate yourself from reality and live in a daydream full time since abstraction means “The quality of dealing with ideas rather than events” which is pretty much what escapism is; I think abstraction is likely a state of complete delusion as is hinted in the show by saying people who abstract are crazy

Overall I think the digital circus is probably either about escapism in general and/or a commentary on how we distract ourselves from serious topics almost as if we are children protecting ourselves from real life.

[ranger-rai]

What are your opinions on rapid evolution? Like say when a trainer feeds their pokemon candies to help them evolve instantly rather than gradually? Are there any adverse effects on the pokemon themselves? I'd assume it's just like forcing someone to instantly grow up rather than living out a childhood, right?

This is a pretty complex question, so let me start by giving the simple answer first:

It's a very bad practice and should be regulated a lot closer.

When it comes to pokemon growth, evolution and health you need to consider that they need time to grow into their final stages, and the time could be years spent with their trainer, allowing their body to strengthen and develop naturally.

Feeding a pokemon a bunch of "Rare Candy" artificially stimulates the natural energy pokemon output to conduct evolution.

Unfortunately, these "candies" are pretty easy to get your hands on and aren't seriously regulated because they actually have medical uses.

(You can also look up how to make them online as well)

These candies can be used if a pokemon us having some developmental problems in their evolution cycle, perhaps early evolution symptoms and signs but there's some kind of delay or energy imbalance, the candies can help stimulate this process to help them grow and evolve naturally.

Unfortunately these candies being medically useful, over the counter accessible and treatments for pretty simple issues have made them easy to get and easier to abuse, Unfortunately resulting in some pretty common problems for both trainers and pokemon.

While the benefit of the pokemon reaching its "maximum potential" way faster, some of the most common drawbacks of "Rapid Evolution" or "Candy Evo" are health defects like joint issues, breathing problems, heart and organ size difference, and under developed muscles and misplaced power output.

However, I am a huge advocate against raising training for the biggest drawback:

Delayed Mental Growth.

Unfortunately, a pokemon might evolve too quickly, and as a result, they are essentially a small pokemon in a large pokemons body, and its a lot more difficult to manage than you'd expect.

Personality disparity, random bouts or depression and fits of anger, and trying to find a way to explain to your pokemon that they can't fit in your lap or the small bed for them and now they need to sleep outside or in a less comfortable place.

It's all a lot that weighs on a person's mind and heart.

When I found Sylvester, he was alone, scared, and confused from his Rapid Evolution situation, after a child was gifted an Aron and used a ton of rare candies to help it evolve.

Apparently, she didn't know it would evolve into a large and heavy pokekon, and he wasn't as "cute," as she thought, so she abandoned him in Mt. Coronet.

This is also why I'm absolutely for education and NOT giving children Pokémon before they are trained and do some kind of camp beforehand.

Thankfully Sylvester has done so well in his over a year with me, and he is understanding his role and current situation in life, and has really become a joyful and loving ball of happiness who loves to dress fancy and serve people drinks st my Cafe.

He's always such a big help and a successful story of rehabilitation and coming together to turn a really bad situation into a loving family.

So please do not try and do a Rapid Evolution and discourage anyone you might hear talking about doing it. It really has a large chance not to end well.

[offbrand-valk]

Two Knights

Hey remember Tungsten Rose? I wrote an opening for it i actually like!

Let’s start at the Mausoleum Church of Judgement. A 68 ton warmachine stands before a mosaic of the rape of Sankta Alina, its head bowed low in prayer.

Approximately, 400.631 kilometers away at the opposite end of the kingdom, inside a smaller and less storied church stands another warmachine; praying before a painting of Sankta Sabine being boiled alive by her husband.

Technically, these two events happen about a week and a half apart, but let's, for the sake of simplicity, and to acknowledge the will of God, pretend they are happening simultaneously.

Besides, on the celestial scale, 10 days is less than the blink of an eye.

Of course the similarity in the two rituals is neither coincidence, nor divine plan. One is openly modelled after the other.

The painter of the Sankta Sabine piece was given a difficult task: To create something as evocative and memorable as perhaps the most well-known image in all christendom, and made an admirable attempt. 

Without the emotional rawness that comes from having access to a snuff film of the saint’s murder to use as reference, the painter has had to rely on abstraction. By using tricks of light and perspective, the skin seems to melt off Sankta Sabine’s skin as the viewer moves closer. By twisting shadows her husband, his friends and his captain have been given devil-esque features: hair stood up to look like canine ears, eyes blurry to make it seem like they have two pairs each.

The warmachines, and the human component within them are exhausted, kept going by military stimulants and their own heavily altered physiques.

Since the ritual began a month ago, they have gone through every kind of simulated battle. They’ve had to learn, to improvise, to lead and to serve. They’ve been beaten, tortured, and shot more times than they can count.

And there’s still more to come. This moment of prayer is a merciful respite before their final trial.

They don’t know what awaits them, only that it's a furiously guarded secret, and that it above all else determines if they are worthy of knighthood. They would not have gotten this far if they were not ready for the final trial, but if they fail it, then they will die to keep its secret.

In a few moments it will be too late to back out, they will have consented to whatever happens.

The unknown doesn’t scare them, it has been part of their training since they began at only four years old. When the ancient enemy returns, there is no telling what weapons they will bring with them. That doesn’t mean they aren’t considering backing out; there’s no shame in retreat, what’s shameful is dying senselessly.

Part of expecting the unexpected, is figuring out what it might be, so of course they have theories as for what awaits them: A divine encounter, some grand revelation, a particularly challenging battle, a puzzle, or a final surgery to complete their integration with the machine. Nothing is off the table after the month they have had.

Independently of each other, both warmachines arrive at the same worst case scenario: One in which they are expected to already know the solution. It would not be the first task in which they were expected to cheat to succeed. After all, war has no victor, only losers and survivors. And to their credit, they have both tried to cheat: they have kept meticulous notes on every trial they’ve faced, looked for any stray clue or overlooked note, and stopped just short of assaulting clergy for information. A show of restraint they are now regretting.

As they are called to the trial, they are given a single instruction: “doff your armor.”

Very well. Wires click free of spines, and controls pull apart like the leaves of a flower as the human components emerges from their shells of tungsten and resin; all the while mentally adjusting their expectations for the trial to come.

The room is kept sparsely lit, only enough to show the group of senior knights and clerics gathered to carry out the trial. In the center of the room, a sword hilt sticks out of a grid in the floor, both prospective knights instinctively know they’re supposed to stand behind it and await further instructions.

The instruction comes a moment later, as orange flames spew forth from the grid, enveloping the sword completely, the knight commander utters the chivalric oath: “In the name of the people!”

Neither hesitates, if they had, they would have failed the test. “In the name of the people.” They reply, stepping forward and reaching into the roaring fire, grasping the red hot metal with both hands.

“In the name of the people.” The assembled watchers chant in unison.

The skin has already burnt off their fingers. Beneath it, their subdermal armor does what it’s supposed to, distributing the heat across the body to reduce damage.

“In the name of the people!” They roar back, keeping a firm grasp on the sword, with no concern for the fire, as their altered bodies begin producing and distributing painkillers through the bloodstream.

“In the name of the people!” The watchers call once more.

“In the name of the people!” They respond as the skin on their shoulders begin to boil from heat carried by their subdermal armor.

“In the name of the people!”

“In the name of the people!”

“In the name of the people!”

“In the name of the people!”

Finally, the fire subsides, only then do our two heroes let go of the sword.

The skin has burnt or boiled off the flesh from their hands, almost all the way across their torsos, but beneath their subdermal armor, the damage is minimal. The fire is a test of devotion, not a way to reduce operational effectiveness.

“Don you armor knight Connor 19-1.” The knight commander orders. 

400.631 kilometers away and 10 days later another knight commander orders “Don your armor knight Karnstein 01X.”

Both do as instructed, barely able to maintain their composure now that their ascension is over and they are back in their complete bodies.

A nun in one case, a monk in the other, approaches the newly minted knight, carrying an embossed steel plate and a rivet gun.

The knights bow, proudly presenting their dominant arms, and wait for the cleric to attach the ancient scripture that signifies their ascension to knighthood.

“This machine kills fascists.”

[maaarine]

Aphantasia can be a gift to philosophers and critics like me (Mette Leonard Høeg, Psyche, March 20 2023)

“Bringing this scene to my mind, I don’t ‘see’ anything.

I have aphantasia, the neurological condition of being unable to visualise imagery, also described as the absence of the ‘mind’s eye’.

Still, I know that those visual elements were there; they’re stored in my mind as knowledge and concepts; and I have particular and strong emotional responses to the thought of the light and colours.

Until very recently, I had always assumed that my experience of reality was typical, and that being able to see only things that are actually there – present and visible in the external surroundings – was normal.

But discovering that I have aphantasia brought to my awareness differences in perception and self-conception between me and others that I’d always registered on some level, and felt disturbed by, but had never consciously thought about.

The further I’ve delved into research on this neurological anomaly, the more extensive its explanatory reach has proven.

It has been like finding the master key to my life and personality, and has significantly deepened my understanding of my psychology, my philosophical views, and my aesthetic and literary preferences. (…)

The philosopher Derek Parfit was aphantasic, and described his memories as propositional and stored in sentences.

I would rather describe my imagination and memories as conceptual and emotional – consisting of thoughts, feelings and sensations.

I cannot visualise my childhood home but, with a combination of conceptual and spatial memory, I can describe it – and, if I do, I notice I’ll start moving my hands and body as if I were in the house. I can feel it, almost physically, when I think of it.

Zeman also supplied me with a report on the first systematic study of the neuropsychological and neural signatures of aphantasia, which confirms many of the hypotheses formed on the basis of self-reporting and anecdotal evidence.

It connects aphantasia to introversion and autistic spectrum features; to difficulty with recognition, including face-recognition; to impoverished autobiographical memory and less event detail in general memory; to difficulty with atemporal and future-directed imagination, including difficulties with projecting oneself into mentally constructed scenes and the future; to elevated levels of IQ; and to mathematical and scientific occupations. (…)

The aphantasic absence of the mind’s eye may account for a particular kind of ‘visual vulnerability’.

This would, conversely, explain my exaggerated negative and depressive response to ugly surroundings – since aphants don’t have the option of compensating for any external lack of beauty with exciting internal visuals.

The aphantasia also explains, at least in part, why, in contrast with most people I meet, I find it hard and unnatural to tell my life story.

I don’t really think of my past, and when asked about it, I find it difficult to recall and recount.

Nor have I ever had specific ideas or visions for my future – only abstract thoughts of wishing to be happy, intellectually stimulated, healthy, with good people in my life, and access to natural beauty.

The flipside of this disconnection from the past and the future is seemingly an increased ability to be present. (…)

Aphantasia could certainly explain why Parfit’s theory resonates so strongly with me – as well as my sympathy for Eastern contemplative and monist theories such as Buddhism that advocate self-abandonment, detachment and renunciation.

While many people find such non-essential ideas of personhood and existence disturbing and estranging, to me they’re not only obviously plausible, but also highly relatable – and easy to practise.

When I introspect, I literally see nothing – and on that basis, it is likely more difficult to create and uphold an idea of a centred, essential and continuous self.”

[fitzyshusband]

So I recently came home to find a lovely package of bsd Volume 11. It single handedly is my favourite volume of all time, asides from around 3/4 to 10 (aka Guild Arc). The obvious reason is, well Fitzgerald: my name isn't Fitzyshusband for nothing.

To nobody's surprise, this is my Fitzgerald Ramble: (I've decided to add images between like each convo so you don't have to feel overwhelmed with so many words)

(Apologies if there's any spelling errors I've not proof read this...yet)

Were going to name the chapters 'Fitzgerald's rising' collectively because that's the name of the Anime episode (I watched the anime first before reading the manga). One thing the anime fails to accomplish is establish a deep personality and completed story for Fitzgerald. I noticed there was so many more little convosations and scenes in the manga that the anime took out that quite frankly should've stayed in. I know budget wise and from a business stand point nobody really wants to see Fitzgerald they're more focused on the major characters such as Atushi, Aktagawa, Ranpo, Fyodor, tw Dazai, Chuuya because those are the fandom Favourite (not mine personally, asides from Fyodor and ranpo, but I can see why they're liked so much).

What is so good about Fitzgerald rising is that it draws in so much from The Great Gatsby that it stimulates my brain and makes me giggle and kick my feet and feel overwhelmingly happy emotions. I haven't really looked into many of the other characters but I do believe that Fitzgerald is one of the only characters that has his book referenced so much in a way that you have to actually be aware of the plot of the Great Gatsby to know.

To briefly summarise the plot of The Great Gatsby, Nick caraway is the cousin of Daisy who is married to Tom Buchanan. Nick moves in beside a truely amazing house and meets the owner Jay Gatsby. Gatsby and Daisy are past lovers, because Gatsby has to go off Daisy ended up being with Tom. Gatsby got all his wealth and everything he has to win Daisy's love and attention, to which he does before she caves in and decides she should stay with Tom. This all ends in Gatsby dying (murder) and showing that nobody asides from Nick actually cared about him.

I'm bad at explaining so I hope that this somewhat helped.

Now, onto the symbolism with Fitzgeralds Rising.

First of all, T.J Eckleburg is a character in the Great Gatsby. His name is on a billboard with two peeping eyes, owning the 'eyes of god'. In BSD, It's Tom Buchanan who owns Eyes of God and Eckleburg is merely the enjineerer behind it. I like that Tom Buchanan is seen as an asshole and horrible man in bsd because he definitely is in The Greag Gatsby. I'm also glad that Tom Buchanan meets his demise to Fitzgerald (Gatsby) because its the opposite of what happens in the actual book.

I'm not the only one to agree that Fitzgerald is the only character deserving of the book that everyone is like hunting for. Not only is his reasoning family orientated but he shows signs of caring for others, despite John Steinback saying he doesn't care. I think there is a darker side to Fitzgerald, this would be in line with the Authors life as a whole; raging alcoholic with a very messy life, often making a fool of himself and evenchually dying alone. I don't believe this should be an outcome for BSD Fitzgerald because I think I wouldn't be able to recover mentally, but I do enjoy the idea that Fitzgerald is alone.

It sounds twisted but from a character development stand point its such a good concept. This man that is Extroverted, known to be very big and have all this wealth; a lovely wife, so many good things that most people don't have, but deep inside he has this lingering loneliness. This is so apparent because although he is surrounded by so many people his more impactful scenes are one on one or one on two. Francis V Atushi when he walked in on Francis Phone call, it has such a big impact because it gave us his motivation to why he does everything he has.

Fitzgerald rising is very much him one on one with other people, we see more of him and he's such a like cool character. His friendship with Louisa ,though people assume is very One sided, is so much more than what people assume. Fitzgerald recognises Louisa's intelligence, he gives her the space she needs to use it and although she obediently does as he says she's so happy doing it. He knows this, otherwise he would value her so much. One detail I overlooked until I read the manga was Louise's ability. It isn't one that enhances her intelligence, its one that slows down time. Her plans are all based on what she knows and her predictions are always right.

Louisa is on par with Ranpo and because she is so overlooked people fail recognise this.

Fitzgeralds rising is the recognition that Fitzgerald holds people he cares for so highly that you could argue he values others more than himself. Everything he does is for other people, something Gatbsy always did, and to simply call him a character that lacks connections with others is a clear mischaracterisation.

Don't get me wrong, this can be countered with Lucy easily. He dropped her almost instantly and even says that Fitzgerald can discard people easily, yet she still got to stay working for Francis until she betrayed him. Only then does he fully discard her. He knows that everyone has a purpose and he helps them find it, he's had Louisa by his side so it's no doubt that she's been able to research all this and tell Francis what people are good for and he does exactly that.

He gives people purpose.

Fitzgerald rising makes me yearn for more Fitzgerald content, which we do get in the form of Francis vs Nathaniel and Atushi seeking help from Fitzgerald, sure he guild trips Atushi into agreeing to get Yosano to heal Margaret because she's the only person to stop Nathaniel. Yet, his actions comes from a place of protection.

To make me love Fitzgerald and BSD even more would be adding Nick Carraway and Earnest Hemingway because quite frankly I would explode and die and cry and giggle and sob and go absolutely crazy. There's so much to explore with these two potential characters, Nick being someone who admires Francis and can be hired into the new guild and Earnest being a counter to Francis, the potential is endless.

I would expect that if they chose to add Nick, then Fitzgerald would be meeting his end: going off The Great Gatsby.

If they chose to add Hemingway, then I would expect that he would either be just another person wanting him dead. He would probably be teaming up with John Steinbeck to expose Francis. This would introduce us to a darker side of Francis, a side that has only ever been mentioned and not actually seen.

There's so much more I could talk about, like the wedding ring and the possible theory that Zelda has died or divorced Francis and how that links into Author Fitzgerald. The relationship between Fitzgerald and Hemingway that has hints of homosexual feelings: Who would be the Daisy equivalent because Tom Buchanan is a Canon character to BSD, T.J Eckleburgs role beyond just being someone Fitzgerald saved.

However, I have a tenancy to ramble so much nobody can even recognise or remember what I started of saying in the first place. Therefore, I will leave it here.

My final words: Fitzgerald needs more recognition and to be seen beyond funny money man.

[msburgundy]

Can you expand on your thoughts on pitbull discourse, I'm genuinely very curious (I'm not super informed on the topic since I'm not a dog person but the arguments can get very heated and very confusing)

the issue kind of stems from the fact that aggression itself is way more complicated than "is it present or not"

for one thing, every dog is *capable* of aggression but that's certainly not the same thing as being prone to it. and there are a variety of factors that go into that predisposition, but also there are different types of aggression

the target of the aggression is the biggest factor. and there are 3 main types there: dog aggression, human directed aggression, and prey/hunting type aggression. the last one is typically referred to as "prey drive" and is seldom considered a form of aggression but i don't know why it should be called anything else.

and then there are different contexts for aggression: fear, territory, possessiveness/guarding of people or animals, dominance/control, etc.

pitbulls are specifically genetically predisposed toward dog aggression and territorial aggression as those things kind of go hand in hand for fighting, which is what they were bred to do. they can also be possessive of people they love and maybe that's where that insane nanny dog story comes from idk.

human directed aggression in animals is actually pretty rare and has to be trained in in most cases, some breeds that have been historically used for police work etc are more suited to that kind of training but almost any dog can actually be trained to bite if you do it during the early formative period

this can be trained unintentionally, or intentionally but improperly, through abuse (as is the case with my own dog) which creates a whole different set of problems

because what that does is essentially teach an insecure dog that biting solves problems. you get a lot of fear aggression from animals like that

this no doubt accounts for a non negligible number of pitbull bites on people but i'm not willing to say it's the majority either

overall mental stability of a dog is a big piece of this and that itself has several factors, including abuse, but also genetics and even training. a dog that needs a firm handler and doesn't have one will be insecure and untrusting. pitbulls need a firm handler

another component of stability is what the threshold for stimulation is that turns the brain off. this is something you kind of don't actually even see except in very unstable dogs, but using my own dog as an example again, there is a point where he gets too worked up that he simply cannot be controlled. he will bark and bite wildly and even bite me if i try to restrain him, without meaning to or even realizing he's done it until he snaps back to reality

the triggers for it vary depending on the dog, but the outcome is largely the same at a certain level of activation

so now if we take all of that, and apply it back to every "pitbull mauls toddler" story, it starts to make sense. nearly every single one of those stories goes "i left the dog and the baby in the yard for 2 minutes, i heard barking, and when i went out the baby was dead"

what invariably happens, is that another dog walked by the fence, the dog flipped out beyond its ability to reason, the baby cries because of the dog barking, the dog redirects on the baby

that is dog aggression redirected on a child, not human directed aggression

and that distinction REALLY matters

because for one thing, we need to acknowledge that pitbulls as a breed were not merely predisposed to, but selected for, dog aggression and that their use in fighting specifically has led to temperament based selection to either not occur or occur in a negative way.

many people have worked for a long time to change that and stabilize the breed, with great success, but not every dog is coming from those genetic lines. with pitbulls you just really need to know what you're getting

a dog that is WAY more prone to human directed aggression and is widely available and frequently biting people, badly, is the german shepherd

the stats are also very skewed. pitbull itself isn't a real breed, so any time a bully type dog bites someone it gets reported as a pitbull (which is fine) but then that gets compared against the total number of registered american pitbull terriers in the country and that's ridiculous

most bites are by pitbull type dogs because they make up the majority of the dogs in the country

the reason the pitbull stories are so prevalent compared to others is that they're shocking. "beloved family pet snaps and kills child" is just bigger news than "i bought a german shepherd puppy i couldn't handle and now he bites me every time i try to put a leash on him" even though one of those dogs is objectively way more aggressive than the other

[missoblaine]

Tag Game!

