#International Dialogue on Migration

[studioeisa]

we both 🐚 joshua x reader.

you're stuck in a car with a beautiful boy, your glorious history, and eight hours of road. what else is there to do but talk about the deepest of truths?

🐚 pairing. exes!joshua x reader. 🐚 word count. 12.9k. 🐚 genres. romance, friendship, light angst. 🐚 includes. mentions of food, death; cussing/swearing. alternate universe: non-idol; joshua is a marine biologist. bad-at-being-exes/exes to ???, breakup dynamics, road trip shenanigans, dialogue heavy. loosely based on a musical (title lifted from there, too), synopsis references richard siken's you are jeff. one scene parallels tlfy's goodbye until tomorrow / i could never rescue you. 🐚 footnotes. when i joined caratblr, @chugging-antiseptic-dye was the very first friend i made. i would not have it any other way. a: i will adore you for as long as there are waves pulling to the shore. shubho jonmodin ‹𝟹 much gratitude to my beta readers: @heartepub for her eye, @chanranghaeys for her wit, and @lovetaroandtaemin for her kindness. my masterlist 🎵 when i am with you (i am real)

You find him in his element—knee-deep in saltwater, sleeves rolled up, clipboard tucked precariously under one arm as he gestures toward a tank brimming with juvenile stingrays. 

You wait behind the glass where the public is meant to stay. Leaning against the railing, you watch him without meaning to. It used to be that this was your favorite version of him: ocean-brained and utterly focused, calm in a way most people aren’t allowed to be in their everyday lives. It still is, you suppose, though now there’s a knot of something bittersweet twisted through the feeling.

It’s been five months since the breakup.

Two months since you moved most of your things out of the apartment. And four days since you both agreed that, yes, you still needed to drive down the coast and meet with the landlady to finalize the lease termination in person. 

She doesn’t do email. She barely does phones. You’d considered cancelling, asking a friend to go in your place, but the truth is: the car is his, the rent is in both your names, and the landlady likes you best.

So here you are.

Joshua’s hair is darker than you remember, still damp from a rinse or maybe the ocean itself, curling slightly where it clings to his neck. His voice carries over the burble of pumps and the low hum of fluorescent lights. 

He’s explaining something to a group of interns. Something about migration patterns and how the moon affects spawning cycles. You can’t hear the details, but you recognize the rhythm of his teaching voice, the way he softens facts with metaphors, how his hands move like punctuation marks.

When Joshua finally steps out from behind the staff door, he looks surprised to see you already waiting. He does that thing. That thing, with his eyes and brows—an upward arch, a spark of recognition beneath the doe-like brown. 

“Hey,” he says, wiping his hands on his khaki pants. He doesn't hug you, doesn't reach out, but his smile is familiar. A little tired. A little sad. “You came early.”

You shrug. “Was in the area. Figured I'd save you a text.”

He nods, like that makes sense, like there’s no undercurrent tugging beneath the ease of it. Like this isn’t the first time you're seeing each other outside of grocery store collisions or terse text threads about forwarding addresses.

“Car’s in the back lot,” he says. “I just need to clean up. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.” 

You follow him down a hallway that smells like seawater and bleach. He walks ahead, and you let your eyes fall to the way his shoulders move, broad and careful. You still know the shape of them beneath your palms. You wonder if he still sleeps on the right side of the bed, if he still keeps his entire body under the covers because he’s scared something will pull at his feet while he’s asleep. 

It’s going to be a long drive.

You both know it. Neither of you says a word about it.

Joshua’s office is tucked just off the wet lab, behind a sliding glass door smudged with fingerprints and the unmistakable trail of saltwater. You slip inside while he ducks into the locker room to change, the lingering scent of ocean and coffee grounds curling in the air. 

It’s a cluttered little box of a room—papers stacked like tiny towers, annotated marine maps tacked to the walls, a few photos of past dives and coral surveys pinned up like trophies. There’s even a Polaroid of the two of you on the shelf beside his monitor, buried halfway behind a half-drunk bottle of electrolyte water.

You don’t move it. But you don’t look away either.

“Hey, stranger.”

You blink, turning toward the voice. Seokmin’s already grinning at you, his damp curls flattened beneath a backward cap, a towel slung around his neck. Behind him, Jeonghan lounges in the doorway with all the idle elegance of someone who’s been doing absolutely nothing for the past hour.

“Hi, Seokmin,” you say, mustering a polite smile. “Jeonghan.”

Seokmin bounds in with too much energy for someone who’s allegedly been tagging sea turtles since 4 a.m. “Wow, it’s been a while. You look great. Seriously. Like, breakup glow-up levels of great.”

You blink, startled. “Thanks?”

Jeonghan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a laugh. He doesn’t say anything right away—just folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head, like he’s studying you. You don’t like it. That look. Like he knows something you don’t. Like maybe he knows everything.

You’d been friends with them once, although it was probably more out of association than anything. They were Joshua’s co-workers. You were the girl he brought to company events; the wallpaper of his phone once you got past the lockscreen of Dolphy the dolphin leaping into the air. 

When you and Joshua broke up, you figured you might never see the duo again. Until now, that is. 

“Are you two really going to drive all the way to the coast together?” Jeonghan asks, voice light. “Sounds... cozy.”

“We’re saving gas,” you say. Too quickly. “And rent affairs don’t settle themselves.”

Seokmin nods far too earnestly, eyes wide with some strange sympathy. “Right, totally. Very environmentally conscious. That’s great,” he babbles. “And practical. And—wow, honestly, I just think it’s so mature of you both.”

You glance at Jeonghan, but he’s looking at you like he can read between every word. Your mouth goes dry.

“It’s not like we’re sharing a hotel room or anything,” you add, heat prickling your neck.

“Of course,” Jeonghan says, a little too smoothly. “Of course not.”

You open your mouth to say something—what exactly, you’re not sure—but the locker room door swings open, and Joshua steps out, shrugging a hoodie over his shoulders. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing that faded t-shirt you used to sleep in on cold nights. It’s the smallest detail, and it punches the air from your lungs.

“Guys,” he calls, eyes flicking to his friends, then to you. “Are you hounding her already?”

“Never,” Seokmin says, scandalized.

“We were just saying she looks great,” Jeonghan adds innocently. “Glowing, really.”

Joshua rolls his eyes and crosses the room, not bothering to hide the way his hand brushes the small of your back as he stops beside you. It’s not quite possessive, not quite apologetic. It’s almost like a habit, even, and that somehow makes it infinitely worse. 

“You ready?” he asks.

You nod, stepping away from Seokmin’s saccharine smile and Jeonghan’s knowing smirk. “Ready.”

Joshua gives his workmates one last look. “Try not to make it weird next time.”

“No promises,” Jeonghan calls.

You don’t look back. You can still feel their stares long after the office door swings shut behind you.

The walk to the parking lot isn’t awkward, not really, but it sits heavy on your shoulders like a coat you forgot you were wearing. Joshua doesn’t fill the silence with small talk the way he used to. You’re grateful and uneasy about that in equal measure.

When you reach the car, it’s like stepping into a memory. The same beat-up Hyundai with the faded blue paint and the bumper sticker that says, Protect Our Oceans— slightly peeling at the edges now, with the art faded. The salt air and the sun hasn’t been kind to it, but it runs fine. Always has. You remember that stupid sticker because you bought it at an aquarium gift shop on a whim, and Joshua had kissed you breathless when you slapped it onto his car without asking.

He unlocks the doors and, like always, walks around to open the passenger side for you.

You blink at him. “Still doing that, huh?”

Joshua glances up at you, a wry little smile playing on his lips. “Muscle memory.”

“Chivalry,” you correct, sliding into the seat. “Or remorse. One of those.”

He huffs a soft laugh and closes the door behind you.

Inside, the car smells the same—like lemon air freshener and something slightly sulfury. His dashboard is still cluttered with receipts and paper coffee cups. There’s a pair of sunglasses perched haphazardly on the dash. One of the little rubber sea creature figurines you used to collect is still wedged in the air vent.

You reach out and flick the tiny plastic octopus. “Wow. Can’t believe you still have this. I figured you’d Marie Kondo everything I left behind.”

Joshua settles into the driver’s seat, buckling in. “It didn’t spark rage, so I kept it.”

You snort. “I think you’re misusing the philosophy.”

The GPS clicks on, a familiar robotic voice announcing the route. Estimated time to destination: eight hours and seventeen minutes.

You glance at Joshua. “Still time to turn back. We can Venmo the landlady and call it a day.”

He shakes his head, pulling out of the lot. “You know she refuses to use the app,” he grumbles. “Thinks it’s a government tracking device.”

You lean back in your seat and sigh. “Perfect. Just what this trip needed: more analog bureaucracy.”