Yay tag game! I was tagged by @evaofkonoha and I am tagging @shameless-fujoshi to do this (if you want to haha).

Are you named after anyone?

Nope! I like my name though 😊

What sports have you played?

If dancing counts as a sport then I danced for about fifteen years quite intensely! Otherwise, no. I dislike sports so much actually 😣 I used to pretend to be sick to get out of PE at school. I don't like the physicality and conflict and outside-ness of many sports. I am a squishy little indoors person!

Do you use sarcasm?

Yes! It is why writing in Sasuke's voice is easier for me than writing in Naruto's.

What is the first thing you notice about people?

Hmm, I don't meet new people often actually. I think in general, I am not very good at reading people and it takes me a while to properly make friends. I think both online and IRL, I notice someone's way of speaking/writing/communicating. Their tone and voice and word choice etc.

What's your eye colour?

Very dark brown.

Scary movies or happy endings?

I can't do scary movies eeek. Thrillers, I can do, and I enjoy watching people play scary games sometimes, but horror is too much for me. In general movies are kind of overwhelming for me, I don't watch many of them!

So by default, I guess I like happy endings? I do think for me to enjoy them they have to be purposeful and earned (not necessarily by the characters but by the story).

Any talent?

Writing! While it has ebbed and flowed in its presence over the course of my life, it has always been with me in some form and I am proud of how I have grown with it, especially in the last two years. I am a pretty fast reader as well so I guess that's another one?

What are your hobbies?

Writing, reading, board games, and occasionally crafting things (sewing, crochet, painting miniatures).

Do you have any pets?

My partner has a dog!

How tall are you?

155cm. I am pretty short lol.

Dream job?

I am honestly quite happy with my current job (board game adjacent, relatively not stressful, lets me play with spreadsheets lol). I think my dream job is just not working tbh or doing something just mentally stimulating enough but not stressful and getting paid well for it! 😅 Isn't that the dream?

I will say, I wouldn't want to do any of the creative hobbies I love dearly, especially writing, as a job as I strongly believe it would ruin my love for them.

My answer to this particular question got very long so the rest is under the cut if you are interested in my thoughts. Otherwise, if this is your off ramp - thank you for reading and thank you to @evaofkonoha again for tagging me 🥰

rambling (a.k.a. why i don't want to write as a job)

Even if I worked for myself and got to create the things I wanted, I don't believe I would enjoy it, perhaps simply because it would be a job and it would become something I had to do instead of chose to do. I also believe that whatever I created wouldn't feel truly mine. I think part of the joy of a hobby is getting to do it whenever, however, whyever you want - I value that freedom highly.

For example, if I were to write a novel, even if I wrote it for myself, I would need to, eventually, pitch it to agents/publishers etc and it would always be in the back of my mind that 'this needs to be something that an agent/publisher believes would sell'. Even if I wrote it exactly as I wanted, perhaps someone further down the publishing line would ask for changes to improve its commercial value because, hey, they have to make money too, no? (And perhaps this view is jaded from working in a retail/sales environment for a couple years but if anything, I am even more sure of it now.)

From my time in uni studying creative writing (in which we got some experience pitching short pieces/essays to journals/student publications), I saw the level of ambition needed to succeed in a career like this and I just…don't want that kind of stress to be tied to my finances and living situation. I don't want my ability to be creative (which can wax and wane with the moon, it feels) to be what my paycheck hinges on. Perhaps this is because my creativity is so personal and sacred to me - it is the channel via which my soul interacts with the world - but perhaps it is to everyone? Maybe I am simply very sensitive about it, as I am with many things.

Studying creative writing made me fall out of love with the craft for a couple years, constantly overthinking my words and weighing them against form, content, industry, moral and message. I distinctly remember writing an memoir/essay I was quite proud of part way through my third year (within which I was quite vulnerable about myself) and being disappointed with my final grade on it, as it was so detached from my own personal pride in it. (To be fair though, looking back, it was not as technically sound as I had believed it at the time.)

To be clear, it is not that I wish to create completely void of external input and influence, and I do understand the importance of assessment and external feedback when it comes to developing technical skill! But for the point where I am in my life now, where I have done some formal learning and am starting to realise the infinity and freedom of informal learning, I just think there is a sweet spot where the amount and type of external input/influence is nuturing and kind and motivating and authentic. Too little influence and it can feel like screaming into the void - no resonance. Too much and . . . well, you get the above experience, where it feels like the thing you created as well as the process of creation becomes no longer wholly yours.

For me and what I have learned thus far in my life, my writing is best as this weird wildspace. That's what works for me! And I share my writing online in the purest sense of that word - share - because I want to show this small community something that means something to me, with no kind of transaction behind it. It's just out there, and you're also out there, and if you stumble upon it (or go looking for it) I hope this thing that means something to me means something to you too. I hope it creates resonance with you in this incomprehensible vastness of life.

Um, yeah. That's cool to have that written out and articulated! Thanks for reading 😊

~13/03/2024

[definitelynotshouting]

Hey friend, I am absolutely rotating the HECK out of Hunger AU rn. I just binged all of the tagged posts and I'm going FERAL! Watchers being like parasitic wasps? Listeners being like fungi? Absolutely based takes.

I'm very much a fan of the emotional realism going on and I'm so terrified of Angry!Mumbo. Like. Bro doesn't get all that angry that often those folks are the scariest properly pissed.

And I relate far too much to the Search Party tbh. Something about the themes of mental and physical illness, wanting to help but not knowing how, the one you want to help not wanting help at this point, the resentment that causes on both sides of that stalemate... yeah I've been there.

Also, I am insanely curious about the ecological niche that Watchers and Listeners fulfill. Like. There has to be a reason they are the way they are. I'm insanely curious about what the environment they evolved in looked like, and even more curious as to what they provide back to the universe in return.

Like. Irl most wasps are predatory insects, controlling the population of pests and invasive species, but the tidbits you've given us about how they feed on emotions and the groups they feed on put me more in mind of, like, herding dogs. Yknow? Does that make sense? Gathering players together and moving them away from half abandoned worlds to let them dissolve back into the greater code. Maybe interviening in virus-infected worlds or virus-vulrable worlds, encouraging those players to move or perish.

And Listeners, well, fungi occupy so many diverse niches they could do just about anything, really. It's very fun to think about and I am rotating them vigorously, thank you for feeding us so well <3

(May I be 🐸 anon?)

This is such a sweet ask i am so 🥺🥺🥺🥺 abt it, im really pleased that you're enjoying the emotional realism ive committed to for this fic, because thats just such an important aspect for me-- my goal here is to depict a deeply emotional, moving, and messy situation about illness and recovery where no one's feelings are punished or demonized by the narrative. Its just so, so important to me that the Search Party (and later on, the other hermits) get their emotions properly respected and explored. Its not just about Grian, even if he is the ultimate focus-- everyone else deserves varied, emotional responses to an ugly and terrifying situation where theres hurt on all sides. This is the kind of realism i love putting in all of my writing, and the kind of justice i want to do for all characters in stories like these!!

Its a little funny how this au originally started with me brainrotting absently about Watcher biology because i wanted to explore the idea of Grian pretending to be an avian and finding certain aspects of it deeply uncomfortable. And then it just. Snowballed into this!! And now i am chewing on worldbuilding for breakfast DKXNSJDJ im really glad you enjoy the Watchers and Listeners lore!!! I need to make a proper post on Devs (or dev crystals, as theyre actually called), as well as general code structure, bc they are both so fucking cool as well

I absolutely love your herding dog analogy, and its giving me some great ideas because for the longest time i couldnt quite figure out what exactly a Watcher's ecological niche was beyond predator to Players and prey for something else that's extinct. But now im really looking at the connection between Watchers feeding habits and Players' biological need for play (or dreams, if you want to get into the minecraft end poem of it all), and theres something there that i really wanna take some time to tease out before i give a concrete answer. I need to update my hunger au masterlist LOL i am saur behind 😭

Anyway this was such a lovely ask to sink my teeth into!!!! Thank you so much for sending it, and ofc you can be frog anon!!! This was a really stimulating conversation for me so thank you again for getting my brain whirring :D i hope to see you in the inbox again!!

[ahdriking]

So, Blue Blood is finished. And,,,, I have a lot of feelings about it. 

Let me tell you a story! Six months ago, I decided to open up and engage with tumblr for the first time in almost three years. It was a random evening, I was bored and had nothing to do, so I decided to see what was going on in the world that had once consumed my life, but which had been absent from it for quite some time. Almost immediately (a testament to how well past me curated my blog) I came across a gifset from Kinnporsche. Can’t remember what it was of, but it appealed to me enough that I hunted the show down on a whim and put it on.

And then my entire life changed.

I’m not being dramatic, I’m genuinely serious. I used to waste my days playing phone games and watching TV because I had gotten out of using my computer and accessing fandom, but after I watched Kinnporsche, I literally put down my phone and forgot about it so hard I literally broke it accidentally and have gone without one for five months. I reactivated my tumblr from its longtime slumber, I created a twitter for the first time ever, I logged into ao3 for the first time in almost two years, and I stepped into fandom with the burning passion of a woman who’s entire life had been consumed. Because this show made me feel more than any show I have ever watched has made me feel, more than any other piece of media has ever made me feel. I have never been so emotionally enraptured by a fictional relationship, one which was enriched by the most sensual and stimulating sex scenes I’ve ever seen captured on film, one which played into all of my interests like it had been tailor made for me. I have never been so intrigued by the potential of a plot or world. I didn’t even know such a thing was possible. I could never ever in a million years have prepared myself for it; to hope for something even close to a pale shade of what we got would have felt unreasonable before. And yet, Kinnporsche exists. Despite all reason, logic and odds, Kinn and Porsche exist. And I found it, while it was still airing at that, and got to participate in one of the most exciting and enrapturing tv show experiences I’ll probably ever have in my life.

Maybe it was in part due to the euphoria of the impossible happening, or maybe it was simply the novelty of experiencing passion for a creative IP for the first time in years, or maybe it was the enthusiasm of the community I found and the ability to connect with people again, but something fundamentally shifted in me because of this show, and not just in what I did in my spare time. A creative spirit I had not felt in years came roaring to life in me with an unholy vengeance the likes of which I have truly never experienced before. My generally poor mental health, which had numbed me for so long, was drowned out for days at a time by the most intense and compelling feelings of excitement and anticipation and adoration and obsession and fixation I’ve felt probably ever felt, a literally perfect cocktail of emotions that reactivated something long dormant in my mind. It left me inspired, more than I have ever been in my life– my ao3 can serve as proof! My greatest achievement before had been writing 50,000 words in a single year. I wrote that much within the first month and a half of watching the show. I went from averaging 12,000 words over 3 years to 200,000 in 6 months.

My point is, Kinnporsche was entirely unprecedented in my life, and it changed me down to my marrow. It made me capable of writing in a way I have never, ever been able to before. And that was why I found myself in the position of entertaining the idea of a longfic for the first time in *years*.

Some important context: I have never finished anything. I’ve been writing creatively since I was old enough to hold a pencil, dreaming about the stories I would one day tell, but the idea of ever being able to actually finish one? That sort of achievement felt out of reach all of my life. I just wasn’t good enough, and I was certain that I never would be. So thinking about writing a longfic so soon after taking up writing again really felt like a risky, no good idea. I promised myself I wouldn’t, not unless the idea was so good it just HAD to be attempted. Something genuinely exceptional.

It was a series of cascading coincidences that led me to Blue Blood. First, a particular photo of Apo with eyeliner. Then, a series of meta posts investigating the potential darkness of Kinn’s character. Finally, joining a discord server of people who were excited by and receptive of the initial ideas that intrigued me: fighter!porsche and dark mafia!Kinn. It was a perfect storm. And fuck me if it didn’t make me feel really, really excited by it. So I did the improbable: I started to plan.

One of my problems has always been that I start something without knowing how to finish it. I set off before I have the destination in mind, hoping to somehow figure it out along the way, but inevitably run out of steam and, without an ending in sight, the process feels hopeless. But I was determined not to do this for Blue Blood. So I comprehensively planned out the entire arc of the fic, and gave myself as much structure as I could (as I’ve told a few people, Blue Blood boils down to a 5+1 fic in structure. It’s 5 fights plus the final boss showdown(altho I only had to write 5 total cos I did a cheeky). And I really, really fucking liked it. It felt really fucking tangible. Writing the first chapter, after that, was the easiest thing in the world. Genuinely, chapter one was one of the most fun writing experiences I’ve ever had, it just fucking poured out of me. And the reception to it was amazing; the number of people who took a chance on the first chapter of a WIP, on a dark fic one at that, truly thrilled and excited me. So we were off to a good start.

But Blue Blood wouldn’t remain mine alone.

I picked up @kissporsche sometime after the first chapter, but before the second. We had exchanged a few random messages on tumblr, and they seemed like a really cool person, so when I wanted someone to take a look at my work I thought of them. All I wanted, initially, was someone to beta what I’d written and maybe give me a few encouraging comments. I sent her the doc, and waited to hear back. And what I got blew me the fuck away. I’ve had beta’s before, but never one who so comprehensively attacked the editing process, in such a way that I genuinely felt was perfectly targeted to identifying my weaknesses and expanding on my strengths. And not just that, but she was excited to just *talk* to me about it, she was excited for me to bounce ideas off of her and explore difficulties with her and just generally bitch about whatever with her. And she was more than open to the idea of working on the next chapter. And maybe the one after that.

Before I knew it my usually solitary and isolated experience writing fic was just a thing of the past. I suddenly had someone who would not only listen to my every random thought or concern I had, but who would genuinely encourage them and do the same right back at me. It was fucking INCREDIBLE. As a person who lives for feedback, I found myself writing things just to be able to send them to kissporsche for her edits and reactions. I found myself driven, almost supernaturally, to produce content just so we could pour over it together and explore it. It changed everything. It *was* everything.

Kissporsche is responsible for so many, many parts of this fic. From being instrumental in determining key plot factors, to being the reason for the switching POV’s, to being the saving grace of Porsche’s characterisation, to instigating and perpetuating the presence of Vegaspete, to fixing up my many grammatical errors and word repetitions, to encouraging me through hard times, to cheering for me through easy times, to being a voice of reason during the dark times. For being a friend when I needed one, a voice of love and support, one that cut through and silenced the worst of my insecurities. For being someone I could turn to for whatever I needed, for being someone who made me feel competent and capable, for being someone who I could rely on. For being someone who opened up to me and let me in and gave me nothing but love and acceptance and validation in return. There aren’t many people out there in the world like you, and I want you to know that I appreciate that fact. I know how lucky I am.

There were times when it was fucking hard and I struggled, and I thought very bleakly about the future of this fic. But never once, not even for a second, did I truly feel that I was going to abandon it. I couldn’t. I had someone waiting for me, with genuine and loud excitement, to carry on. And so I did. I carried on and I carried on and I carried on and then, all of a sudden, it was almost over. And I had nearly done it. *We* had nearly done it.

These last few weeks have been truly fucking insane. We’ve spent a lot of time losing our shit over the fact that it’s getting closer and closer to it being over. To it being finished. And now we’re finally here, we’re actually fucking finally here, at the final page. At the end. And it just feels surreal! It feels like a dream. It’s finished. 

Blue Blood is finished.

I’m proud of us! I’m proud of myself. I’m damn fucking proud of myself for writing this fic. I’m proud of the plot, I’m proud of the characters, I’m proud of the world, and I’m fucking proud of finishing it. I’ve proven to myself that it’s possible, that I’m capable, and it feels like an entire world of possibility has opened up as a result. Who knows what I might write next?

I know this was a lot, but it feels important to me to mark this event with such an introspective post, because I want to remember everything about this. I want to come back years from now and re-read this and remember exactly what it was like, exactly how it felt. And I want all of you to know what it meant. This fic has changed my life, as dramatic as that sounds. It has fundamentally changed me in more ways than I can really express. It will always be my first.

But not my last 😏

[theoldaeroplane]

Man; this last year has been so strange for me in terms of my perception of myself.

It has been not quite a year since I said to my [redacted] that my fussiness over people at my work not following any sensible structure in their code was so strong that you would almost think I'm autistic. I'm not sure why it was that idle thought, specifically, that made me start researching what having autism actually looks like. It was such a tremendous breakthrough for me once I started reading, in a way it hasn't been for some friends that have offhandedly mentioned they thought they might be autistic. (It's possible they're having their own breakthroughs in private, but I don't think so.)

Suddenly I had Explanations for why I am the way I am. I had the language. I didn't have to constantly fall back on "I guess I'm just overly sensitive" or "I'm weird like that" with no obvious cause.

On the heels of this, and I mean like three weeks after I started reading, I began to suspect I might have ADHD as well. I've suspected this in the past, I even took a test, but I was told I didn't have it. And they were the professional, and I paid hundreds of dollars for that test, so surely it meant I didn't have it, right? My problems with time and attention and memory must just be quirks. I must just not care enough.

Buddy.

Earlier this year I finally got an appointment with a psychiatrist, who asked me some questions and gave me a prescription. It had to change a few times before we found one that balanced side effects and symptom relief.

I can't tell you how strange it's been to watch my perception of myself change. For most of my life, I was told I was weird, lazy, that I didn't care enough, that I was too sensitive, that I needed to try harder, that I had so much potential I wasn't living up to, that I was acting different on purpose, that I thought I was so special. I internalized all of it. I believed all of it. What else could I do? I was a kid. Something was wrong and the adults in my life decided it was those things.

No one ever thought I might be autistic. No one ever suggested I might have ADHD. Not even my dad, who also has ADHD, who is probably autistic himself.

I do my best not to be bitter. The world was different when I was a kid. Information was hard to come by and we were poor. For all that I've come to hate my mother I understand that she herself was struggling heavily with her own mental health. I'm angry I slipped under the radar, but I don't know if anyone can really be blamed. And being angry can't change the past. All I can do now is move forward.

I have to remind myself, often, that I am a good person. (The fact I was raised to believe that all people are inherently wicked is another post.) That I am trying my best, and operating under a fundamentally broken system that is intolerant to people who don't fit its borders. That if the screaming and shaming and self-flagellating were going to work they would have done so by now. That my brain is built in such a way that causes it to constantly feel both over- and under-stimulated. That I'm not broken.