Joshua laughs again, softer this time. You both stare straight ahead, the road stretching long and wide before you. Somewhere in that space, the heaviness begins to lift.

You think the first hour will be easy.

Of course you do. You’ve done long drives before, with less than eight hours of fuel between you. And besides, this is Joshua. 

You’ve survived all sorts of terrain together—coastal roads with the windows down, long drives through the mountains while his hand rested on your thigh, that one disastrous trip to Jeju where it rained so hard he missed a turn and the GPS rerouted you onto a cliffside road you’re still convinced was cursed. That one ended in tears. And a kiss. And a long night spent in a guesthouse where the power went out twice.

But this is different.

Now, you’re in the passenger seat of the same car, the leather warmed by the late morning sun, and Joshua isn’t even humming. You keep your eyes on the road or your phone or the shifting landscape outside the window. Anywhere but on him.

He drives the way he always does—left hand on the wheel, right hand fiddling with the AUX cable when the Bluetooth fails (as it often does). You’d always liked that about him. That he never filled silence just for the sake of it, that he gave it space to stretch out, to become something sacred. 

Now, it just feels like distance.

“You okay?” he asks in an even voice.

You glance at him. The highway curves, and so does his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” you lie. “You?”

He nods, then looks like he regrets it. “Yeah,” he echoes, but you know he’s lying, too. His nose scrunches up for a half-second. It only ever does that when he’s faking.

Another few minutes pass. The GPS chimes a reminder about your next turn in 112 kilometers. You both pretend like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

You used to talk about everything in the car. Plans, dreams, where you’d want to settle down when Joshua got a more permanent assignment. You’d nap on the longer drives, and he’d let you sleep, stealing glances when he thought you wouldn’t catch him. 

Sometimes, he’d narrate the scenery just to hear you groan about how sentimental he was. There’d be music, sometimes arguments over the playlist. But even the fights were better than this new, tentative silence that makes your lungs feel tight.

You wish the GPS had a button for: Take me back to when it was easy.

“Want some music?” you ask finally, reaching for the console.

“Sure,” he says, and that’s all.

You put on a playlist and settle back, biting the inside of your cheek when the first few notes of a familiar song play. One he used to sing absentmindedly while driving. One that used to make you smile.

He doesn’t sing now.

The song ends. 

The road stretches on.

Joshua doesn’t say much for the next half hour, and neither do you.

You try not to count how many times you look towards him. You lose count anyway. The GPS announces that there are six hours and thirty-nine minutes left in the trip. That’s plenty of time, you think, for things to get worse.

When Joshua speaks again, it’s so civil that you contemplate getting off at the next stop and walking the rest of the way instead. “There’s a diner up ahead. You wanna stop for lunch?”

You know the place—he’s taken you there before. Vinyl booths, terrible coffee, and pancakes that somehow taste like grilled cheese. It had always been charming in a very Joshua kind of way.

But a sit-down meal feels intimate. Too intimate. Like pretending nothing ever ended. You don’t have the energy to put on a show, to act like a couple, or friends, or strangers who were forced to be there together for the sake of a meal. 

“Can we just get takeout?” you ask. “Eat in the car?”

Joshua glances at you, brows lifting. “You don’t wanna sit down? Stretch your legs?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. Your neck does that thing when you’re annoyed.”

“It’s not annoyance. I just don’t think lunch should feel like a date.”

That lands a little too sharply. Joshua blinks at the road ahead, exhales slowly through his nose. “Wasn’t trying to make it one,” he murmurs, the edge of his petulance in his voice reminding you of days where you might’ve willed his upset away with a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Silence stretches between you, taut and cold. You rub your hands together in your lap.

“I just think,” you say more carefully, “eating in your car is a good compromise. Halfway point.”

Joshua doesn’t respond at first, but then his lips twitch. “Halfway point. Like everything else with us.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It kind of is.”

The tension eases just a little. Enough that when he pulls into the diner lot, you go in together, order your usuals with barely a glance at the menu. When the cashier asks if it’s for here or to-go, Joshua looks at you before answering.

“To-go, please,” he says, smiling faintly.

Back in the car, you pass him the paper bag and slide the drinks into the cupholders like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe you have. He gives you your fries without asking, and you split the last onion ring exactly like you used to—right down the middle, no more, no less.

“We’re ridiculous,” you say through a mouthful of burger.

Joshua leans back in his seat, chewing. “Speak for yourself. I’m extremely dignified.”