I was, as the story goes, a cygnet being raised by ducks, who simply got more and more frustrated when their strange duckling did not act the way a duckling should.

Well. I guess I'm a swan now. A swan with baggage, which is a funny image. I can't quack, but I can trumpet. And I have wings so powerful that they can break bones. (Just go with the metaphor.) More importantly, I know I'm not a duck, and I'm learning I don't have to keep trying to be one.

[dankusner]

Now that Cat Marnell has left her post as beauty editor at xoJane—where, as the site's "beauty and health director" she infamously chronicled the intimate and more fucked-up details of her life like her drug abuse, mental health, and strained relationships—readers are wondering: What Will Happen Next?

After all, the bread and butter of Jane Pratt's site has been first-person, experienced-based essays, with interoffice activities and conversations between staffers providing fodder for posts that read like reality TV (one source told us that Pratt has been pitching a show about the office).

The more compelling, dramatic episodes revolved around Marnell's addiction and her brief absence due to employer-mandated rehab—sometimes written by Marnell's coworkers.

But weren't those her stories to tell? She seems to think so.

I spoke to Marnell the day her departure from xoJane appeared in Page Six. It quoted her as saying:

Look, I couldn't spend another summer meeting deadlines behind a computer at night when I could be on the rooftop of Le Bain looking for shooting stars and smoking angel dust with my friends and writing a book, which is what I'm doing next.

While Marnell doesn't deny her drug use, she attributes her exit to "creative unhappiness."

Having honed her editing skills at Condé Nast—as an intern at Teen Vogue and later, a beauty editor at Lucky—Marnell seems to prefer print to online media.

"I love magazines," she gushes.

In the spirit of her professional pedigree, Marnell firmly believes in some diehard women's magazine conventions, telling me, "Beauty is supposed to be aspirational."

It's a philosophy by which she lives her life.

"I threw up everyday because I was afraid of getting fat," she declares, without any hint of shame, referring to when she took a break from stimulants during her recent stint in outpatient rehab.

Even if she recognized how aspirational beauty has fucked her up, she wouldn't care.

She hated being referred to as a "lady blogger," and she's made no bones about vocalizing her distaste for the genre's earnestness or its body-positivity focus, nor is she a fan of the "gross out" stories that have become the hallmark of many women's interests' sites.

I'm not some girly blogger that's part of a sugar and spice and everything nice community, okay? I hate that. I hate that on principle.

That last quote was from one of her beauty columns for xoJane that was ostensibly about perfume, but was actually an essay outlining her aforementioned "creative unhappiness" and how it, coupled with her drug use, was affecting her behavior in the office.

She illustrated her self-proclaimed "bitchiness" by detailing a fight she got in with the site's managing editor Emily McCombs, whom she made cry.

It lifted the curtain and gave readers that inclusive feel for which Jane Pratt's publications have always strived, but have never achieved so effectively.

Watching—or rather, reading—events unfold became irresistible.

About six weeks later, a New York profile on Marnell revealed that SAY Media, xoJane's parent company, mandated that she take disability leave to attend outpatient rehab.

Her absence from the site was noticeable.

(According to SAY, she was the most-read writer on staff.)

Technically, Marnell's choice—or coercion—to seek treatment was nobody's business.

But the personal nature of the workplace at xoJane had become the business.

It seemed like it made sense to address the matter on the site.

In a piece titled, "On Dealing with Active Addicts," posted 11 days after the New York profile came out, McCombs name-checked Marnell in the dek ("This is only a little bit about Cat"), but wrote mostly about her own experience of working with an addict.

But she also shared a private phone conversation she'd had with Marnell just before she'd decided to accept the offer of treatment.

One source told us that Marnell was furious and had not given her permission for such a post.

When I pressed her about the issue, Marnell only said, "I wanted it to be completely quiet."

She's full of contradictions, though.

McCombs told me that it was Marnell's idea.

"When Cat's New York magazine feature came out, she suggested that we might want to capitalize on its traffic by having a staff member write a 'brutally honest' article about what it's like to work with an addict.

In response to that request, I wrote a draft that was more explicitly about Cat and the difficulties of working with her when she was using.

She was hurt when she read it and so we didn't run it."

I read some of the unpublished piece.

It was nasty—shockingly so.

An entire paragraph was dedicated to describing, in great detail, Marnell's physical unattractiveness and smeared makeup.

It was undoubtedly mortifying for a beauty editor to read.

McCombs reworked it, made it less about Marnell and published it.

"I didn't ask her permission to run the 'Dealing with Active Addicts' piece, but she didn't ask my permission to write about events in the office either."

Therein lies the problem with creating a group narrative amongst writers.

Who owns the material?

McCombs often writes about her own sobriety for xoJane.

When I questioned her about the ethics of being in AA and publicly discussing another person's addiction she said, "I would never, ever have told anyone about Cat going to rehab, but once she had already announced it in New York and on her Twitter, I didn't see any problem referencing it."

The back and forth made for some compelling reading, but the danger in relying so heavily on a cult of personality for material is that the lines become blurred on what's fair game for personal show-and-tell.

In an email, Marnell told me, "'Fair game' is not really how one would expect a managing editor would view an employee on disability for addiction but I had been behaving badly and I do respect her honesty—disconcerting as it is to this day."

Because Marnell's exploits had become almost synonymous with xoJane, it appeared that Pratt was forced to address the end of Marnell's employment in what came off as her own version of the site's popular feature "It Happened to Me", and was at once self-aware and self-absorbed:

I know there has been some radio silence on my end with regard to the whole issue ever since she got back from her time off. I wrote a draft for you of what happened in the last week at xoJane and it was roundly and rightfully trashed here internally.

It had heavy paragraphs in it like this:

Right now, Cat is tweeting from Soho House and I am feeling the sadness of everyone I've ever known whose use of drugs/food/sex/whatever habit limited their abilities (or desires) to fulfill their potential. From my dad, who was left on the side of the road to die and left my step-mom to clear out the s and m equipment (should s & m always have an ampersand? seems so) from under his bed and the box of wine from the shelf in the artists' colony room where he was staying, to so many others I've believed and believed in.

Oy, said my publicist.

Oy, indeed. At this point, the business model is not unlike a snake eating its own tail.

Not that I'm saying that Pratt is a snake.

In fact, Marnell only had lovely things to say about how much she respects her former boss.

"I love Jane. We have a special Duke parents blond prep school magazine-y bond and we are both very skinny naturally."

It will be interesting to see where xoJane goes from here.

With the identity of the site wrapped up so tightly in the identity of its staffers and their relationships with one another, there is clearly an endless font of stories to tell. Who has the right to tell them, however, is much murkier.

Drugs more fun than work [Page Six] Cat's Gone [xoJane] Cat Marnell on Jane Pratt, Her Book, and Splitting From xoJane.com [New York]

"Between you and me," writes Cat Marnell in the book proposal which netted her a $500,000 advance from Simon & Schuster, "half the time I feel very little remorse. AND I have a massive ego, if I really think about it."

In her proposal, which was leaked to us, Marnell details her life so far.

In case you haven't been keeping up with New York, the , the Wall Street Journal, Page Six, or any of the other media outlets that enjoy a good young-woman-in-peril story, Cat Marnell is an ex-Lucky staffer, an ex-XOJane.com health editor, an ex-Vice columnist, and a self-described glamorous drug addict. Spoiler alert: she came from an unhappy home.

The proposal is divided into two sections: a 35-page "outline" of the book, which tells the story of Marnell's life so far, and a 38-page essay that appears to be a sample chapter. ("Appears to be" because it has no title, no clear relationship to the outline, and begins with an epigraph from the poet Chard DeNiord, whose name Marnell misspells. Organization, like proofreading, is hardly Marnell's strong suit.)

Marnell begins the outline with a section called, appropriately, "Beginnings."

It details her childhood in Bethesda, Maryland, and her relationship with her psychiatrist dad ("a rage-filled narcissist to us but an upstanding conservative Republican and Washingtonian magazine 'Best Psychiatrist' to everyone else") and therapist mom ("a diabetic, anorexic…an emotional vacant lot, 95 lbs. all the time with dead eyes.")

Her childhood sounds like a monied, WASP-y kind of hell: domestic violence, a father screaming "Real silver doesn't go in the dishwasher," and filet mignon in a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house.

Marnell mentions the family dining table cost $5,000.

"All I've ever wanted my whole life," she says, "was a way to escape and get numb."

At 15, Marnell is sent away to boarding school in Massachusetts:

I went right for the hottest, richest, most popular senior and was blowing him in his car in three weeks flat.

Social climbing through sex has always been one of my specialties.

I don't fuck for love, I fuck to put my name on any given particular New York map.

I lost my virginity to a hockey player on a bathmat during a weekend hotel party at the Royal Sonesta Hotel in Boston.

Then I slept squished on a bed with three dudes.

The next day I caught a ride to Cape Cod from school acquaintances and slept alone on the beach.

Prep school is insane!

So insane, in fact, that Marnell ends up getting kicked out:

Senior year was more of the same.

I bought ecstasy in bulk from legendary teen drug lord Sketchy Ralph, and sold it to underclassmen at an AIDS Day Awareness dance.

I was kicked out — "asked to leave," as they say — a month before graduation, over three months pregnant with the student government president's baby.

At the time of my dismissal, I had the top GPA in the class (tied with the German genius Marcus, natch) and was Tatania [sic] in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." […]

Oh yes, and that pregnancy?

Turns out I'd let it go to the second trimester and had to have a violent, no-anesthesia abortion in a ghetto clinic somewhere in the District, where I shook, wept, and sobbed in agony on a table.

My mother accompanied me and in the "recovery room" said very little — she is not a nurturer, that one! — but did hand me a bottle of Xanax prescribed to me by my father, a prescription written in advance that I didn't ask for.

And that, my friends, was how I was introduced to my good friend benzodiazepines, a family of pills I have taken daily nearly every day of my life since.

When she moves to New York to attend the New School, Marnell's parents pay her rent and give her "about $1000 bucks in the bank every month to spend on whatever I pleased," which naturally allows her drug problems to worsen.

"I was doing Adderall and coke and a little heroin still of course, but I was in the city, the great love of my life, and I was part of it, and I spent many years like this fantastically in love with myself," Marnell writes. "I used sex, drugs, nightlife and men, and I let them use me. We were all together, snorting up life like a line."

Marnell does everything she can to get drugs.

Though her father stops prescribing her Adderall when she turns 24, she had no trouble "doctor-shopping" for new scripts.

Scripts for everything: amphetamines, benzos, sleeping pills, anti-narcolepsy medications.

I started visiting plastic surgeons to book fake nose jobs and things, because when you book a surgery you get your painkiller scripts written in advance to fill pre-surgery.

Then I would cancel the nose jobs. Easy!

The proposal is also stuffed with blind items.

A particularly compelling one is regarding "the son of one of the most famous living Democrats," who was an acquaintance of Marnell's from the period after she left prep school and was finishing high school in D.C. Allow Marnell to explain:

I sat with the politician's son in a parked Oldsmobile crushing beers and taking mushrooms with him and my boyfriend on dark secluded streets with the Secret Service parked behind us, watching, watching.

Later, at her 18th birthday party:

The son of the famous unnameable politician was there too; the secret service camped outside out hotel suite door. We binged on every drug and no one cared; no one got in any trouble.

Any guesses?

Marnell brags about her dishonesty in college — "I was a non-fiction writing major, and I turned in the same pieces over and over again to all my different professors and never got caught" — and her ease in finding a job as an assistant beauty editor at Lucky after graduation.

Marnell outlines how she manipulates coworkers, doctors, and friends into enabling her addictions.

At Condé Nast, she has her interns fill her prescriptions for her.

She goes to rehab ($1000/day for 30 days; dad pays), relapses, dates a heroin addict, goes to a mental hospital.

Throughout the proposal, Marnell displays an obsession with weight.

She sizes up and catalogs the body size of virtually every woman mentioned, and chronicles her own dwindling weight with something like pride.

Marnell's interest in drugs is broad and catholic.

Here's Marnell on taking anti-psychotics, which are "easy to score from psychiatrists" because they're not narcotics:

"I always welcomed any feeling that legitimate mental illness was finally overtaking me (it's never stuck, alas), for this would explain my bad states and also protect my pills, my pills, my pills."

Marnell seems to want very badly to be seen as a victim — of her parents' emotional distance, of their preference for expressing care in the form of pharmaceutical prescriptions, of her user boyfriends.

But her proposal describes her being afforded the kinds of second, third, and fourth chances that most people don't get.

Coworkers cover for her when she can't even bring herself to write "200 words, say, on the new spring lipstick shades."

Frankly, Marnell gets the kinds of first chances people not of her background are rarely offered.

Her bosses defend her to higher-ups.

Media companies she works for — Condé Nast, Say Media, and Vice — pay for her stints in rehab and hospital care.

Even as Marnell remains the type of person who stops to apply "some sort of gooey red raspberry mask" to her face when she wakes at 9:37 on the morning of a very important 10 AM meeting, for which she is completely unprepared.

Drug abuse, says Marnell, starts to turn her skin "no-joke Nixon-vs.-Kennedy green."

"To be clear," writes Marnell at the end of her outline, "this book is not a recovery memoir."

She intends to write about her "ambivalence" about drugs, which she still uses.

"Addiction is a glittering disease as much as it is a devastating one. Rehabs and healthy daylight life have bored me to death every time I've tried them. I've spent the last fifteen years feeling, alternately, like I was drowning in addiction or that the black magic of drugs and being high was literally my life force, making me perform better than everybody else. And so I keep using (or do I? — stay tuned; I don't even know myself)."

The proposal closes with a glamour shot of Marnell and the words:

I will write a New York Times #1 Bestseller. Swag!

[pilot-posting]

Mech lore questions

(sorry if these aren't really the ones you're looking for)

-who is fighting who here? What sides in what war?

-why do mechs work like that specifically

-this will probably be answered in a mech combat sequence but what armaments do they use? How do they fight?

Good questions! Let's break some stuff down.

Who are "We?"

Emerson is a pilot for the Galligos Armaments and Superstructures Corporation, she's been working for them for 7 years since she was recruited fresh out of high school. There's a lot to unpack there, but know she only joined the pilot corp when she was 22.

Galligos is a megacorporation based on Earth and it's nearest extra-solar colony of Pochimen, a colony project pushed by the south-asian expansion bloc in 2083 (a national adjournment of Korea, China, Indochina as a whole, the Philippines, and Singapore.) This bloc still exists today but it's been mostly supplanted by megacorporations in it's power structure and administrative capacity. Galligos Armaments and Superstructures, or GAS/GASC, rose to power in 2090 when the Neuf-Décennie agreement was made by a highly corrupt and lobbied UN, giving extensive power to corporate bodies, including land rights, and claims at national identity. The UN traded the world for its survival, and the technical survival of it's partner nations.

In short? Massively fucked up cyberpunk setting. The current date is 2140 or thereabout. Emerson only joined because they had good benefits, and she lives in a highly propagandized world.

Who's Galligos fighting?

Galligos is fighting a collection of separatist dissenter colonies in the outer reaches of human space. Due to having access to entire planets worth of resources, they've managed to produce their own mech variants to fight against Galligos, but they lack population, so most of their combat is done through automated combatants. Every loss of a separatist pilot is a huge setback to the frontier states, so they tend to be incredibly well trained "ace in the hole" type mechanized infantry, whereas Galligos has opted for a more expendable take on mecha. Galligos technically owns only 2 planets, Earth, which is valuable for it's technical economic value, and Pochimen, which is valuable for it's resource rich mines. What Galligos lacks in the expandable resources of the dissenter states, it makes up for in the expendability of it's highly developed and quickly reproducing populace. Mecha from the Galligos company have a tendency to be shorter, have lower caliber weaponry, and individual pilots are comparatively poorly trained, but they do have the benefit of working in Squads of 4.

What's up with the Class-X?

The Class-X is a proprietary mechanized infantry system which cooperates with the human body to create immense levels of synapse melding and interconnectivity, and also to produce energy. Why does this work? Horny sci-fi magic.

The Mech harnesses the vitamins, and amino acids in your discharge to produce energy through selective ionization, which takes those vitamins, basically macro extends their biological bondage, and produces immense amounts of energy, capable of sustaining a mech suit for a significant period of time.

This process also causes something called Synchrosis, which you'll notice isn't actually a real world. Synchrosis is a mental... condition[?] which causes the mech pilot to link minds with their vessel on a deeper level than regular halo interaction. Obviously however, Synchrosis is highly addictive and degradant to the pilots mental health.

Class is different than brand and type of Mech, a Class-I for instance is a gunnery mech, which carries a macro-scale chain gun firing 30lb rounds and standing at around 90 stories tall (The Burj Khalifa is 160 stories.) as well as an assortment of missile pods, tertiary explosives devices, and the ability to wield high powered blunt-force weapons.

Class-X mechs are the only type of mech which use "stimulated synchrocity", as it's poorly understood in the human psychological side, and also it produces mech pilots who exhibit symptoms of extreme blood-lust when not locked behind automated functions and protocols.

How BIG we talkin'?

The Falcon Class transport ship is around 20 stories tall, it can carry most basic function mechs in groups of 5 to any given location, and it could probably carry a Class-I (if it was broken into it's key components and stored as efficiently as possible.)

The average Class-X mech is around 3 stories tall, it's miniscule compared to most mechs, but because of it's powering system it can be extremely efficient in power usage. it carries nimbler weapons like shoulder mounted rocket batteries, a rocket pistol, or plasma rifles, all enough to eviscerate infantry soldiers on sight, but hardly leave a dent in mainline battle mechs. Emersons Haratora-Zed is a maintenance mech, meaning it has a nimble frame, a lot of external storage capabilities like physical hooks, thrusters mounted on the thighs used primarily for getting extra power when carrying heavier combat mechs away from battle for effectively robot on robot surgery. Most of the Haratora-Zeds functions are automated.

Random Questions

Why did the Class-I pilot try to communicate verbally with Emerson?

All pilots are equipped with automatic halo port interfacing, if your conversational AI detects incoming messages even from non-mechanized entities, it'll patch them through to you. She didn't respond because she was blitzed on narcotics mixed with synapse accelerants to get her back to Synchrosis. Remember, she's a maniac.

Why did Emerson respond when poked?

Same as before, there's a warning system for when non-mechanized but halo-equipped individuals are nearby, and, their touch on the mechs body is translated through the mech in the form of pressure actuators which interact with the pilots body glove. She reacted because, again, blitzed.

[stephanieburgis]

...And now for a quick rant about the perils of wordcount! (Aren't you glad I have more space here than on Twitter or Mastodon? ;) )

Wordcount is such a lovely, easy metric for writers to track when we're trying to mark progress/finish a book in a reasonable amount of time. But it is a terrible, terrible manager if you let it control your actual writing...and I am way too prone to doing that.

A little while ago, I figured out that if I wanted to finish my current w-i-p (Claws and Contrivances, Book 2 in my Regency Dragons trilogy) as quickly as I'd hoped, I'd have to average 3,000 words a week until the first draft is finished. OK! I can usually manage a pretty steady 500 words a day, so that's not too bad at all...