“Right,” you say with an eye roll. “That’s why you ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream.”

He lifts it like a trophy. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of diabetes?”

Joshua laughs, full and bright, and for a second, you forget that you’re not supposed to still be in love with him.

For a second, it feels like that chapter never ended.

Joshua wipes the last of his fries against the inside of his sauce carton before tossing it back into the paper bag, eyeing your half-eaten sandwich like he’s tempted to finish that, too. You don’t point it out. He’s always been the type to clean plates, especially yours, when you left food untouched for too long.

The silence feels less sharp than the last one, but not yet comfortable. It’s the kind that sits in the middle seat like an awkward chaperone.

He slurps down the rest of his milkshake, the straw giving an annoying little gurgle. Then, just as you’re debating how soon you can ask to queue up a podcast without it sounding like a lifeline, he speaks.

“We can’t spend the rest of the trip like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

Joshua lifts his gaze to meet yours, pointed and unflinching. “Like we’re walking on eggshells. Like we didn’t share an apartment, a bed, a life for two years.”

He’s right, of course, but who were you if you weren’t arguing for the sake of it? “I’ve told you everything that’s happened to me since the breakup,” you shoot back. “If you want the weather report from last Tuesday, I can give that too.”

“I don’t want the weather report.” He levels you with a stare, then softens. “I want more than just a status update.”

You open your mouth, but before you can speak, he leans back with a little sigh and an even smaller smile. “Do you remember our first date?”

You do. 

Too well, in fact.

An indie cafe with too many hanging plants and not enough tables. You’d sat across from each other with your knees knocking and your drinks forgotten. He’d suggested the list, half-sincere, half as a joke. You had humored him because his eyes crinkled so sweetly when he grinned, and you liked how he said your name like a song he already knew the melody to.

“Pull it up,” he says now. “Let’s revisit it.”

Your mouth curls into a grimace. "Joshua—"

“Pull it up,” he repeats, firmer. He’s already gathering up your trash along with his, crumpling napkins and squashing cartons, as if taking away your excuses along with the waste.

“This is stupid,” you huff, not bothering to hide your exasperation. 

“Probably,” he shrugs, stepping out of the car. “But so are we.”

As the door shuts and he heads toward the garbage bin, you pick up your phone with reluctant fingers. It takes only a few taps to find it again. A New York Times article, a psychologist’s experiment, a curated path to intimacy in less than 40 questions.

The title glares up at you, both a threat and a promise. 

The 36 Questions to Fall in Love.

Joshua merges back onto the highway, one hand steady on the wheel, the other fiddling with the A/C knob until the air turns from too cold to just bearable. You hold your phone in your lap, glaring at the list he told you to pull up.

“You’re impossible,” you say flatly.

“Come on,” he grins, eyes now on the road. “It’s been four years. Think of it as a science experiment. Research question: Have we changed? Independent variables: us, circa year one.”

You exhale slowly, scrolling down to the first question. “Fine. But if I cry, I’m blaming you.”

“Looking forward to it.” 

You read: “Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?”

He hums. “Still Adam Levine.”

“You said that last time.”

“Yeah, and I still want him to serenade me over dumplings. What about you?”

You pause. “I said Robin Williams.”

“You did.” He glances at you briefly. “You still would?”

Your voice softens. “Yeah. More than ever.”

Joshua nods, not saying more. The next question: “Would you like to be famous? In what way?”

“God, no,” he answers. “The idea of people knowing my grocery list terrifies me.”

“You said that exact sentence before.”

“Then I’m nothing if not consistent.”

You consider. “I think... maybe a little. Not movie-star famous, but like, niche-famous. Someone kids cite in their thesis papers.”

“I always said you’d be a terrifying cult classic.”

“And you’d be the first of my followers.” 

He just laughs.

You ask the next question. “Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

Glancing over at Joshua, you sound almost accusatory. “You said no.”

“Still true.”

“Still sociopathic,” you mutter. “I rehearse everything. Even pizza orders.”

“You did. And you still turn red when they ask if you want extra cheese.”

You try to glare, but he looks too pleased with himself. That’d been his role, way back when. Designated orderer, designated caller, designated voice at the counter saying We asked for no pickles. ‘We’, because he never threw you under the bus when it mattered—every time else was fair game.  

You read on. “What would constitute a 'perfect' day for you?”

Joshua’s voice mellows out. “That one I might change. Used to be pools, no tourists, good weather. Now... I think it’s waking up late, coffee with someone I like, doing nothing important.”