...Until something comes up, like illness or a plot hurdle or a trip. In the last week, I hit both of those last two issues. First, my nice, steady writing pace slammed to a halt when I came to the point in the book where a big, underlying plot issue finally has to be brought to light, its back story satisfyingly explained...and I realized I still had no idea what the real backstory was. Oops. (The perils of being an exploratory writer in my first drafts!) Sometimes I can figure that kind of moment out on the fly; sometimes I have to really think hard for a while to work it out, and for some reason, this was one of those times when my thoughts got completely snarled up in each other, like a tangled ball of wool.

Second, I was due to head out on a weekend mini break with my older son, which was going to be amazing and also massively energy-intensive (especially with my M.E./CFS). I know there are writers like the late and wonderful Terry Pratchett who religiously hit their planned word counts every day of their lives and put off everything else until later...but (a) M.E./CFS forces me to limit my own activities severely, giving me far less leeway to do other important stuff later, and (b) personally, when I have to choose between my writing and my kids, my kids will always come first, especially while they're both so young.

...which doesn't mean that I don't worry. The truth was, even as I soaked in amazing new experiences and had wonderful parenting moments every day, I also felt low-level guilty All The Time because I wasn't making myself write while we were away. Therefore, I was totally screwing up my wordcount goal...

But guess what? Today I sat down to write for the first time since our trip away...and with my very first cup of coffee, I wrote out the words at the top of my notebook page, "So, what has been going on with Rose's uncle?"

...And the answer was right there! It was waiting for me in my subconscious, helpfully untangled by my back-brain while I was away soaking in new experiences and creative stimulation. I wrote out two swift pages of very thorough notes, and then I wrote 1185 words of the next scene (a nigh-on miraculous amount for me that flowed out as if they'd been only waiting for their chance).

If I'd hammered away at my manuscript, trying stubbornly to hit my planned wordcount without a break over the weekend, not only would I have missed out on a lot of amazing experiences with my kid (which have, btw, already started other new stories simmering in my mental background!), but I also truly don't believe I would have managed to figure out the whole backstory and get as far into the manuscript by today as I have now. Sometimes, our writing-brains just need breaks - time off to putter around unobserved, slowly unsnarling plot tangles. Sometimes, we just need to find a way to get new kinds of creative stimulation to get our stories flowing.

Word count tracking is a nice, satisfying metric, but it's a TERRIBLE and unhelpful line-manager - and I'm passing on this reminder to you in case I'm not the only one who ever forgets this!

Also: have a 21-second video of ocean waves from the beach in Penarth, Wales. I'm so glad I didn't miss them!

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[subskz]

…i lost the tag limit war

the reader changing the subject the instant she feels seen by minho is such a subtle but valuable hint that i think says a lot abt the type of person she is, that moment really stood out to me! i know i literally just said this but right down to every minute detail, you've characterized both lino and the reader so masterfully it has to be the most enjoyable aspect of this story for me...and on top of that i just love how you write their conversations so much, they’re both such lil nerds…my intellectually stimulating smarties debating w each other even now 🥰 it all feels so comfortable and natural and draws me into their relationship w such ease!

their discussion abt colors is hands down one of my favorite scenes in all of invisible thread!! it's such an oddly heartwarming conversation and that perfect, out-of-the-box way of thinking that’s just so undeniably minho...it almost reminds me of synesthesia how he describes feelings through color! "the very essence of our humanity" "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean" the way you embodied each colors through emotions/experiences was so wonderfully done, i understood each one instantly like it was a picture being visualized before my eyes. it makes it even more touching that minho and the reader come to understand each other on a whole new level through that way of communicating their moods <3 and for some reason when he gives the example "i feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to" that really tugged at my heartstrings ㅠ it almost feels like he isnt just giving a hypothetical there, like he's giving a small glimpse into his true feelings without saying it outright. maybe he feels invisible deep down, too

them falling asleep together on facetime was so soft and tender ㅠㅠ leave it to lino to ramble abt sous-vide as a bedtime story and complain abt getting SCAMMED lmao the way that is actually smth he would say 😭 "he closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on" this line got me so good ): it seems at first that he's bringing the reader peace but she's bringing him peace in her own way as well...her feelings abt his eyes changing from fear to longing is such a lovely detail and HER COMPLIMENTING THEM!!! HIS STUNNED REACTION </3 "this is the first genuine compliment he's ever received" oh my god does my moss green theory actually have any merit.....does he really feel invisible to the world too...do not do this to me sahar ㅠㅠ but the way he thinks such lovely, adoring things abt the reader in that moment but instead of voicing them he whines abt being hungry....so endearing and so HIM i cant get enough of how youve written minho here ur singlehandedly reminding me why he is allegedly the love of my life

the kintsugi mention made my heart leap in my chest!!! "when you look at that vase, you know it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty" please...that sentence in itself is so moving when you apply it to the context of what the reader has been through her whole life, not just a single crack but repeated breakages. and for it to come from someone like minho; it feels like exactly what the reader needs to hear to truly begin to heal herself...he doesn't coddle her but is still so gentle, putting things into perspective like nobody else can w his unique worldview and mental strength ㅠㅠ and i think i just lost my mind realizing that this scene loops right back to the clay comparison you drew at the beginning of the story oh my GOD....the reader is like a clay pot molded by her mother, broken in places and repaired over and over to create smth still damaged but just as valuable...and lino is the gold filling in the cracks....sahar you are INSANE for this one im kissing ur brain and tucking it gently into bed

the scene w minho in the rain 😞 i was not prepared to see my meow meow upset...but i love the way you wrote it so much. how oddly quiet he is, even to the point where he's not commenting in class or teasing her, and that's the key detail that lets the reader know smth's off w him...i also love that nothing in particular caused his low mood. it's such a human quality, and he allows himself to be human and feel his feelings until they pass. "he knew his emotions would regulate themselves" i cant explain why this line stood out to me so much i really love it, i think it's just such a shining example of minho's mindset...not necessarily optimistic, but practical enough to not be completely swamped by the darkness either. it creates such an interesting contrast to the reader's personality to see how they both handle their emotions, w her pushing hers away and him letting them run their course. but the fact that he typically tries to retreat into himself until he feels better, yet strangely enough, he doesn't mind it as much as he'd expect when the reader catches him in a vulnerable state...my babies ㅠ i also really loved the part where he uses her shower and thinks abt the scent of her soap as he washes up, it's so so sweet n intimate i'm such a sucker for things like that ): there are so many small things minho notices abt her like it's the most natural thing in the world, they're both so attentive of one another

"you were both just trying to make it through the day" and "he knew he wasn't invisible. at least not to you" were critical hits to my heart...it feels like a breakthrough in their relationship—the first time the reader truly truly sees minho, all sides of him, and she accepts them all without question <3

the gradual progression of their friendship is so gratifying to read bc of how organically you made it all flow together!! i adore the entire sequence that shows us how they start to care for each other more and more…the casual intimacy of the reader applying her lip tint to his lips (and him not studying for his quiz on purpose 😭💗 come ON) lino worrying abt her eating enough, the reader tying his bangs out of his eyes, complimenting him so matter-of-factly, and him BLUSHING ALL OVER THE PLACE it’s so over for me x2 they are so tender in their actions even when they tease each other nonstop. it all leads up so perfectly to the point in the story where minho finds himself being drawn to her apartment without even realizing it when he doesn't feel well. the subtle shift from him initially trying to shut her out bc he's so used to managing his bad days on his own, to him eventually leaning in to her kindness and seeking her company instead...and the way she just understands what he needs immediately, allows him to sit in silence and simply exist in peace next to her. describing his mood as "too much of every color" really struck a chord w me as well...i'm just so so in love w the running theme of colors you included throughout this story, it's such a brilliant way to put emotions into words <3

the lil parallels here n there from the beginning of their relationship until now are so cute as well; how lino makes breakfast for her the first time and leaves before she wakes up, but this time, he promises to stay and eat with her...to not be invisible ㅠㅠ i think what's making me craziest of all is how they're both so hyperaware of each other's touch. like when their shoulders brushed while sharing the reader's umbrella, how the reader suddenly finds it difficult to concentrate on her book when lino holds her wrist as she shields him from the sunlight...and little does she know it's the exact same for him too, like when she rested her head on his thigh and all he could focus on was the sensation of her hair tickling him 😭 they are so enamored w each other and have become so tangled up in each other little by little...they don't even fully realize it yet but they've made a permanent place in each other's lives now

"you were already on the other side, you realize. his eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey" oh my GOD!!! ㅠㅠㅠㅠ her feelings abt minho's eyes changing from fear, to longing, to at last the comfort of getting to see the other side of those black holes...this line hit me like a truck it might be my favorite from the entire fic ㅠ i have a feeling i'll be saying that abt many more lines to come when you verbalize things in the most poetic ways imaginable heheh but this one truly got me so good, the delicacy in which you describe minho makes the reader's growing affection for him all the more heart-fluttering~

minho hesitating to wipe her tears )): the way he's so careful abt touching her in any unwarranted way bc he can sense that she shies away from skinship is so devastatingly sweet...and then him pinching her right after to make her stop crying NEVERMIND I CANT STAND HIM ACTUALLY. but the way he consoles her is so endearing and so so minho...very simple and sincere, he knows her well enough to immediately figure out the best way to take her mind off of the issue instead of dwelling on it. "you didn't care what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it" i've already pointed out so many lines oh my god i'm so sorry but each one is like another arrow through my heart ㅠㅠ i feel like this sentence is such a perfect testament to the reader and lino's relationship; they've both seen each other at their best and worst and it doesn't change anything abt their feelings, they care for each other unconditionally 😞 also the reader being afraid of physical touch bc she craves it is SO heartbreaking but so raw...i think it aligns so well w her past bc she's so used to either being invisible, or only being perceived negatively when she is perceived. it makes perfect sense how terrifying she'd find it to bare herself to minho when her whole life she's been deprived of genuine affection...you've really done such a phenomenal job of characterizing both her and lino i cant say it enough!

now...the entire final scene...where do i even begin...i had a feeling the climax of the story was going to hurt but not like this ㅠㅠ the reader's inner turmoil as she debates reaching out to her mother again, that conflicting mix of hating her yet somehow still missing her...it's such an inexplicable and confusing feeling for ppl who have experienced that kind of neglect but so so real and you captured it so candidly. it really added a whole new layer to the reader's humanity, for her to be unable to completely let go of their relationship no matter how painful it is to hold on to...for her to cling to the hope that maybe she could be worth smth to her mother if she did everything right ): i genuinely had the exact same reaction as her when you revealed that her mother had deleted her phone number...it felt precisely like a bucket of ice cold water to the head. the reader trying to pinpoint the exact moment in time where her mother stopped loving her was what really crushed me most...what a heart-wrenching sentence ㅠㅠ the fact that she's tried to hard to find solace in other places and people and tried to grow into her own person after entering university, but even so, those marks left from her childhood are still there...a vase full of cracks 💔 as much as it hurts to read, i love that you included this bump in the road of her healing journey and made a point to highlight that healing isn't linear

and minho 😭😭😭😭😭 the way he handled the reader's outburst is so touching...the way he's immediately able to recognize that her feelings are misplaced and smth much deeper is going on beyond what he sees on the surface...using that astuteness to put his own feelings to the side in the moment is so minho. this entire scene is just blossoming with powerful lines i can't forget, but i was especially affected by the reader saying "i'd need you and i can't afford to need someone else." it's such a tragic summarization of her in my opinion...how she went her whole life being unable to rely on anyone but herself, so the moment she's faced w minho, all her instincts say to reject it no matter how badly she craves that intimacy ㅠㅠ and lino saying "i'll be by your side for as long as you'll have me" is such a beautiful declaration of love...it's so selfless and unconditional, and it fits so seamlessly w how their relationship progressed throughout the story, how they were by each other's sides at their best and worst moments.

"the world doesn't stop because we need it to" "we'll make it stop" and then describing their kiss as like "seeing color for the first time"...i'm going to melt into an inconsolable puddle over all these callbacks to their first date together don't think i didn't catch the ways you weaved those in throughout this final scene..you made it feel so complete, like things have come full circle. i already mentioned how much i loved their conversation abt describing colors to the blind, so for their first kiss to be written that way, like the reader was blind to the true color of the world until she met minho....i am going to be ill that is so intensely romantic sahar ㅠㅠㅠㅠ

"he was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together." another heartaching line ): what a way to personify the quiet love minho provides...it may be invisible to everyone else, but not to her

i'm so sorry for my horrifically long comment haha but i'm just thrilled i was finally able to read this beautiful fic 😞 just as i'd predicted, you're a phenomenal writer!! the amount of love and effort you poured into it went above and beyond, i hope you're so proud of yourself for creating such a stunning work!! it's very clear to me how every interaction you wrote between minho and the reader was so carefully thought out and so meaningful to the overarching theme of the story, it's all done with care and purpose and there's smth special to be found in each line of dialogue! it's like you carefully stacked more and more on to the foundation of their bond until before we know it, there's an entire home there that they built steadily together. that kind of subtle progression is my absolute favorite thing. i'm also so blown away by how the reader's mother, though never actually making an appearance until the final scene, has such an heavy impact over the narrative. it's like she's a ghost haunting the reader's every action, every decision, every inner thought...i find it so impressive how you were able to incorporate that effect into the story without us even needing to meet the mother! and i must've mentioned countless lines that stuck w me throughout the fic, but just know that there are countless more i could've pointed out as well...you truly write so so beautifully. so poetic and emotive, but also not so flowery that it becomes hard to follow, i'm truly floored by your ability to achieve that perfect balance! on top of the story being so immersive in itself, your writing style made invisible thread such a genuine delight to read <3

this feels like the kind of story i'll be thinking abt for a long time after finishing it, the kind to revisit over n over bc i'm sure there are so many lil easter eggs you included that i may have missed! i'm positive i'll come back to it many times in the future hehe...but i can't wait to read more of your writing as well! ^_^

Invisible thread- one

pairing : minho x reader

genre : university au, academic rivals to lovers (rivals not enemies because they respect each other), slow burn, fluff, angst.

warnings : reader has a very bad relationship with her mother, insecurities, talk about murder but as a joke, mention of alcohol, reader has she/her pronouns.

summary : Your studies were your lifeline for as long as you can remember. What happens when Minho comes into your life and rips it away from you?

word count : 20k

Author's note : I've been working on this fic on and off for the past two months, so if you do enjoy reading, please let me know. asks, comments, reblogs i read them all and they truly make me the happiest <3 (also i based this off my own college experience, where we study two terms and there is one person on top of the class every semester)

part two

You have always been first in your class.

Not because you particularly enjoyed studying. You simply felt that your worth was solely tied to the marks on your papers.

You never wanted to crumble under the pressure of studies, to hole yourself up in your room for an assignment you won’t remember in a month. But achieving good grades was the only way for you to feel seen; to make someone stop in their tracks and acknowledge you. 

A simple “good job” that you preserved inside your mind, as a reminder that you did exist to other people. Considering that the majority of your life was spent in silence. 

Your mom put a roof above your head and food on your table, but she never asked about your day, nor did she seem to care. You felt as though you were no more important to her than the tapestry hanging on your wall.

At times, you imagined that if you stood close enough to that tapestry, you could merge with it as one. The intricate embroidery would wrap around you and draw you in. And your mother wouldn’t notice. She would regard you with the same indifference she showed towards that textile- a mere decoration, at times a nuisance when she had to dust it.

You always ate your dinner alone. When you scraped your knee, you tended to the wound by yourself. No one attended your childhood musicals, and you patted your back when you cracked an egg without dropping a shell into the bowl. 

You’ve come to learn since your young age that all your milestones, both small and significant, would be celebrated alone. 

On the rare times your mother would acknowledge your presence, she’d unleash a flurry of criticism your way as if she was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to strike you down. She'd toss crude comments over her shoulder as easily as a casual hello, leaving you feeling battered and bruised in her wake. 

You felt as if you were shoreline rocks, and your mother was the ocean. You never knew if she would be like a gentle tide, barely brushing against you, or an enraged storm, mercilessly crashing down on your being. And you weren't sure which one was worse: to be invisible or to be seen and despised.  

That’s why you grew up plagued with self-doubt. You made friends throughout your school years but you never allowed them to get close enough to really see you -you feared that they might glimpse the very thing your mother seemed to despise in you. 

Throughout your childhood, you were like soft clay in your mother's hands- pliable, and easy to mold. And she indented you, everywhere, carved in edges and dips where they should not have been ones. Handled you roughly when you should have been treated with care. And as the years went by, you hardened- much like clay, but her touch remained imprinted upon you. It was difficult at times to discern who you were and who she made you to be.

You tried to start anew when you went away to university; to rewire your brain into believing that you were enough- you exist and you shouldn't prove to anyone that you deserved to be alive. But her words haunted you, they were like skeletons in your closet- but the closet was you. You could never part from them.

So, you fell back into the same pattern of seeking good grades and congratulatory words from your professors. Every A+ you got infused you with a momentary sense of worthiness.

But unlike in high school, you weren't always the best. Your competition came in the form of a single man named Minho, who seemed to excel in every class you shared.

Minho was mostly quiet, but whenever he spoke, you found that his words carried weight. Your professors consistently agreed with his points, and you envied the confidence he exuded. You wondered what it must feel like to be so sure of oneself.

It wasn't until a month into the year that you had your first interaction with Minho. You were in your Constitutional Law class when your professor Kim brought up the notion of ‘Separation of Powers’. You were arguing that judges shouldn’t be included in the writings of law when you heard a scoff from the row behind you. You turned around, raising a brow at the culprit, "Is there something you’d like to say?" you asked.

And in response, Minho smiled lazily, an air of smugness surrounding him, "I just don’t agree." The professor urged him to explain himself, so he leaned back into his chair, eyeing you. "Judges are the ones who practice the law every day, and sometimes they find that none of the written texts fit their case. If they get involved in lawmaking, they can help address those gaps or uncertainties." 

"Who's to say that those judges aren’t biased or politically motivated? They’ll end up writing laws to fit their own preferences," you pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him. "We elect judges to interpret and apply laws, not make them. If they start writing laws too, we'll be violating the separation of powers between the legislative and judicial branches. That's what keeps our entire system from crumbling."

Minho rested his chin on his hand, tapping his cheek thoughtfully with his index finger. "Aren’t legislators prone to biases too? Your point doesn’t stand then," he challenged, tilting his head to the side, "and judges can participate without going overboard. They can provide input on proposed laws without actually drafting them. That way, we ensure that the laws are crafted with a clear understanding of how they'll be put into practice." 

"If your main concern is to ensure that the laws are impartial, we have people who work as consulting experts whose job is exactly that," you flashed him an innocent smile, firing back. "Also, wouldn’t these overstepping branches put the judges in a position to be perceived in a bad light? Is that what you want?"

Before Minho could respond, Mr. Kim intervened, putting an end to your debate, "Let's save this energy for your essays and see who can convince me more."

You gave a quick nod, swiveling in your seat without a backward glance. However, you could sense Minho’s gaze penetrating through your back- as if he was trying to read your most intimate thoughts. 

That was the first thing you noticed about Minho when he walked over to you. His eyes were brown, not a special color by any means. But they held a certain depth to them that seemed to draw you in like a black hole. You weren't sure what you would find on the other side, nor did you have any desire to find out.

He outstretched his hands towards you, stopping you in your tracks. "Minho," he introduced and your hand met his in a firm grip. The second thing you noticed about him was the coldness of his hand, as it wrapped tightly around your palm. 

Suddenly you were taken back to when you built a snowman for the first and last time. You were just seven and the ice was freezing, numbing your fingers as you worked. Your mother never told you that you should’ve worn mittens, or a thick jacket to fight off the cold when she saw you walking out of the house. The memory of your cold hands and the horrible illness that followed still left a bitter taste in your mouth, like an unripe fruit. With a jolt you dropped his hand, forcefully pulling yourself away from that memory. 

"Yn," you said back, and he smiled to himself, repeating your name slowly, each syllable dripping from his tongue.  

"We'll see who'll write the best essay, right?" he asked, clearly challenging you. There was a gleam of excitement in his eyes that reminded you of a child gazing up at cotton candy. 

That was the third thing you noticed about Minho; how expressive his eyes were. They moved with his every word, punctuating them. 

He was infuriating but also amusing. You've never had a clear competitor in your life. Or maybe you had, but you didn't notice them. You were always so reclined on yourself, trying to survive the day, you didn't pay enough attention to your surroundings.

"You want to compete with me?" You asked, and he smirked, leaning against the door, arms crossed in front of his chest. "What? Scared you’d lose?"

"Please." You rolled your eyes at his taunting, "Don’t come crying when I win."

"We’ll see about that!" He shouted after you as you walked ahead, leaving him behind.

This essay was insignificant. A simple way for your professor to assess your knowledge and work approach. And yet, you found yourself staying up all night to complete it. There was no way you were going to let Minho take this one thing from you.

Who were you if not the best in your studies? You were deathly afraid to find out. 

Later on that week, the professor handed you your grade back, 98%. You turned around to show Minho your mark, and so did he. You surpassed him, only by mere percents. "I told you so," you smiled cheekily and he pouted, holding a hand to his heart as if your grade wounded him.

"I'll beat you next time", he mouthed and you chuckled, "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

✹✹✹

The first time you studied with Minho was in a cat café near campus, called Limbo, about two weeks after your initial interaction. You stumbled upon it serendipitously while strolling through your university town. You couldn’t study at home, since you were easily distracted in there, and the eerie silence of libraries often left you unsettled.

Limbo, however, offered the perfect middle-ground: it was calm, not overly crowded, and the buzzing of the coffee machine blended harmoniously with the occasional mewls of cats, which helped you concentrate better. 

You were sitting in a secluded corner table at the café's back, a sleeping black cat comfortably nestled in your lap when you sensed a shadow loom over you. You glanced up quickly to find Minho. He was clad in a grey hoodie sporting a bunny holding up its middle finger. You had to bite your cheek to suppress a grin at his clothing attire.

"What are you doing here?" He asked. 

"You know for someone smart you sure ask stupid questions," you remarked, already looking down at the papers scattered in front of you.

He huffed, taking a seat at the table right next to yours, "I can’t believe that of all places you’ve found this café to study in."

"My apologies, am I disturbing you, your highness?" You asked sarcastically, and in retort, Minho mimicked your words in a high-pitched tone. You threw the pillow right next to you at his head, and Minho swiftly ducked, easily avoiding it. He chuckled loudly while you glared at his laughing figure. That was the end of your conversation that day. 

From that moment forward, it became a routine for the two of you to study at Limbo, every Saturday, without fault. You didn’t explicitly plan on it, but it seemed that both of you found it comforting to work there. And you could also tell that, unlike you, it wasn’t Minho’s first time coming to Limbo. He was friends with the owner, a sweet middle-aged man who offered you pastries whenever you stayed there until closing. The cats seemed to know him too, they mewled at his feet whenever he entered and he always greeted them with a soft smile on his face. 

You didn’t talk much in those unofficial study sessions, the both of you were consumed by your own work. But you’d steal quick glances at him every now and then, the sight of him so concentrated only fueled you to work harder.

Admittedly, your competition left you feeling anxious for days on end at first. Each time Minho came out on top, you’d found yourself losing your grip. Your studies have been the one anchor keeping you afloat your entire life, and now, Minho was ripping it carelessly away from you. So, you resented him- you were human after all.

But then, you realized that Minho’s taunting wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t competing with you to hurt you, he was doing it for amusement only.

You've slowly started to learn that despite his relentless teasing, Minho had a gentle aura surrounding him. Glimpses of which occasionally emerged like rays of sunshine piercing through a thick cloud cover.

True, he chuckled when you accidentally bumped your head on the table while retrieving a fallen pen. Yet, you also noticed how he began to cover the table's corners with his hand whenever you bent down. He swiftly retracted his hand, seemingly believing you didn't notice, but you did.

During class presentations, he deliberately prepared challenging questions for you, urging you to study twice as hard to ensure no stone was left unturned. Yet, whenever the professor praised your performance, Minho offered a subtle thumbs-up as a gesture of support. He winked at you each time he got the right answer and you didn’t. However, when he noticed you struggling with a particular subject, he scooted closer and patiently explained it to you. He got up before you could thank him, swatting his arm in the air as if he didn’t do anything of significance. 

To show your appreciation, you bought him a drink that day he helped you—a simple gesture that sparked an ongoing game of "win a bet, get free food". You bet on who would receive the first mark on an assignment or who would finish an essay first- anything to further deepen the competition between you.

That's how you came to know that he loved puddings, among other things.

Curiously, as the months went by, your mind began to retain these little details about him. How his eyelashes fluttered like butterfly wings when he blinked repeatedly during your conversations. How he glanced at the ceiling when lost in deep thought as if he was waiting for the answers to descend from the sky. Or how his lips take on the shape of an "o" while thinking of his response during one of your many debates. But you supposed that it was natural to take notice of such things when you spend countless Saturday afternoons with the same person.

You were still studying for someone else, in the sense that each time you stayed up working, it was solely to prove your worth to Minho. But at least unlike your mother, Minho's words never haunted you at night.

✹✹✹

Just like that, four months have gone by since you joined your university as a law major. It was nearing finals week and you were preparing it at Limbo. Minho was naturally present too, at his usual table right next to yours.

On the last weekend before the beginning of your finals, you were head-deep into your Criminal Law documents when Minho abruptly got up from his seat and settled in the chair in front of you.

"Yn," he whispers and you glance at him, "What?" 

"I have an idea."

"Keep it to yourself," you grin sarcastically, only for him to pick up your spoon and move it around in a threatening manner.

"Are you trying to scare me with a spoon?" you chuckle in disbelief.

 "Anything can be a weapon if you use enough force."

"Okay… that was creepy. What do you want?"

"The end of the first term is coming up. So, to celebrate our little rivalry-"

"It's not a rivalry if I’m always winning," you cut him off.

"Yeah, that’s why I have a fridge full of pudding."

"But-"

"Anyways, how about the top of the class takes the other out for dinner? A fancy one." He suggests, his gaze fixed on you.

"No, thank you. I already see you enough in classes."

"Didn’t think you wouldn’t up for a bet. Guess I was wrong," he remarks, a cheeky smile drawn on his lips. He knows you couldn’t possibly say no now.  

"Fine," you roll your eyes at his proud expression. "Prepare your wallet." 

"Mm, sure," he responds, before rising from his seat once more.

That day, you both lost track of time as you studied in Limbo until it closed down. When you finally stepped outside, stretching your tired limbs, you were met with the sight of falling snowflakes.

"Nooo, go away. I don't want to watch the first snow with you," Minho whines, referring to the superstition that watching the first snowfall with someone could spark love between the two of you. 

"As if I could ever love you," you laugh at the ridiculous idea, "that’d just be signing a death warrant."

You resume walking towards your apartment when suddenly something freezing and hard hits your back with enough force to make you stagger. Turning around slowly, you find Minho erupting in laughter, his body filled with uncontainable joy. He’s jumping and clapping excitedly, and for a fleeting moment, you can’t decide if your shock was from the impact or from how beautiful happiness looks on him. 

Snapping out of your daze, you swiftly retaliate by scooping up a handful of snow and hurling it at him. "Now you are cold too!" you shout, while he’s still laughing uncontrollably. 

Thus begins an impromptu snowball fight between the two of you. Unsurprisingly, you’re being competitive in this too, trying your best to strike each other before the other could recover. But Minho draws nearer to you, and in your desperation to win, you fall to the ground when he throws a snowball at your chest, gasping as if you’re in pain.

"Shit, did I hurt you?" Minho quickly kneels in front of you, concern evident in his voice. It surprises you for a moment- how worried he seems at the prospect of causing you pain.

But you shake that thought off and push him down to the ground, a proud smile on your face. In his fall, Minho instinctively reaches for you to steady himself, which ends up with you landing on top of him. Your faces are mere inches apart, and a soft gasp escapes your mouth at your sudden proximity.

Minho has a mole on his nose. You’ve never noticed that before. 

You quickly push yourself off of him, not enjoying being this close to somebody. "Why did you drag me down with you?" you grumble, shaking off the snow from your hair.

"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," he cheekily stuck out his tongue, and you respond with the same childlike gesture before the both of you burst into loud laughter. The sound reverberates through your entire being, and it echoes in your mind long after the two of you go your separate ways.  

As you lay in bed that night, ready to drift off to sleep, a quiet realization dawns on you. This was the first time you've touched snow in since your childhood incident.

That unpleasant memory didn't cross your mind once. Instead, all you thought about was Minho’s infectious laughter, and the surprising warmth it stirred within you.

✹✹✹

You came first in your grade this semester.

True to his words, Minho texted you the name of the restaurant where you’d both meet to celebrate your win. As you got ready for your outing, you couldn’t help the nerves creeping up on you. Studying in silence next to Minho was something, going to a friendly dinner with him was another. You feared it would be too awkward and Minho would regret ever proposing such a thing.

So, as you sit in the refined BBQ restaurant waiting for him, you fidget with your hands, counting down to three in your head in an attempt to steady your breathing.

You were clearly not accustomed to existing with Minho outside of the confines of your studies.

"Did you wait long?" Minho asks as he finally pulls the chair in front of you and you shake your head no.

"Are you nervous?" he chuckles at your lack of words, and you frown, suddenly feeling defensive. "Why would I be nervous? This isn't a date."

"Who said anything about a date?" he smirks and you grab your fork threateningly, pointing it at him, "Don't say anything stupid or I will walk out."

"And stand me up on our first date? That's too mean.” He pouts, a hand on his heart and you can’t help but giggle at his antics. You were ridiculous for being nervous. This was Minho, the one person you’ve talked to the most since the start of this year. 

"What will you have?" he asks and you smile mischievously.

 "Most expensive thing on the menu."

"So you are only here for the food." 

"Well, it's certainly not for your company," you wink and he chuckles, his bunny teeth on full display. 

"And here I thought we were going to be civil with each other."

"When are we ever not?" you gasp dramatically and Minho swats your hand with the menu. "Just order whatever," you finally answer," I trust your food judgment."

"I could poison you, you know?" He smiles proudly and you roll your eyes at him, "Can’t you be normal, for once?"

Minho calls over the waiter and places your orders. The food is quick to arrive and Minho starts to grill up the meat, while you cut the Kimchi into smaller pieces. 

"Here," he puts the perfectly cooked rib onto your plate first and you smile at him, "Thank you."

"Eat up, don’t wait for me," he tells you and you nod, tasting the flavorful meat.

"Wow this is really good," you compliment and he smirks proudly at your words, "I know."

Minho places four other ribs for you, without eating one himself. You start to feel bad, so you grab his chopsticks, pick up the meat, and move it toward his mouth, "Open up."

"What?" He asks confused and you wave the food in front of his face, "Come on, you haven’t eaten anything."

Minho parts his lips slowly, and you feed the tender meat to him, before eating one yourself. You notice how his cheeks are slightly tinted pink now, and you account it to the intense heat of the grill.

"Oh, let's not talk about studies, my brain can't take another debate with you," you tell Minho in between bites and he grins at you, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. "If you were to dispose of a body, how would you do it?"

"I think our next celebration will be in an asylum." you smile too sweetly at him and he stares at you pointedly, "Please, I know you've already thought about it."

"Fine. Probably in a deserted land. What about you?"

"I'd cut their bodies and then bury each part in a different forest. In a different city."

His answer came too quickly, and you pause in your tracks, "Should I be worried?"

"You are too cute to kill." His tone is sarcastic and you make a show of gushing at his compliment, clasping both of your hands in front of your heart, "Growing soft on me, Minho?" 

"Yeah, I’m basically sooo in love with you," he replies with a smirk and you roll your eyes at him, an amused smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What's your favorite color?" you finally ask, changing the subject.

"Purple."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You'll buy me purple flowers?" He coos at you and you shake your head as you grab the utensil from his hand, to grill the meat your turn. 

"No. I'll paint your tombstone purple," you grin and he laughs loudly, eyes squinted close, and you can't find it in you to care that the people next to you are staring. 

"What's yours?" he asks when he calms down and you shrug, "Navy blue, I think."

"You do remind me of navy blue."

"And why is that?"

"When you look at it, at first glance, it looks like black. But the more you stare at it, the more layers you uncover. Just like you. There’s more to you than what meets the eye."

You grab your glass of water, gulping it down to hide the way your eyes just glossed over. You suddenly felt bare in front of Minho. How did he know?

You clear your throat, racking your brain for a way to move on from that question. "If you were to describe colors to a blind person, how would you do it?"

"Mm," he looks up at the ceiling as he mulls over your question, "I’d say that yellow is the feeling of eating ice cream on a sunny day, in an amusement park. Your fingers are sticky but your cheeks ache from how much you smiled that day."

"Yellow is carefree and happy."

"Exact. Now your turn, red."

"I’d say that... Red is the thrill that rushes through your veins when you do something you are passionate about, you know? It’s what makes our blood boil and our heart race. The very essence of our humanity."

Minho smiles softly at your words, seemingly agreeing with your description. "Don’t you think it would be easier if we simply asked, what color are you feeling today, instead of a 'How are you'?" He questions and you tilt your head to the side, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you could say, I feel like that moss green that no one seems to pay attention to. Or, I feel bright yellow as if the world's energy is stored inside me."

"And right now, how do you feel?"

"I feel orange, not the ugly orange." He precises and you chuckle, "the orange that paints the sky when the sun is about to dip into the ocean."

"A bittersweet orange, an ending that instantly strings along a new beginning. And you don't have time to rest."

Minho places his chin on his palm, eyeing you curiously, "Is that what you want? To rest?"

"Yeah." You admit quietly, "Don't you sometimes wish that the world would just stop, for a few seconds? Just like in a song, right before the beat drops. That silence, I wish I could live inside of it."

"I do too."

You both hold each other’s gaze for a while after that. You felt as if he was keeping you captive with his brown eyes, and he was slowly peeling each of your layers, in silence, as you were peeling his. For the first time, you think that you and he are similar, more than on a studies level. There was a part of his soul that understood yours perfectly. And it felt good, to be understood, for once.

"If you lived in this silence, what would you be doing?" he asks, breaking the serene quiet that surrounded you.

"I’d open a café that had books. And there'd be a little space, where people could paint. Or do pottery. And I’d have cats in there too." You reply excitedly, hands moving around in the air, you end up missing the way Minho gazes fondly at you before his smile morphs into a smirk.

"Please tell me you won't be cooking."

"Shut up. What about you?"

"I’d be a dancer."

"You dance?!" you whisper-shout and he frowns at the surprised look on your face. 

"Yeah. Why are you looking at me like this?"

"I just never expected it. Can I-"

"No." he cuts you off immediately and you pout. 

"I didn't even finish."

"I knew what you were going to say."

"Please, I won't make a sound I’d just watch. Pinky promise.” He grabs your now outstretched pinky with the tip of his index and thumb, lowering it down. 

"I’d only grant you this wish when you’re on your deathbed."

"Bold of you to assume you'd still be around."

"Death might be around the corner."

"Stop it."

"Close your door tonight."

"You are deranged."

Minho chuckles at the crestfallen look on your face, "I’ll think about it."

Just like that, three hours of talking have gone by, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. And when you finally leave the restaurant, Minho grabs you a cab and you wave him off with a smile. You couldn't lie to yourself, you had a really good time with him. You liked to think that Minho was no longer just a rival, but a possible friend.

But now that you were laying in your bed, you couldn’t help but curse Minho in your brain. His repetitive talk about murder made you paranoid, and now every creak in your apartment made you feel as if death was really right around the corner. 

You decide to text him, figuring that if you couldn’t sleep because of him, you could at least disturb him for a bit. 

Yn : I hate you I'm paranoid from your murder talk

Minho : Poor baby

Yn : Is that you at my door?

Suddenly your phone rings, the shrill sound echoing around your apartment. It was a Facetime call from Minho. You panic for a few seconds, before remembering that you just spent your entire night with him. A call can’t be more daunting than a real-life meeting. 

"See, I’m in my home," he tells you as soon as you pick up and you laugh.

"It's pitch black, I can't see."

"Just say you miss my face." You can’t see him but you can clearly hear the proud grin in his voice. 

"What's there to miss?"

"Are you actually scared?" Minho asks gently and you clear your throat, feeling ridiculous all of the sudden. 

"There is a tree right outside my window and it keeps rustling from the wind," you grumble and Minho laughs at you. 

"Trees can't hurt you."

"No shit Sherlock."

"Close your eyes.” He instructs and you frown at his words. 

"Why?"

"I’ll tell you a story."

"Fine.” You close your eyes tentatively. It’s quiet for a few seconds and you feel yourself relax slightly. 

"So, I bought a sous-vide machine and-"

"Is your bedtime story going to be about meat?"

"Yes?” He replies as if it’s an evidence, “Now be quiet." You pretend to zip your mouth and Minho faintly giggles, before resuming his story. "So, I was saying. I bought one and I wanted to experience different kinds of meats. So, I bought a 30-day aged one and a 58-day aged one and I cooked them both."

"What did you use?" you ask quietly. 

"Just garlic, and thyme, I didn't want to overpower the taste of meat. Anyways I cooked them, but I didn't have plastic bags so I had to go out and buy them."

"Mm," you hum in acknowledgment. You could feel your nerves slowly dissipate with Minho's every word. His story might be ridiculous but his honey-coated voice compensated for it, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. 

"And I found pudding there so I had to buy it."

"Obviously," you whisper. Sleep was knocking on your door, but paradoxically you tried to fight it off. You wanted to hear the rest of Minho’s story. 

"And I went back home and I cooked it, then I plated it nicely with vegetables that I sauteed with butter and garlic. Just mushrooms and potatoes, nothing too fancy. Again, my main focus was the meat. But there wasn't a difference between the two. They tasted the same for me, for some reason. And I didn't like this because the aged one was very expensive. Maybe I was scammed. Honestly, that butcher looked kind of suspicio..."

Your quiet snores make Minho pause in his tracks, and he laughs quietly. You did end up falling asleep. He can't see your face clearly, but he can see its outline and he stares at you for a while. You look peaceful.

He goes to hang up but his finger hovers over the 'end call' button. You aren't talking, but your hums are quiet enough that they fill up the space around him. It calms him down, and he lets his head fall on the pillow, his phone lying beside him.

He closes his eyes, thinking that maybe he just found the silence you talked about earlier on. 

You just made his world stop.

✹✹✹

The second semester had just started and with it the return of frat parties. You were excited at the prospect of going to one with your new friend Mina. You met her in the library when you both went to grab the same book. You quickly apologized but she waved you off, handing you the book with a huge smile on her face. She was bubbly, like a human serotonin boost, and she started gushing about how much she loved the author. You saw her again in the campus cafeteria, and she skipped towards you as if you've both known each other your entire life. That was the start of your friendship.