You stare out the window. “You said hiking and tide pools,” you recall, tone just a little too wistful. 

“Yeah. That was when I thought I had something to prove.”

“Mine’s the same. French toast. Blankets. A book.”

His smile is small. “Still easy to please.”

You persevere. “When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?”

“I sang to the clownfish this morning. They’re judgmental bastards.”

“That counts. And to yourself?” 

He falters. A beat. Another. “I don’t remember,” he says, like singing was now something he could only give to others and not to himself. You try not to overthink it. He goes on to accuse you, “You used to sing in the shower. Loudly.”

“Still do. But I sang to my niece last week. She made me do six rounds of Baby Shark.” 

“A timeless classic.”

You grin despite yourself, heart ticking a little faster. You knew this would be strange. You didn’t expect it to feel so oddly comforting.

He breaks the quiet. “Told you it wouldn’t kill us.”

“We’re only five questions in,” you warn. “Plenty of time to implode.”

He just smiles, knuckles brushing the gearshift.

“Onward, then.”

Questions six and seven are easy. Your answers to those haven’t changed much. You would rather live to the age of 90 and retain the mind of a 30-year-old; Joshua’s secret hunch about how he might die would always be something about the water, knowing how he could never stay away from it. There’s a pang of something in your chest. This sinking feeling caught between disappointment and relief, over the fact that there were still some things that stayed the same. 

You stall a little at question eight.

“Name three things you and your partner appear to have in common.”

Your phone screen lights up with the prompt, and you roll it over in your palm like it might yield an easier answer if you look at it long enough. Next to you, Joshua keeps his eyes on the road, but his grip on the steering wheel slackens.

He must remember, too.

The first time you answered this question, you were strangers seated across from each other. A mutual friend had sworn you'd get along. There had been no pressure—just coffee and curiosity, laughter over things neither of you really understood yet.

“We both like documentaries,” you had said then, too quickly, a little flustered.

“We’re both good listeners,” he had added.

The third one had taken a while. You remember biting into your food, chewing slowly, the hum of the café’s playlist blending with the chatter around you.

“I think,” Joshua had said, after a beat, “we both really want to be understood.”

You remember the way your gaze had lifted then, meeting his across the table. You hadn’t said it, but you’d thought it: That’s not a guess. That’s a direct hit.

Now, four years later, a breakup and a road trip between you, the question lands differently.

“We both like silence,” you say eventually, to break it.

Joshua lets out a small huff of a laugh. “You used to say that was a bad thing.”

“It was. When we didn’t know what the silence meant.”

A nod from him. “But now?”

You glance sideways, catch the way his profile is lit by the late afternoon sun. “Now, I think we know.”

You don’t have to expound. He knows. You know. Silence is not your enemy, the same way you are not each other’s enemy. 

“We both overthink everything,” he adds next. “Especially what the other person is thinking.”

That makes you grin, despite yourself. You always thought of yourself to be a bit of a people pleaser, while Joshua just so happened to lack a proper brain-to-mouth filter. You tap your finger against the phone, as if tallying it up. “Documentaries still count?”

“You tell me.”

You think about the way you’d fall asleep to David Attenborough narrating sea creatures. How Joshua would shake his head, but stay up beside you anyway. The way your conversations would spiral into philosophical debates over conservation, ethics, humanity.

You had learned to love the things he loved, learned to love him by seeing the world through his eyes. And he had loved you back. Loved the intent, loved the work, loved the way you overstayed your welcome every single time. 

“Yeah,” you decide. “Guess so.”

Silence laps at the car again, but it’s softer now. Not a chasm, just space.

Then Joshua speaks again, voice low and steady.

“If it doesn’t count,” he says slowly, as if each word is a minefield to navigate. “We could just say we both still care for each other.” 

You don’t protest. You don’t need to.

You both go through the next four questions with twin wavering resolves. 

You ask, For what in your life do you feel most grateful?, and you do your best not to flinch when he squeezes your name between mentions of waterproof dry bags and mechanical pencils. 

When you read out If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?, you tell him about wishing you had better examples for love—but you don’t quip that maybe it would’ve saved your relationship. 

The two of you sidestep and navigate like your lives depend on it. Joshua’s tapping the steering wheel like he’s in rhythm with a song only he knows. A comfortable lapse hovers for the next few minutes as the miles disappear into the road behind you. You think you’re in the clear. That the minefield is behind you. 