You walk into the frat house, both your arms encircling each other. The flashing lights of the party blind you for a moment, and it takes you a while to adjust to the loud music bouncing off of the walls. But you like it, it was like a shield from the outside world and its problems. 

You feel yourself letting loose in the crowd, swaying your hips to the music. Mina spins you around and you laugh, dancing with no care in the world. It was just the both of you in that instant. 

Mina spots Jeongin in the crowd, a friend of hers that she had an immense crush on. You couldn’t blame her- he was very attractive; his easy smirk and his blonde tousled hair earned him lots of appreciative looks from the people around him. But when his eyes locked with Mina’s, you found that his face morphed into a beautiful smile, that made his dimples look on full display, as if it was only reserved for her.

“Go get your man!” You shout in her ears, so she’d be able to hear you. 

“What are you talking about?” She yells back, but you could see the nervous smile on her face.

“He likes you! Go talk to him!”

“I don’t want to leave you alone. We came together!” She clasps your hand in hers and you smile touched by her kind spirit.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the kitchen to get some drinks. Go have fun!”

“You are sure?” She asks, her eyes darting between you and Jeongin, who was still looking at her, and her only. 

“Yes! Go!” You say, gently pushing her away. Mina jogs up to Jeongin who greets her with a side hug. He quickly glances at you and you shoot him a thumbs-up, to which he grins. You loved playing Cupid.

With that, you decide to head to the kitchen to grab a drink. You pick a beer from the fridge, double-checking if the can is closed before opening it. 

You lean on the countertop, sipping on your drink while you watch the crowd, humming along each time a song you knew played. You enjoyed watching people dance freely from afar, with no apparent care in the world.

You feel someone stand next to you and you brace yourself, getting ready to tell the person off if they decide to bother you. You didn’t have the energy for mindless flirting. But then, you smell the cologne that has lingered around you for the past term- Minho. You haven't seen him since your dinner. That was a month ago.

"Fancy seeing you here," he greets as he leans on the counter right next to you, his eyes fixated on the mingling bodies.

You turn around to face him, faking an outraged gasp, "Are you following me?"

"Mmm. You look nice", he compliments and you smile cheekily, "I know."

"Won't tell me I look nice too?" he smirks, leaning closer to your face. "Someone didn’t get enough compliments tonight?" You pout, placing a hand on your heart in mock concern.

"I did, but I want to hear it from you. You’re the only sensible person in this room."

"You look nice. Now leave me alone."

"Come on, I know you can do better than that", he jokes and you roll your eyes, muttering “You’re annoying”, under your breath.

Still, you comply, placing your arms on top of the counter and leaning your head on them to get a better look at him. He does the same, smiling, and you both stare at each other for a while after that.

The strobing lights dance on Minho’s face, casting enticing shadows on him. You've always known he was a beautiful man; you've looked into his eyes far too many times in your heated conversations. But this time was different, there was no cheeky smirk on his face nor a furrow in his eyebrows. He was simply looking at you, and it made a pool of warmth huddle in your belly. You feel yourself relax under his gaze, everything around you seemingly melts away.

You weren’t wrong when you thought that his eyes were like a black hole, pulling you in. But this time, you realize that you didn’t mind knowing what was on the other side. On the contrary, you longed for it. 

"I like your eyes right now. They remind me of the night sky. Black, with tiny little stars littered in them," you finally say.

Minho is taken aback by your words, he wasn't expecting you to compliment him, let alone to tell him something so special. He can feel his cheeks burn red at your words, feel his heart hammering in his chest. He's afraid you can hear it too.

He doesn't know what to say, so instead he clears his throat, plastering a smirk on his face, "I heard better." He hasn't. This is the first genuine compliment he's ever gotten.

"Oh, fuck off," you laugh and he joins you. The music was loud and yet the only sound his ear seemed to pick up was your laugh.

"Are you here alone?" He asks, and you shake your head no, "Came with my friend Mina."

"Did she leave you by yourself?" He frowns and you feel yourself warm up at his worried tone. "I told her to go talk to Jeongin."

"Next time, don’t stay alone."

“Fine, Dad.” You chastise and he stares pointedly at you, "I’m serious, yn."

You take another swing of the beer before turning your body fully towards Minho. After a few beats of silence, you finally ask a question that has been on your mind for a while. "Why do you say my name this way?"

"What way?" He questions and you shrug, "Slowly. People used to always rush it but you don’t."

"Well, it’s a pretty name. It deserves to be pronounced as a whole."

You beam at his words; you smile so brightly it makes his heart skip a beat. This is the first time you’ve grinned this widely at him, no hand in front of your mouth as if to hide it. He did notice how you were a reserved person outside of class, as if you were afraid of taking up too much place. But he could tell you were slowly unraveling, growing bolder with each passing month. He wanted to tell you that if people like you spoke more, the world would be a far better place. 

But he couldn't bring himself to say all of this, so he forced those bubbling words down his throat. "I’m hungry," he whines instead and you laugh at his pout. "I'm kind of craving a greasy pizza."

"Should we go buy it? You can tell Mina to come so we can walk her back."

"I’ll ask her."

You shoot Mina a text, asking her where she was and telling her about your plan. She replies that she’s with Jeongin who just offered to take her home, so you could leave without her.

"We can go." You tell him and he nods. Minho shrugs his leather jacket off, gently placing it on your shoulders. His warmth engulfs you and you sink further into it. His arm hovers around your shoulder not touching you as he leads you out of the party. He has never touched your body, you note, it's like he was everywhere and nowhere at once.

You both walk to an open parlor near the frat house, and you order a Margarita pizza to share. You sit down on a nearby bench to eat it- the night breeze too liberating to pass up on.

As you both finish eating, a cat with white and orange stripes all over her body approaches the both of you cautiously, and you pat her head softly. "Aren't you the cutest thing ever?" you coo and Minho chuckles as he scratches the cat’s chin. She purrs at his touch appreciatively, and you smile at the soft look on his face. 

"Never knew you to be this gentle", you giggle and Minho shushes you, "Let's not do this in front of the cat."

"Why are you acting as if we are a divorced couple and she’s our child."

"Easy, yn. You make it sound as if you want me to marry you."

"Now you're just projecting," you chastise and he laughs, eliciting giggles from you. He had a melodic laugh, you noticed, and you always felt a surge of pride whenever you made him close his eyes and tip his head from laughter. You felt as if it's a sight only you can see.

"I have three cats", he says softly and you gasp, "Really? We spent all of our Sundays in a cat café and this is when you tell me?"

"I only tell my friends."

"So we're friends now?" You gush and he rolls his eyes at you, "I take it back."

"What’s their names?" You ask curiously and his eyes soften at your question- you could easily tell he loved them dearly.

"Soongie, Doongie, and Dori. They are rescues."

"That’s very sweet of you Minho."

"Most of my scars come from them though," he chuckles but you sober up at his words, quietly scratching the cat's ears.

"What’s on your mind?" He asks and you glance at him. It was scary how well he’s starting to know you. But it was also nice; to be known is to exist, after all.

"I just... Sometimes I wish that memories would leave physical scars on you. Because at least then, you could treat them, put a band-aid on, and watch them fade away day by day. Because when the scars are emotional, you can’t treat them, you know? And someday someone brings up a name or a place, or you smell a certain scent, and suddenly they reopen as if no time has gone by at all.”

Minho stays silent for a while, mulling over your words. You don't mind, you weren't expecting him to comfort you. You just needed to free those words from the mental prison you've held them in for so long.

"Do you know Kintsugi?" he finally asks and you shake your head no.

"It's a Japanese art. They put back together broken vases with molten gold. It represents strength despite our flaws."

"That sounds nice," you sigh wistfully and he nods. 

"It is. When you look at that vase, you know that it was once broken, but it doesn't take away from its beauty, on the contrary, it adds to it. Scars, whether they are emotional or physical are there for a reason. They remind us of how we pushed through whatever life threw at us."

"Am I supposed to be grateful I survived this?" You chuckle lowly, as your hand scratches the cat’s ear. Your fingers brush against Minho’s and you hesitate for a few seconds before moving them away.

"I wouldn't say grateful for what you went through," he speaks once again, "but grateful to yourself. At the end of the day, the reason why you're still here is you. You put yourself back together," he then bumps his elbow into your side softly, "and hey, even if your scars reopen there will come a time when they wouldn’t anymore. Sometimes, it takes a while to be okay again."

This was Minho’s way of telling you that someday it wouldn’t hurt anymore. That someday you’d be okay. And you needed to hear that. You needed to hear someone else other than yourself tell you that.

"Thank you, Minho, I needed that", you smile at him and he grins back at you before his smile turns to a smirk. "I charge 15 dollars for the hour by the way."

"Oh, come on! You didn't even say something revolutionary." You are lying. Minho's words will echo in your mind long after this night- a beacon of light to hold onto.

"Oh, so now it’s no longer ‘I needed that’. Tsk," he jokes a smirk still plastered on his face.

"Okay, Mr. Therapist. I’ll pay for your coffee tomorrow, sounds good?"

"I should have you as my client more often," he winks and you laugh, head tipped back. You were grateful more than ever for his teasing, loving how it wasn’t awkward between you after your discussion.

"You are a good listener." You tell him as you stand up, dusting your pants.

"I’m good at everything," he grins cheekily at you and you roll your eyes playfully, "And here I thought we were having a moment."

You both start walking side by side toward your home when Minho speaks again. His tone is quiet as if he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear him. "About earlier, your compliment, I mean. I suppose I didn't thank you. So, thank you," he scratches the tip of his ears and you shrug nonchalantly. "It's the truth. You might get on my ass but that doesn't change the fact you are a pretty man."

He doesn’t respond and you tug at the sleeve of his shirt playfully, "You won't tell me I’m pretty too?"

"But then I’d be lying."

"Asshole."

"Pretty," he replies without missing a beat.

You laugh loudly, hand tightly clutching your stomach and he joins you. There is a newfound lightness in your steps now. Unbeknownst to him, Minho just managed to lift a small weight off your shoulders, allowing you a brief moment of respite.

"This is me," you say when you arrive in front of your apartment block, "Thank you for walking me home."

"Of course. Don't dream of me."

"Idiot," you laugh waving him off and he does the same. "Oh, and text me when you get home safely!" you shout before heading inside.

For the second time this night, Minho is blushing profusely at your words. He sighs to himself, waiting patiently until a light turns on in your place to leave.

✹✹✹

It’s been two months since the start of the new term. You still went to Limbo, every Saturday with Minho- even when you didn’t need to study. 

Sometimes you’d just grab a book and you’d both read, a cat lazily lounging at your feet. You started sitting at the same table too; you figured it was easier since one of you always pays for the other. When you have a bet, but also randomly, when you notice that the other person is feeling down and you want to cheer them up without saying anything.

That's why you bought three bubble teas for Minho in a row. He was quieter these days, you noticed. He didn’t talk to you nor did he retort back in class. It was the first time you’ve seen him this way. As if he was a simple shell of the person he usually is. 

You were walking out of your Communications Strategies class, which Minho weirdly didn’t come to when you realized that it was pouring rain. You smile lightly to yourself, grateful since you thought about picking up an umbrella this morning. 

As you walk through campus, everyone around you running to take shelter, you spot someone sitting on a bench, completely drenched from the rain. Their head is hung low and you frown to yourself. They would surely get a cold if they stay there.

But then the person raises their head and you quickly realize it's Minho. You jog up to him instinctively, standing in front of him and shielding him from the rain with your umbrella.

He looks up at you and you feel your heart clench. His eyes are void of emotion and he stares blankly at you. "Are you okay?" you ask and he blinks at your words, as if his brain hadn't yet registered that you were there.

"Yeah."

"You don't look like it", you tilt your head to the side and he looks down again. You have to strain to hear his next words, muffled by the rain and his mumbling, "I don't want to talk, yn."

You decide to put away your umbrella and sit down next to him on the bench. The rain falls rapidly on both of you, and you feel yourself grow cold from it. 

"What are you doing?" He questions, turning to the side to look at you.

"Enjoying the rain. It is kind of stupid that we have umbrellas, right?"

"You'll catch a cold."

"I mean we always complain about the drought and then when it rains, we hide from it. But it's really beautiful."          

"Stop, I don't want you to get sick."

"Well, neither do I. Let's go eat some soup. My treat."

"Yn, I don’t-"

"I thought you were smart enough to know I won't take no for an answer."

"But I-" you cut him off again. "Also, I’m doing this for me because when you order for two, they give you a lot of side dishes. Now come on."

You stand up and he looks doubtfully at you, before following suit. You open up the umbrella again and hold it over both of your heads. He has to huddle close to you, and your shoulders brush against each other. Once, twice. Not that you're keeping count. But your body is always hyper-aware of Minho’s proximity. You also notice how he silently moves from your right to your left, this way he's the one walking right next to the speeding cars. Your hold on the umbrella tightens. You were still not used to those small attentions of his. 

You arrive in front of your apartment block and he hesitates. "Come up, I won't murder you I promise." You joke and he smiles lightly back at your words. Progress.

He enters your dorm and you can see him eying his surroundings. You know that if it was another time, he would have teased you about something- anything. But he stays quiet, and you find yourself missing the sound of his voice.

"Would you like to shower?" You offer and he nods, "Please."

You lead him to your bathroom and show him where the washing machine is. "Put your clothes in there for a quick wash and dry. You can shower meanwhile."

He nods again as you hand him a towel. "I'll be outside."

You quickly leave the bathroom to place the soup orders, and Minho discards his wet clothes, walking into your shower. The water is piping hot, and he leans his forehead on the cold tiles. He doesn’t move for the first ten minutes, too tired at the prospect of lifting his limbs.

Nothing particular happened. But he’d go through days when he’d quiet down because everything around him was too much. The feel of his clothes against his skin, and the sun streaming through his curtains. But it always passes. Minho was a realistic man and he knew that his emotions would regulate themselves. That’s why he didn’t like appearing vulnerable in front of other people.

But for some reason, he didn’t mind lowering his guard with you. He knew you wouldn’t judge.

He sighs, grabbing your cherry-scented shampoo and pouring it into his hands. He can clearly smell you now. The scent of your hair that always tickles his nose, whenever you are sitting close to him. Your body wash is next and he wonders if this is how your skin smells, like vanilla and jasmine, and something entirely you. 

Forty minutes later, Minho finally steps out of the shower. His clothes are clean and he quickly puts them on. He dries his hair with the towel as he walks out of your bathroom towards the living room. 

He finds you sitting on the ground, in front of a heater that looks close to giving up. He makes a mental note of giving you the one he has since he doesn't really use it. You changed out of your clothes too, and you are now wearing a pair of pajamas with little bunnies sewn into it. The sight almost manages to make him smile. 

"Still cold?" you question when you notice him standing behind you, unmoving, and he shakes his head no.

"Good, the soup is here." You say cheerfully, pointing at the steaming bowls sitting on your table. Minho hums in reply and you stand up, grabbing the towel from his hands to place it on the drying rack.

You come back, a soft green blanket in your hands. You sit on the couch and pat the spot beside you. Minho sits next to you, and you lay the blanket on both of your laps, before handing him his soup.

You start the show you’ve been last watching, as you both eat in silence, your legs crisscrossed. You make some comments throughout the episodes. You figured that it was a safe territory, to talk about something as mundane as this. He didn't reply but you didn't mind. You weren't here to have a conversation with him. You just wanted to distract him.

You realize at that moment that Minho always looked so put together to you. But he had problems of his own too. That much was obvious. It made you feel closer to him, in a sense. You were both just trying to make it through the day.

Two hours later, you get up to grab a book, handing Minho the remote to put on a show of his own. You curl in a ball in the corner, reading where you left off last night.

"Can you... Can you read out loud?" Minho speaks for the first time in a while and you look at him. His eyes are closed, his head resting against your couch.

"Sure."

You start to read, and Minho further sinks into the couch. He feels at home here. Because the blanket is soft and the light is dim enough to not hurt his eyes. Or it could be that he smells like you, a scent so comforting he wants to bury himself in it. Or maybe it's your voice that floats through the air, slowly clouding Minho’s every sense. He feels as if he could see the words you were pronouncing dancing in front of his eyes. You enunciated each syllable clearly, making sure that no sound was forgotten.

As Minho gently drifted to sleep, he felt as if he was part of the words you read out loud. He felt as if you were treating him with the same care, making sure that he knew he wasn't invisible. At least not to you.

When you wake up the next morning, Minho is gone. And his place beside you on the couch is empty. He made you breakfast, scrambled eggs, and freshly pressed orange juice. And right next to it you find a note, "Thank you for reading to me."

✹✹✹

Minho didn't believe in having a lot of friends. He was content with the two people he had, Chan and Changbin. The latter was his high school friend, he skipped a year and ended up being in the same class as Minho. They didn't talk at first until the day Changbin dropped a book on Minho's foot. The brooding man started apologizing profusely, and that was the start of their friendship. They've kept in touch since.

Chan was his roommate at university. It's not that he particularly wanted to befriend him, but Chan was a social butterfly and he quickly managed to pull Minho into his friendly trap. He annoys Minho the most, but in an endearing way. And although Chan is older, Minho still strangely developed a soft spot for him. 

And he supposes he has you too now. At first, you weren’t friends, rivals at most. He enjoyed reeling you up and having you frown at his words in your heated debates. He also liked talking to you, because your ideas were interesting and you always gave him a new fresh perceptive to see things.

That’s how he strictly saw you as, an intelligent human who he liked to debate with.

But then he started to look forward to meeting up with you at Limbo. He no longer minded the fact that you took his self-assigned table, from his high school days. And he laughed more freely with you, enjoying how you always had a witty retort sitting at the tip of your tongue. 

That’s how he started to notice things that friends most definitely notice. How you have a charm bracelet you always fidget with whenever you are nervous. How you stray away from physical touch. How you scratch your eyebrow when you are deep in thought.

But also, how you seem to have an obsession with cherries. Your cherry pendant, your cherry-scented shampoo, and your cherry-tainted lips. A friend would most certainly think that your lips are like red wine-stained glass.

He remembers one of the many times when you were at Limbo, and he saw you reapply your lip tint, or so you called it. You caught him looking and he swiftly averted his gaze, but it wasn't quick enough. Suddenly you were in front of him, a tiny red bottle in hand.

"Let me apply it to you," you smiled and he pushed your head away with his pointer finger. "No."

"Please," you pouted and he couldn't help but find you adorable. You sometimes reminded him of a small kitten. But he didn’t dare to call you by that nickname. 

"Never."

"If I score more than you in our environmental assignment then I will do it."

"Fine." he huffed so that you'd leave him alone.

Minho didn't study for that assignment. He blamed it on a headache, not that it's ever stopped him before. And two weeks later you were in front of him, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. You applied the lip tint gently on his plump lips, carefully tracing over his cupid bow. 

Your face was mere inches away from his and he noticed how you were wearing a gloss today, for change. It was shimmering under the lights and he usually didn't like glittery things, but he couldn't take his eyes off your lips. 

"All done!" you clapped excitedly, snapping him out of his haze. You then shove your phone camera into his face so he'd look at the results.

"You should be a model. Your face is perfectly sculpted," you comment nonchalantly, before sitting back in your seat. 

“I know.” He replies confidently, but his hand kept fiddling with the tip of his now pink ears. He couldn't concentrate for the rest of the night.