Then, the GPS voice gently announces a turn. A new fork, a new direction.

The second set of questions. 

You scroll down the list, phone warm in your hand. “Thirteen,” you say. “If a crystal ball could tell you the truth about yourself, your life, the future, or anything else, what would you want to know?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

You look towards him. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, eyes still trained on the road. He exhales slowly, the sound more tired than thoughtful.

“If I made the right call,” he says. “About us.”

It twinges like a pinched nerve.

You wish you had something eloquent to say, some wry comment about him never trusting the scientific method, but all you manage is a short, “Oh.”

Oh, because the breakup is an unwelcome third guest chaperoning you in the car. Oh, because you had both told your friends it was mutual—but if you were to get technical about it, Joshua was the one who brought it up. Oh, because that would have been your answer to the question, too. 

Instead, you choose to say, “I think I’d want to know if I’ll ever feel like I’m doing enough.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything to that.

“Fourteen,” you try again. “Is there something that you’ve dreamed of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“You already know mine,” he says. “Marine biology, living near the coast, helping with coastal restoration programs. I did it.”

You nod, expecting the conversation to move on, but he doesn’t let it.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know,” you say hesitantly. “Same answer as before, I guess. I always thought I’d do something with my psychology degree. Make something that helps. You know. But money talks.”

Joshua snorts, but this isn’t like the small, amused sounds of earlier. No, this is preemptive of the Joshua you’d always loathed a little bit. The one who could be derisive, the one buried underneath the gentleman.

“You said the exact same thing two years ago,” he points out, and the tone of his voice grates. 

You bristle. “And your point is?”

“My point is,” he says, voice sharpening, “you keep talking like you’re stuck, but you’re the one who won’t move."

The air tightens between you. He takes one hand off the wheel, gesturing vaguely.

“I’m not judging. I just don’t get it. You said you wanted more.”

“And you wanted me to upend my entire life for an ideal,” you shoot back.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. The words are more pointed than they needed to be. This is too familiar—this twisting spiral of disappointment and miscommunication, the way your arguments always started from a flicker and turned into a full blaze.

Joshua exhales. “I just want you to be happy. You used to talk about doing something meaningful with your life.”

“Well, maybe I changed my mind.”

He looks like he wants to challenge that—but just as he opens his mouth, the car jolts.

Hard.

Something thumps beneath you, loud and jarring. Your body lurches forward with the sudden stop, but before you can react, Joshua’s arm darts across your chest, steady and instinctive.

The car groans. You both freeze.

“What the hell,” Joshua breathes, flicking the hazards on as he pulls over.

You’re stunned, held in place by his outstretched arm. It’s only when he turns to look at you, concern overriding the tension in his expression, that you realize he’s still bracing you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice low and urgent. 

You nod, lips parted but unable to speak.

Because even now, after all this time, his first instinct is to protect you. 

Five hours away. That’s how far you are from your destination. 

It’s nothing major. Something about the floor of the car, something that will need repairs so Joshua can drive safe. But the nearest repair shop isn’t going to open until seven in the morning, and Joshua bitches about sleeping in the car for 15 minutes before you finally agree to a motel. Which, of course, has only one room available. 

The door creaks open with a wheeze of rusted hinges, revealing a room that looks like it time-traveled straight out of a 70s crime thriller. You both pause on the threshold, blinking at the single bed in the center of the room. The comforter is a paisley fever dream, the walls painted a suspicious shade of beige. A ceiling fan wobbles threateningly above.

And then, as if on cue, you both burst out laughing.

You lean against the chipped door frame, wiping tears from your eyes. “Jeonghan cursed us,” you proclaim. “I knew it. He saw us in that hallway and whispered some old-timey hex under his breath. Probably used sea salt and seashells.”

Joshua drops his bags with a thud and grins, running a hand through his hair. “You’re giving him way too much credit. If anything, this is God. This is Him writing fan fiction. You know—slow burn, exes to lovers, only-one-bed trope.”

“Ah, right,” you say, nodding solemnly. “God’s on AO3 now. What’s next? Coffee shop AU?”

“Don’t tempt Him,” Joshua laughs, flopping onto the bed with a bounce that makes the entire frame groan. “He might give us matching aprons tomorrow morning.”

You look around and spot the world's saddest mini fridge and a TV that probably doesn’t work. There’s a vending machine outside humming like a chainsaw. The neon sign of the motel glows red through the thin curtains, bathing the room in a faint hellish light.