You were his friend because he always worried if you were eating enough. That’s why he urged you to grab a bite in the convenience store near Limbo, whenever you finished up your studying late.

This was one of the many times you sat on the minuscule table outside, hot ramen bowls in front of the both of you. Minho huffed in annoyance between each bite, his bangs were getting longer, disturbing him when he leaned down to slurp his noodles. 

“Here,” you stand up from your place, a hair tie in your hands. 

“What are you doing?” He questions as you stand behind him. You don’t reply, silently grabbing his hair and putting it up in a tiny ponytail, this way it wouldn’t get in his eyes anymore.

“Voila,” you sit back down, resuming your eating. Minho was grateful for the dimly lit street because his entire face was burning up. Your fingers in his hair were gentle and he wondered how it would feel if you ran your fingers through it. 

This was something friends think about, right? 

"I’ll cut my hair tomorrow," he clears his throat. He didn't know why he told you. You certainly weren't interested in his hair endeavors.

"What?!" you yell, "Don't. Your hair is beautiful why would you cut it?"

"Because it's getting longer."

"But it suits you."

Minho also noticed how you always threw compliments his way. Not in a flirtatious way, but in a genuine one. He couldn't help but wonder what made you this way. Did you so freely give love to others because you knew how it felt to not receive it?

"I’ll still cut it."

Minho returned home; his hair still clipped back in a ponytail. Chan eyed him weirdly but he shut him off with a glare. The elastic remained at his bedside since.

He didn't cut his hair.

The moment Minho started to consider you a close friend, was when you invited him over to watch your show. You didn’t force him to open up that night, and he appreciated it, more than he let on.

That's how a week later, he finds himself walking towards your dorm again. The thoughts in his head got too much, and Chan was immersed in his makeshift studio, which meant he won't be free for the next four hours, minimum.

He didn't plan on going to you. It was late at night and you were probably asleep, but his feet naturally led him to the direction of your place.

He knocks softly on your door. He wasn't even sure if he wanted you to open. What would you think of him showing up at eleven pm? He should have thought this thro-

"Minho?" you call out, and he startles a bit, his feet already inching away from the door.

"This was a bad idea, I'm sorry," he starts to retract back but you grab the hem of his jacket to stop him. "Do you... Do you want to watch my show with me?" you ask, a soft smile on your face and he nods tentatively.

"Okay, come in," you open the door wider and Minho follows you inside. The look in his eyes reminds you of the day you found him sitting under the rain. You didn't like it, you wanted him to find his spark back, his usual demeanor. He wasn't deserving of anything but happiness.

"I’ve started a new show, this one's a bit more romantic, so don't go around imagining me as the main character," you tease and he scoffs at your words, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't reply, but you don't mind. There was this secret agreement between the two of you, you would talk and he would listen. He needed the distraction, and you needed the company. Sometimes the line between alone and lonely blurs, and on days like these, Minho’s presence fills the void inside.

You comment on the scenes and Minho hums in reply, you watch three episodes in a row, and your eyes are getting drowsy, so you close them.

"Minho," you call out gently and he turns his head towards you.

"Yeah?"

"What color are you feeling tonight?" You ask, referencing to what he told you on your dinner celebration. That felt like an eternity ago.

"Black." You stay silent and Minho fidgets with his hands before speaking once again. "I feel a lot at the same time, too much of every color. That's why- that's why I said black."

"How can I help you feel yellow?"

"You already do." His admission came softly and it made your breath hitch in your throat. You wanted to open your eyes and look at him, but you figured it will only make him close off even more.

“Okay. Will you stay for breakfast?”, you whisper. You were very sleepy, the soft chatter of the TV and your hushed conversation were like a lullaby to you. 

"You want me to?" he asks, and he sounds so vulnerable you can't find it in you to say anything but the truth.

"I do," you admit, and that's the last thing you remember before sleeping.

Your head falls near Minho’s lap on the couch, your hair tickling his exposed thigh. Minho shouldn’t feel this way, he thinks. He’s sitting on the leather couch and his feet are touching the cold floor and yet all he can feel is three strands of your hair tickling him.

He glances at you, at your now parted lips and your relaxed eyebrows. His hand hovers over your hair, but then he curls it into a tight fist. What is he doing? He thinks to himself as he drags an angry hand through his face. He sighs, before standing up and grabbing the blanket you had on the opposing chair. He gently lays it on your body before sitting next to you once again. 

You told him to stay for breakfast. He’ll stay.

✹✹✹

2 months later

"Yn!" Minho shouts in your ear as he plops down next to you. You startle, dropping the book you were reading. 

"I hate you," you grumble, picking up your book and he smiles cheekily at you, "No you don't."

You were laying on the grass of your campus garden, in between two classes, trying to kill the time. It was April so the weather was perfect for lying under the warm sunrays. You loved spring, it always held within it the promise of a better time. 

"What are you doing?"

"I was reading before you got here and started to annoy me." 

"Don't mind me. Do your thing." 

"And what are you doing?"

"Enjoying the sun."

"You couldn't find any other place to do so?"

"Nope."

"You're annoying" You try to sound mad but the smile on your face betrays you. You started looking forward to any moment Minho randomly shows up throughout your day. Sometimes it's late at night when he's suddenly craving sushi and he drags you with him because if he's not studying then you shouldn't be too. 

Sometimes it's during the day, when he takes you to a new garden where he found the quote "cutest cats in existence". Not as cute as his cats, of course. 

Sometimes it's late afternoon when he just knocks on your door, and he's there with Chan-his roommate who sometimes joins your study sessions- snacks in their hands. You've learned that what Minho doesn't say in words, he compensates by spending time with you. And you didn't tell him but waiting for these moments has been the joy of your life for the past few weeks.

It made you feel excited- like a child waiting up for Christmas morning to discover what gifts they are receiving. 

So, you resume reading, as Minho is lying next to you. You could smell his pinewood cologne and you wished you could pour his essence into a bottle and carry it with you everywhere. 

You notice how the sun is hitting Minho’s eyes directly, and how his eyebrows are scrunched up at the aggression. So, you grab your book with your left hand, and hover your right one over his eyes, shielding him from the sun. Minho's breath tickles your hand and you can feel goosebumps rising through your skin. 

It's as if every physical proximity with Minho made you feel hyperaware of every part of your body, and how he can lighten it with a simple breath from his part. It made you wonder what it would feel to have his hands on your skin.

As if Minho heard your thoughts, he gently wraps his thumb and index finger around your wrist, steadying your hand in place so it wouldn't strain your arm. You suddenly don't know what page you are in, too overwhelmed by the feeling of his hands on you. 

His touch is very featherlight and you are afraid to move, to break the bubble you are suddenly pulled into. 

"Read to me," he tells you and you gulp. You never understood why Minho enjoyed it when you read to him. 

"Like my voice that much?" you tease, in an attempt to hide how affected you are. You were so close to him; it would be easy to slide down and lay your head on his chest. You wondered how his heartbeat would sound. Was it steady, or racing just like your own? 

"Yeah, it's calming," he replies sincerely, catching you off guard. You didn't expect him to compliment you, and now you are racking your brain for a retort, anything to make you breathe again. 

"Growing soft on me Minho?" you say, the same question you asked on your first dinner out. The first time you truly saw him, the first time you felt as if you were two pieces of the same puzzle, just waiting for someone to connect the both of you. 

He doesn't reply. And you sit there, patiently waiting. His first answer came so easily, so naturally, because he was being sarcastic, "I’m basically in love with you", he told you back then. So why can't he say it again?

"Yes, I am." He finally replies and you feel your breath catch in your throat. You try to account it for your brain misguiding you. It wasn't Minho speaking, it was the rustling of the leaves and the singing of the birds that you just heard. But it was him, and now his eyes are open and he's looking at you. Your hand is still shielding his eyes and his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist. And you are suddenly feeling. You are feeling too much. You don't know what to do with those feelings cursing through your veins and you can't face them. Because they are scaring you.

"I'll just... Yeah, I’ll just read," you say quietly, too flustered by his intense gaze. You were already on the other side, you realize. His eyes pulled you in and you were stuck in there, swimming in a pool of honey. 

"Out loud," he says and you chuckle, "Fine, Min." The nickname slips out of your tongue naturally and you quickly snap your head towards Minho to see if he noticed. 

His eyes are closed, and there is a slight smile on his face, and you can swear that he just repeated the nickname to himself softly. 

✹✹✹

You've been so sick these past days, you barely managed to go to class. Your head throbbed with pain and your entire body felt as if someone thoroughly boxed it. 

You were grateful that Minho reeled down his teasing because you had no energy to retort back. He may have noticed how sick you felt and truthfully it would be hard not to. You stayed silent throughout the day, and you looked so pale, you avoided looking at the mirror altogether.

Though Minho didn't talk to you, he still silently placed water bottles and some of your favorite snacks on your desk. You'd down the water, grateful for the relief it brought your sore throat. And when you didn't touch the food, he'd immediately text you 'Eat up', followed by a simple 'Please'. Having someone else care for your well-being felt weird, but it warmed your heart beyond what words could describe. 

You only came today to pass your Criminal Law mid-term, but your head hurt so badly that you weren't even sure what you wrote on your paper. The words blurred in front of your eyes and you almost slept in the middle of your exam, exhaustion threatening to take over your body. 

You fucked up, badly. You haven't screwed up this much in years.

You thought that you were slowly getting better since Minho surpassing you no longer sparked an unworthy feeling within you. But apparently, you were wrong to believe so. Self-doubt crept up within you once again, and the ugly feelings it stirred slowly clawed at your throat, making it hard for you to breathe.

It was one test, and yet it reeled you back ages ago. 

Tears threaten to spill out of your eyes as you hurriedly walk out of your class. You make a beeline for the library, figuring that it will be mostly empty by now. 

You pull out a chair and sit on it, lowering your head down so no one will see you. Your tears are falling rapidly and you hit your thigh repeatedly.  You hated how weak you felt in that instant. 

"Yn?", someone calls out and you curse internally. You don't have to look up to see who it is, Minho's voice has become a part of you- you could easily recognize it between a thousand mingling sounds. 

You don't want him to see you, especially not like this, weak and vulnerable and on the verge of breaking down. So you quickly slip a pair of sunglasses on your eyes, before raising your head to look at him. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?" he asks, his tone so soft it makes you want to cry ten times fold. You hated it, hated how attentive he was to you. You didn't deserve it. 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm just here to pick a book," you lie, abruptly standing up and heading toward the rows behind you. You desperately needed to get away from him. 

You pause in front of a random shelf and then you feel Minho standing behind you. You grab a random book and he peeks above your shoulder to see it, "Economics? You hate this subject."

"Why are you following me?" you turn around attempting your best to sound mad. When in reality, your heart was brimming with hurt. You wished you could get away from your body and seep into someone's soul to feel what it's like to love yourself.

"You aren't okay," he asserts and you hate it. You hate that he sounds so sure of himself. Was it that noticeable? Were you not fooling anyone?

"I am," your voice is shaking but you are adamant about contradicting him. You couldn't let him see you. What if he runs?

"Then..." he steps forward and you take a step back until your back is against the shelf. His left arm cages your body, but his right one stays by his side. He is leaving you an opening, you realize, an outing in case you feel uncomfortable. Against all odds, you don't.

 "Why are you hiding from me?" he asks, gently taking your sunglasses off your face, and placing them on the top of your head.

You don't look up at him, and he hooks his finger underneath your chin, gently raising your head. When your tear-stained eyes meet his, he frowns deeply, "Why are you crying?"

"it's nothing."

"Yn..."

"I fucked up, okay?! That was the worst test I’ve ever given in years." The tears start to flow at your words and you wipe them away aggressively. You despised crying in front of people. 

Minho raises his hand to wipe the tears away for you but he quickly retracts it- you probably wouldn't want him to touch your face. It was enough that he had grabbed your wrist a couple of weeks before this. He quickly racks his brain for something to do, because the sight of your tears is making his heart ache in a way he hasn't felt before. It's as if he's feeling your emotions deep within him.

In desperation, Minho pinches your arm and you yelp, startled. "What was that for?" you whisper-shout and he raises his hands in defense, "I didn't know what else to do."

"So, you thought about pinching me?" you chuckle in bewilderment and he scratches the top of his hair sheepishly. 

"I mean, it worked. Look, you stopped crying," he points out raising his brows at you proudly and you shake your head at him.

"Remind me to never cry in front of you again." 

Minho grins at you before his face turns serious once again. "Look, you are the smartest person I know," he pauses, adding with a cheeky smirk, "After me of course." Which makes you giggle against your will. 

"Shut up", you lightly punch his chest and he smiles. "One test doesn't define you. You always work very hard. I wouldn't lie to you."

"Mm," you hum and he frowns at your lack of enthusiasm, but still, he doesn't comment. 

"No more crying," he wiggles his finger in front of your face and you roll your eyes, wiping the rest of your tears away. "Fine. Pretend as if this never happened."

"What are you talking about?" he asks as if confused, and you can't help the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. It's as if Minho knows exactly what to say to cheer you up. 

"Come with me," he tells you, gently pulling you by the sleeve of your hoodie. 

"Where to?"

"I’m craving ice cream."

"And why do you need me?"

"You're craving ice cream too," he says in a matter-of-a-fact tone. 

"Only if you're paying," you add with a giggle and he whines loudly, "I feel so so used around you." 

True to his words, Minho takes you to the nearest ice cream parlor. It's a 20 minutes walk away and you are grateful for the distance because it helps you clear your head a bit.

Minho lets you pick whatever flavors you want, and when you hesitate between two of them, he tells the cashier to put them both into your cup. This is how you end up with a container of 5 scoops of ice cream. You insisted you'd share, and Minho begrudgingly agreed when you threatened to walk out and leave him.

You then walk to a deserted alley and sit on the sidewalk. You didn't want to be around people right now, and thankfully, Minho understood without you having to say a word.  

You munch silently on your ice cream and Minho does the same, the both of you lost in your thoughts. You naturally take turns holding the freezing container, so it wouldn't numb the fingers of one of you.

When you're done, Minho stands up to throw it away in a nearby trashcan before sitting back again next to you. 

Suddenly you feel him gently tapping your hand. You look down to find that you've curled your fingers into a tight fist, so much that there are crescent indents visible on your palm now. 

"Let's play thumb war," he tells you and you giggle at his words. You never knew what to expect from him. 

Still, as your fingers hold each other, and your thumb circles one another, you feel yourself calm down slightly. You play a couple of rounds, and you know he's going easy on you, allowing you to quickly trap his thumb down. 

No one has gone to such lengths to cheer you up, and you suddenly feel so grateful for Minho’s presence in your life. You didn't care in what shape he was in, you just needed him to be in it. Which in turn makes you think how bad it'd hurt if he ever leaves. 

You don't want Minho to leave. You've gotten so attached to him that the thought of not talking to him again makes your heart race in panic. 

Minho notices the change in your expression, suddenly melancholic once again. Your hand has gone limp in his, the thumb war long forgotten by you. 

He curses under his breath, before looking at you. "If I dance for you, will you quit being so sad?"

"Dance for me?" you repeat incredulously and he nods, "Yes. I’ll show you an upcoming choreography just... Please smile?" 

"Okay," you giggle, plastering a wide grin on your face. 

"Not like that you look scary."

"Get to dancing!" you clap excitedly and he rolls his eyes, standing up and looking through his phone for a particular music. 

"Oh and no comment!" he looks pointedly at you, and you nod, pretending to zip your mouth and throwing away the key. 

'Finesse' by Bruno Mars starts playing and you are left mesmerized by the way Minho dances. It's short but it leaves you yearning to see more. His body moves smoothly, hitting each beat effortlessly. He made it look as if dancing was second nature to him, that it came as easily to him as breathing. 

You were speechless, rightfully so. You wished you could build a world where all Minho did was dance. 

"That was-" you start when he stops the music but he cuts you off instantly, "I said no comment."

"But--" Minho places his finger on your mouth to silence you, seemingly not thinking too much of it. But the feel of his finger on your lips makes you dizzy. Minho quickly takes off his hand, a blush evidently creeping up his neck. 

"Let's just go home," he sighs in defeat and you laugh despite the intense feelings cursing through you.

You don't know if you are imagining it but you swear that your pinkies brush against each other on your walk back. As if there was this magnetic force pulling them together. You wondered what would happen if you just linked your pinky with his. Would he grab you by the hand or will he let go of you entirely?

You were too much of a coward to find out. You were scared of messing up anything with him. So, you'd settle for this. Stolen glances and random outings. You just need him in your life. 

"Thank you for today," you tell Minho once you arrive and he shrugs, as what he did wasn't a big deal.

"No, I mean it. Thank you," you repeat, trying your best to convey how sincere you were being. You take in a deep breath, before grabbing his hand and squeezing it, for a fleeting second, before dropping it again. 

Minho is sure that your hand will now be imprinted into his, that the lines tracing over your palm will merge with his as one. Your touch was barely there but it had electrocuted him. He wondered to himself if his body would be able to handle more from you. But he'd gladly burn in your fires for the sake of holding you. And he'd wait, unwaveringly, as time stretches alongside the two of you. He'd wait as long as it takes for you. 

"Yn, I..." he stammers, taking a step closer to you. His scent engulfs you and you shamefully close your eyes, inhaling it. When you open them again, you find Minho glancing down at your lips. You gulp, dazzled by his proximity. 

"You have a mole on your nose," you suddenly speak up and his eyes snap back to yours, an adorable confusion drawn on his features. 

"I like that mole," you continue and you wish you could dig yourself a hole and bury yourself in it. 

"Thank you," he chuckles and you nod vigorously, "You're welcome." 

"Can I ask you something?" he says and your breath hitches in your throat. "Sure."

"You don't like it when people touch you, right?" 

"Yeah."

"Can I ask why?" 

You want to confide in him, to tell him that it’s because you long for it, you crave it so badly. That this need has woven itself into the very fabric of your being. An ache so raw that it scares you at times. You’ve never known what it feels like to be held- it was uncharted territory to you. 

"Isn't everyone scared of the unknown?" you settle on saying, and he nods in understanding. Of course, he understood. No one knows you as well as him. 

"It's okay. I just wanted to know if I ever overstepped my boundaries."

"You didn't," you reply instantly. 

"Good. You'll tell me if I ever do, right?"

"I will." 

"Okay." 

"Um. I'll get going," you point behind you and Minho smiles at you, waving you off.

You walk for a few steps before coming back again quickly. You then grab Minho’s hand, gently squeezing it like before, "You are an amazing dancer." 

And then you drop it, running back towards your apartment block without waiting for a reply. 

Minho stays frozen in his place. You think he's an amazing dancer. And you held his hand for five seconds. 

That's four seconds more than the first time. 

Progress.        

✹✹✹

You haven't gotten out of your house for the past three days. 

Everything crashed around you rapidly, it made you realize that the ground you once stood on was only an illusion, elusive and fleeting. 

You were doing well; you were getting better. But then Monday came and you went out for a walk in the park near you. As you sat there, you saw a little girl playing on the swings, delightful joy dancing across her features. But then she fell to the ground and you instinctively stood up to help her, only to notice her mother running to her. 

The world stilled around you as you clearly saw it- how the little girl clung to her mother's embrace, her embodiment of hope and love. You never had that. You don’t even know what perfume your mother used because she never allowed you to get that close to her. 

You stood up abruptly, quickly heading back to your apartment block. As you ran up the stairs, you ended up bumping into one of your neighbors. You were quick to apologize but they ignored you, and the feeling of being invisible came back to haunt you ten times fold. 

You knew you shouldn’t have done it, you knew you should have deleted your mother’s number when she sent you away to university without a backward glance, relieved at the thought of you getting a full-ride scholarship and not needing her anymore. But you didn’t, you kept her number in the hopes that she’d call. On your birthday, on holidays, on a random Thursday to tell you that she did remember who you are. 

With trembling hands, tears welling in your eyes, you dialed your mother’s number for the first time in a year. You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe she regrets it. Maybe she misses you. Maybe she didn’t find the courage to mend her wrongdoings and that's why she never called. 

"Hello?" her voice rang through your apartment. Goosebumps erupted on your arms and your hold on the phone tightened. Her voice took you back to memories you thought you had buried. How you spent countless nights yearning to hear the sound of her voice, how you regretted it once she spoke to attack you.

You hate her. You miss her. You want to hang up. You need to ask if she's doing okay. 

“Who is this?” Her voice was devoid of recognition, freezing you in your tracks. You felt as if a bucket of ice was thrown over your head, dousing the flame of hope that flickered in your heart. 

She deleted your number.

You quickly hung up, placing your phone down on the table. The tears refused to fall. It was as if your body had long anticipated this outcome, leaving only your wounded soul to bear the pain. 

Healing isn't linear, you've read about it in books and heard it in shows and movies. One step back doesn't mean that your entire progress is gone. You know this, you've memorized those sentences. So why do you not believe them? Why does it feel as if you can never be free from the past? Why does it feel as if you’ll always seek something out of her? 

Those questions roamed your mind for the past three days, making you too tired at the prospect of lifting your limbs, let alone leaving your apartment. You sent your two friends a text, telling them that you're sick so they wouldn't worry. Not that you believed they would. Nothing made sense to you anymore.

You laid on your bed in utter silence- a tense quiet that was disrupted on the third day by someone knocking on your door. You didn't know who was there; you just hoped that they'd leave you alone.

To your surprise, you open the door to find Minho, some notes in his right hand and a coffee in his left. He sends an easy smile your way. You don't smile back.

"What do you want?" your voice is cold, but Minho doesn't bristle. A cheeky smile settles on his lips as he leans on your doorway.

"You didn't come to class for the past three days, so I brought you the notes. So, you wouldn't think our competition is unfair."

"Competition," you chuckle coldly, heading inside your apartment, and he follows suit. You start to pace around furiously, and Minho looks at you worriedly. "Competition?" you repeat, the word dripping off your tongue like venom. You turn around, marching towards Minho and standing a few inches from him. "You know what? Fuck you and your competition!"

"Yn-"

"Did it ever occur to you that I never wanted a part in this competition? That all I wanted was to be left alone?" you say, growing louder as you jab your finger into his chest repeatedly. "I never wanted any of this! Do you understand? I never wanted to be this way," you shout angrily in his face.

The worried look in Minho’s eyes snaps you out of your haze. You realize that you are being utterly ridiculous lashing out at Minho, when the one person you are mad at is yourself. 

Your anger quickly deflates, leaving in its trail an agonizing sadness. It's so sudden that it knocks the breath out of you, and you clutch your chest as if it could soothe the burn in your heart. Suddenly you are twelve years old again, crying in your room because you feel like no one has ever loved you.

But this time you aren't alone. Minho is in front of you, and his eyebrows are so furrowed you want to lean forward to ease the tension between them. His eyebrows, you liked his eyebrows, they were arched, and they framed his eyes nicely, and his eyes are brown and so big, and they always look at you softly and why is it getting so hard to breathe-

"Did I do something to you? Whatever it is I’m sorry," Minho panics, cutting off your frantic train of thought. But now, the weight of guilt adds to your overwhelming emotions. You shouldn't have lashed out at him, he brought you coffee and you yelled at him. Maybe your mom was right after all.

You shake your head left and right furiously, your words coming out in hiccups. Since when did you start crying? "It isn't- it isn't you."

"Then let me help you-", he steps forward, hand outstretched, but you take three hurried steps back and wrap your hands around yourself protectively. "Don’t. Please, don't."

"Why are you pushing me away?" his tone isn't accusatory. You've learned time and time again that Minho wouldn't do anything that made you feel uncomfortable.

"You won't understand."

"Then make me."

"Because I’m afraid!" the words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them. "I’m afraid if you ever hug me, I wouldn't be able to go back to hugging myself. I'd need you and I can't afford to need someone else."

You regret the words as soon as they fleet away from your mouth. He would look at you differently, he would find you pathetic and then he’d leave. And you wanted him to leave. But you also wanted him to stay. It was all so confusing. 

You felt as if your being was torn between two great forces, each one of them trying to win the war raging inside you. You wished someone else would make the decisions in your place, for once.

Minho places the coffee and notes on the ground before approaching you, his palms facing up in a gesture of surrender. "I won't leave you," he says softly. "I’ll be by your side for as long as you'll have me."

"Minho..." your voice catches in your throat as you utter his name- like a broken prayer. He stands before you, his eyes shimmering like the reflection of a river on a sunny day.

"Please, let me make it better." 

You nod tentatively and Minho comes even closer to you. He was treating you like one would with a wounded animal, giving you a chance to ultimately back out. But for once, you listen to what your heart has been yearning for. Your bones are aching to be held, to feel the warmth of a body against your own, to feel safe and secure. 

Minho embraces you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and bringing you to him. You slowly bring your arms up and lace them around his waist. You are afraid, deathly afraid. His grip is loose, and you almost can't feel him around you, but when you lay your head on his chest, he tightens his hold on you and you instinctively let out a sob. 

He's hugging adult you, the woman whose heart was once again broken by her mom. But he's also hugging little you, the girl who was craving affection from everyone around her. In that instant, Minho is hugging every single version of you that ever needed a hug. 

You were right to be scared because you don't want to let go, you want to stay in his arms because they feel safe, like a shield protecting you. You can't go back to not hugging Minho. 

The sensation is overwhelming and your knees buckle underneath you. But instead of holding you up, Minho falls to the ground with you, as if you are two inseparable pieces of one puzzle. He isn’t here to fix you, he’s here to break down with you and help you pick up the scattered pieces.

You think back to that night in the park when Minho told you about Japanese vases. At this moment, it dawns on you that Minho has found a way to become a part of you. He was the molten gold binding your broken parts together. He was the invisible thread stitching your wounds back together.

Who were you fooling? It was him; it was him all along. 

Minho rocks you gently as you cry and cry and cry. His hand finds your hair and he plays with it as you sob. He tells you you'll be okay, you'll feel better and you try to believe him, his words wrap around your bruises like a healing balm. 

"There, there, love. You are okay", he murmurs, tenderly patting your head. A fresh set of tears wells up in your eyes. Love.

"I’m sorry. I'm so sorry," you apologize as you pull away from his embrace. 

"Why are you apologizing? Is it because you wet my shirt? I don't mind," he reassures you with a smile and you shake your head. 

 "I was mean to you and you didn’t deserve it," you explain through hiccups.

"It's okay, you weren't mad at me, were you?" he asks, wiping your tears away so gently with his thumbs, careful not to irritate the sensitive skin.

"No. Still, it isn't okay and I’m sorry. I'm so sorry." 

"Shh, don't apologize. It's okay." you look at him doubtfully and he rolls his eyes playfully, "Here I’ll even do your silly pinky promise, okay?" he laces his pinky with yours, but then he suddenly leans forward and places a chaste kiss on your thumb pad. "There, sealed forever."

You giggle faintly as a blush dusts your cheeks, "That's not how it works."

"I know."

Your giggle was far different from the ones Minho was accustomed to. It was small, and it didn't brighten up your face like usual. But he was grateful for it nonetheless. He realized how much he missed your laugh, and how all the other sounds in the world pale in comparison to it.

In that moment Minho thinks to himself that he'd do anything to make you smile again. He'd make a fool out of himself if it meant making you happy. He'd settle for a simple tug at the corners of your mouth, anything but the sadness that seemed etched in your face, as if it was blended into the colors that drew you.

You tentatively move around, before laying your head on his lap. Minho's hand instinctively finds your hair and he starts to gently play with it. It feels as if you've done this a million times before, when in fact it was the first. 

There was something wildly intimate about laying on the floor with the man who just comforted you. It made you want to spill all your secrets to him, one by one, and have him hug you through them.

"Did you mean it? When you said you'll stay?" you felt so vulnerable in his hold, as if he could twist you whoever he liked. But you trusted him. You trusted yourself with Minho.

"I did. Your walls are always up. It's hard to peek behind them. But I don't want to tear them down. I want you to slowly unbuild them. I want you to do it for yourself."

To do it for yourself, it's hard to even know who you are anymore. 

"I want to tell you."

"You don't need to."

"I know, but I want to."

"Okay. Take your time, kitten." he pats your head gently, and you try to sync your breathing to the rhythm of his touch. You were grateful that you were lying on his lap since you couldn't see his face. It made talking feel a little less daunting.

"On my 9th birthday... I was very excited. I'd been on my best behavior that month, trying to please my mom in the hope that, for once, we'd celebrate my birthday. Like a normal little family," you smile sadly, you were so hopeful back then.

"My birthday came, I woke up, excited. My mom was still asleep, nothing out of the ordinary. So, I made my breakfast and walked to my school. I wore my prettiest dress and put on pigtails with hair clips. It was my birthday after all," Minho smiles softly at your words, his hand now resting on your own.

"I got back home and waited for my mom to come back. She remembered my birthday, I thought. And then, she came but she didn't talk to me. So, I thought, oh a surprise party!" you chuckle, but this time the smile on Minho’s face is gone.

"It was then 11 pm, and the hope had slowly died in me. So, in my stupid innocent self, I went to my mom, and asked her "Did you forget my birthday?". And I remember... I remember the way she laughed. Cruelly. Like I had told her the funniest joke in the world. And then. Then she looked me dead in the eye and said 'I hate the fact that you are born. Why would I celebrate that?'"

Minho sucks in a deep breath at your words, and you exhale one right out. It felt comforting, to have someone else stomach the hurt for you. To take the weight off your shoulders, allowing you a few moments to breathe.

"I confronted her about it one day, but she said she doesn't remember saying that. It's funny how it was a random Thursday for her, but for me, it shaped my life." you smile bitterly, "I remember how jealous I was of the way the other kids talked about their mothers. They said the word so lightly. It must have reminded them of sunshine and ice cream and rainbows. But for me, it held an uncharacteristic heaviness to it. I grew to hate the word."

"I drove myself crazy, Min", you whisper and he brings you closer to his body, "was it me or was it her? When did it start? Was it because I was too loud as a child or maybe too quiet? Did I not cater to her fantasies of a kid? I wanted to remember every single thing that happened throughout my childhood, thread through every single memory. I tried to pinpoint the exact moment my mom stopped loving me."

Minho squeezes your hand tightly in his, and you feel as if he was pulling you away from the memory that had long trapped you. You were now watching it unfold from outside of the window, your hand in his, safe from the hurt it had inflicted on you.

"It's not you. It could never be you. Some people are simply not fit to be parents. It's never their kid's fault."

Minho tries his best to keep his touch soothing, to make his voice sound as soft as possible. But he was angry, he was so angry at the world for not taking care of you when you were younger. His heart broke, thinking of 9-year-old you being told such cruel words.

He wanted to turn back time and tell you that you were enough. He wanted to make the pain that seemed so anchored in you float back to the surface, and dissipate like sea foam meeting the shore.

But he couldn't do that. All he could do is comfort present you.

Minho gently pulls you up from his lap, making you sit upright. He crisscrosses his legs and you do the same. Your knees brush against each other and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You didn't know that even knees could emanate such warmth.

"Yn, look at me. The world wouldn't be the same without you in it," he cradles your face between his hands, "You hear me yn? I’m so thankful you exist."

His doe brown eyes are sincere, and it made you want to believe him badly. That's a good start, right?

"I’ll be back," he tells you, letting go of your face and standing up.

You hear Minho rummaging through the kitchen and you take the time to calm yourself down. Sharing those parts of you with Minho felt therapeutic. As if you were healing parts of your inner child. You have never talked about this with anyone before, maybe this is why it still hurt as badly.

Minho comes back five minutes later, his hands behind his back. You raise a brow at him inquisitively and he just smiles secretly at you. "Close your eyes," he tells you and you giggle, doing as he says. He crouches in front of you, and you hear him shuffle in his place for a bit.

Then, "Open your eyes yn," and you find him, in front of you, a cupcake you had stored in your fridge in his hands, and a makeshift candle lit up. "Happy 9th birthday, love. You did well."

You stare at him in utter bewilderment. You couldn't believe your eyes. How could this man be so thoughtful? He was wishing you a belated birthday, to compensate for the 9th birthday you didn't celebrate.

You panic, at the look in his eyes. You've never seen it, never dared to dream of it, of someone caring for you unconditionally. So, you try to scare him, to push him away. You didn't want him to regret knowing you.

"There are things I need you to know um", you chuckle nervously, "When I... When I throw up, I hold my hair, and when I’m sick I nurse myself back to health, and when I have a nightmare I- I hold my hand in the dark. It will be hard for me to hold yours instead."

"We'll start a finger at a time, yeah?"

"It will take time."

"I have time," he speaks easily, as if loving you was effortless and not a strenuous task. You couldn't fathom it.

"You are too busy-", he cuts you off instantly, "Not for you." 

"The world doesn't stop because we need it to." Your voice is quiet; this is your very last try. You are tired of fighting. You are putting down your armor and waving a white flag.

"We'll make it stop. Here, the two of us. On this floor. We'll take as long as we need to."

"I never deemed you as an optimist", you smile a little, a hint of teasing in your tone.

"I’m not," he pauses, gazing down at the cupcake between his hands and then at you. "But I feel that we deserve a bit of happiness together, don't we?"

"We do."

"Then make a wish."

You close your eyes for a few seconds, before blowing on the candle.

"What did you wish for?" he asks a fond smile on his face.

The answer came naturally to you, you didn't even need to think about it. "I wished for you."

Minho's lips come crashing down on yours, and you imagine that this is what it feels like to see colors for the first time. To discover a new world beyond the one you've always known.

The kiss isn't urgent nor feverish, it is one of comfort. Your lips spilling the words you have not yet said to each other. "I love you," he kisses you, "I love you too," you kiss him back. "I need you to stay," you swipe your tongue across his bottom lip, "I’m never leaving you," he opens his mouth allowing you entrance.

As you kiss him, you remember a fact you once learned in high school. The human body possesses seven trillion nerves. And for the first time in your life, you feel as if each of these nerves is alive. You feel that even the smallest atom is electrocuted with Minho’s love and it’s all you know within you.  

You feel as if the pain, the hurt, and the ache you've been through are slowly unraveled, and in their place, a timid happiness is starting to bloom. You imagine that when Minho’s lips met your own, the seven trillion nerves inside you exhaled in relief 'We've made it', they said, 'we'll finally be okay.'

Epilogue

You've always thought that epilogues were useless. How can you resume the rest of your life in one sentence, boil down the rest of your existence in mere pages? Because life doesn't stop at the epilogue, and a new book can start once again, right where you left it off.  

But with Minho, you didn't mind an epilogue. On the contrary, you longed for a soft one. You wanted to rest on this last page, you wanted to lay your worries on the words and tuck them into the syllables. And you wanted to wake up anew.

And this wasn't the end of your story with Minho. A lot happened after it. But it didn't worry you, because epilogues are about the one thing that doesn't change throughout the long march of time. And luckily for you, that constant was Minho’s love for you. From that day he held you, he has never let go.

It took time, for his warmth to seep through your bones. It took time, for your heart to forget the cold. But you wanted to do it. With him. You wanted to love and be loved.

The sound of cats mewling fills your apartment, pudding can always be found in your fridge and you haven't felt invisible in years.

[witchofhellridge]

Oh, dear reader, let me take you on a wild ride through the land of sleeplessness, overthinking, and the sheer madness that only a writer—who hasn’t slept in three days—can truly understand. Here I am, sitting in a haze of exhaustion so thick, you could probably cut through it with a dull spoon, and yet... my brain refuses to shut up.

For three days, I’ve been stuck in the twisted purgatory of creativity and sleeplessness. And let me tell you, the two make for terrible roommates. My brain is still pinging around like it's on mephedrone (except it's just the result of sheer mental chaos and maybe a little too much coffee), but my body? Oh no, my body is done. Done with me, done with my lack of sleep, done with my inability to sit still for more than five minutes. I’m on the brink of complete physical collapse, but can I sleep? Absolutely not. That would be too easy.

It all started with a story idea. Doesn’t it always? It was small, harmless—just a single plot point I was sure would tie everything together. Except, of course, being the overthinking machine that I am, that one idea spiraled. Like Alice down the rabbit hole, except instead of Wonderland, I ended up in Overthinkingland, where every character's backstory needs to be rewritten, every plot twist is suddenly a knot I can't untangle, and oh, of course, the world-building. Can't forget the world-building! That needs at least seven layers of intricate details that no one will ever actually read, but if I don’t do it, somehow the entire story will crumble to dust.

So now, every corner of my mind is packed with new plot ideas, world-building notes, and random character moments that have NO PLACE in my current draft, but there they are. Just sitting there. Mocking me. Meanwhile, I’m running on fumes, staring at a blank page, begging the words to come out. But instead of writing, I end up bouncing from idea to idea, unable to focus on any one thing for more than five minutes. It’s like every time I try to write, my brain goes, “Nope! What about this shiny new idea over here?” and suddenly, I’m 6 subplots deep into an alternate storyline that has absolutely nothing to do with the actual book I’m trying to finish.

To add insult to injury, my body has decided to stage a mutiny. I’m tired. I feel tired. My muscles are sore, my eyes are burning, I can barely keep my head upright—but can I sleep? NO. Because my brain won't let me. It’s like there’s this little gremlin in my head pulling all the levers, forcing me to stay awake while it cheerfully hurls new ideas and anxieties at me like confetti.

And let’s not forget the ultimate irony of this whole situation: as exhausted as I am, as completely wrecked as my body feels... I’m too aroused to sleep. Yeah. You read that right. My body, in its infinite wisdom, decided that now, in the middle of my sleep-deprived, creativity-induced meltdown, is the perfect time to kick the libido into overdrive. Because why not? What’s one more distraction in the middle of my descent into madness?

So, here I am. Too tired to write, too wired to sleep, and way too over-stimulated in general to focus on anything for more than five minutes at a time. My brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, running on some weird combination of adrenaline, exhaustion, and pure stubbornness at this point. It won’t let go of the story ideas—oh no, those are here to stay—but it won’t let me actually write any of them either.

At this point, I’m trapped in an endless loop of overthinking, sleep deprivation, and a ridiculous level of frustration because I know I have great ideas, but my body won’t let me sit still long enough to get them down. And the few times I do manage to sit down and type? My brain throws another curveball at me, and suddenly I’m rewriting the entire backstory for a character I wasn’t even planning to use again. It’s a never-ending cycle of chaos.

So, what’s the solution? Sleep, obviously. But since that’s not happening any time soon, I guess I’ll just keep riding this insane wave of creativity and exhaustion, hoping that eventually, my brain will stop running marathons and actually let me finish something. Anything. A paragraph, maybe. That would be nice.

In the meantime, I’ll be here, too wired to sleep, too tired to write, and far too stuck in my own head to make sense of it all. But hey, at least I’m not bored.