If this was hell, it wasn’t all that bad. 

“Well,” you say, toeing off your shoes and sitting at the edge of the bed. “At least it’s clean.”

“That is a bold assumption,” Joshua mutters, inspecting a mysterious stain on the carpet.

Another beat passes. You're both still chuckling softly, disbelief softening into something warmer. Something easier.

You lie back beside him, careful to leave a healthy, polite distance between your bodies. “You know, for all the fights, I missed this part. The chaos. The way the universe used to screw with us.”

Joshua turns his head, gazing at you with a tenderness that nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a while, you both just lie there, listening to the ceiling fan squeal and the cars woosh pasts on the highway. Laughing quietly at the impossible, fanfictional mess you’ve found yourselves in yet again.

Loving Joshua had felt a bit like that. A fairytale. A song. And so the ending of it all—the last chapter, the final notes—had left you feeling cheated. There was a time where you believed the love might have lasted; it sucks to be proven otherwise. 

Joshua pulls himself up, socked feet nudging yours underneath the yellowing duvet. He looks up at you with something reverent in his eyes, the kind of look that used to come just before he said something dumb and sincere all at once.

“You know we can’t stop now,” he says. “It’s not every day we get to be stranded in a town with population thirty and a single bed between us.”

You shake your head, still smiling from earlier. “You’re really pushing the limits of what counts as a romantic setting.”

“I’m just saying,” he continues. “We made it this far. Might as well keep going. Question fifteen.”

What is the greatest accomplishment of your life?

You settle into the other side of the bed, cross-legged, careful not to brush against his knee. “Finishing grad school while holding down a full-time job. That, or not screaming at that one VP during our quarterly meeting.”

Joshua laughs. “Oh, I remember that guy. You hated him with the passion of a million suns.” 

“That hasn’t changed. You?” 

He thinks for a moment. “Publishing my research paper last year. The one on coral regeneration. That felt big. Like it could actually change something.”

It’s a good answer. You nod. “Alright. Question sixteen. What do you value most in a friendship?”

Joshua leans back, hands behind his head. “Loyalty. The kind that doesn’t flinch when things get hard.”

You hum. “I get that. And maybe the ability to sit in silence without it being weird. Just… coexisting.”

You both fall quiet. That used to be the two of you. Afternoons of independent hobbies, evenings of parallel play. You were both perfectly fine, fully functional people outside of your relationship. You were not two halves of a whole. 

A part of you wonders if that’s where you went wrong. If completion was precedent to a proper romance. But you also know that’d been your strongest suit—letting the love guide, not consume. Letting it linger, not fester. 

“Question seventeen,” you say, scrolling down your phone. “Most treasured memory.” You steal a glance. “Back then, yours was that beach day with your mom, right?”

Joshua nods slowly. “Still important. But… I think it’s changed.” 

He looks out the small motel window, takes a deep breath like he’s getting ready to plunge into the deep end of something. “Remember the time we got caught in that summer storm in Jeju?” he muses. “We were soaked, freezing, and the only place open was that sad diner with the flickering lights. You looked miserable. But you laughed anyway. God, you laughed so hard. I think I knew I loved you then.”

Your throat tightens. You hated that night. Everything went wrong, and you thought it was a sign this new boyfriend of yours wasn’t meant for you. But Joshua had been an even bigger diva than you—enough to make you forget your misery, to have you giggling despite the fact you were borderline pneumonic, showering in ice-cold water. 

“That was a good night,” you say. 

He offers you a half-smile, one that communicates just how aware he is of your indulgence. He knows you complained to your friends, that you logged the entry into your diary with notes of Never again!!! and The Jeju curse is real. But he also knows you loved him, even then, even with your shoes full of water and your lips too chapped to press against his. 

“Your turn,” he urges. 

You shrug, suddenly aware of your hands in your lap. “There’s a lot. But… that one birthday you surprised me with the rooftop dinner. I had the worst week, and you just… knew.”

Neither of you have to expound. Not on the work week that had wrung you dry, not on the chocolate chip cookies he had learned to bake especially for that evening. You had burst into tears when you saw the candlelit dinner and the monstrous bouquet of mismatched flowers; Joshua had cooed reassurances into the top of your hair, whispering sweet nothings like Pretty girls shouldn’t cry on their birthday. Come on, love, smile. 

“Question eighteen,” you continue, because dwelling on the way he looked then is almost enough to have you relapsing. “Most terrible memory.”

You don’t answer right away.

“Back then,” you say slowly, “it was something stupid. Failing my first stats exam. But now…”

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“It was the night we decided to end it,” you admit. “The part where I packed up and left. Closing the door. That part hurt the most.”

Joshua exhales. “Ditto,” he says, and you don’t call him a cop out. You don’t accuse him of not being as hurt as you. You just—you let him have that, too. 

It’s a terrible memory. 

The room is quiet again. Outside, the neon motel sign flickers. Inside, two people who once knew each other like the back of their hands try to find their way back through questions that are starting to feel like maps.

Joshua doesn’t hesitate to read out question nineteen.

“If you knew that in one year you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living? Why?”

You shift slightly on the edge of the bed, knees curled toward you like you could fold yourself into a simpler version of this night. “I’d probably quit my job,” you say slowly. “Travel. See my parents more often. Start writing again. Not wait for the perfect time to do everything.”

He hums. “I’d probably take a few sabbaticals. Go diving in the Galápagos,” he says. “Set my mom up with a good house. Maybe... I don't know. Make a documentary. Something that puts all the little things I love in one place.”

You glance at him, watching the way he fidgets with a corner of the blanket between his fingers. He’s leaning against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent. A familiar pose, from when he used to read in bed. The memory tugs, and you almost say something—almost add what neither of you have said.

You’d want to call him. One last road trip, maybe. One last laugh over something ridiculous. 

A kiss, if he were feeling particularly generous. Not to see if it could salvage, but just to remember the way it’d made you feel alive. 

But you don’t say it. And neither does he.

Instead, he offers you a smile that doesn’t look real at all. “You tired?”

You nod. You lie. “A bit.” 

Joshua pushes himself up from the bed, stretching his arms above his head. “Alright. You get the bed. I’ll take the cockroach-infested couch chair.” 

You glance at the lumpy thing in the corner and raise an eyebrow. “You’ll get scoliosis.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a chiropractor,” he quips. “I’ll survive.”

You roll your eyes, already pulling the blanket over you. “Fine. But if you wake up tomorrow and can’t feel your back, I’m not driving.”

He chuckles. “Forever a passenger princess.” 

As he dims the lights, he adds, “The experiment continues tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You let your eyes fall shut, the room quieting into the rustle of sheets and soft motel noises. Since the breakup, you’ve been having trouble with sleep. The melatonin gummies have helped somewhat; you don’t have any on hand, though, after expecting the two of you would make the trip a one-and-done. 

Now, though, your breathing slows quicker than it has in weeks. You have a fleeting thought that it has something to do with Joshua being in the same room—as if your body is fine-tuned to relax and uncoil in his presence, so used to the notion that he would always keep you safe. 

In your dream, you are somewhere coastal. 

The salt air clings to your skin. Joshua is there, too. 

Older and sunburned, wrinkled and still yours. He’s smiling at you like nothing ever hurt between you, his eyes curled in those crescents you were always so weak for. 

Knee-deep in the water, he reaches out a hand. 

You take it without thinking.

The mechanic gives Joshua the all-clear just before nine in the morning. The two of you make do with a gas station breakfast—powdered donuts and hot coffee that taste vaguely of cardboard—and then you’re back on the road. 

The sky is clear, and the early morning light softens the world around you in a way that makes it feel like yesterday’s sharp edges never happened.

You think, maybe, that Joshua’s forgotten about the questions. Maybe last night was a fluke. A relic of nostalgia mixed with insomnia. Maybe the two of you can ride the rest of the way in companionable silence, listening to acoustic playlists and the occasional podcast.

Except Joshua is a bitch who never forgets. 

“Okay,” he says, fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. “Where were we?”

You sigh dramatically. “We’re still on that?” 

“Of course,” he replies cheekily. “We’re in too deep to give up.”

You scroll back on your phone, eyes scanning the familiar list. You breeze through questions 20 and 21—both of you agreeing that you value honesty in relationships and sharing that you talk to your family almost every week. It’s easy. Almost comfortable.

Then comes question 22.

“Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.”

You remember how this went the first time. How clumsy and awkward you both were, strangers trying to map out the shape of each other with vague guesses. You’d said something like, You seem like a good listener, and Joshua had commented on your style. 

All surface.

Now, there’s too much underneath.

Joshua clears his throat. “You go first.”

You consider calling him a narcissist, but you opt out. “Okay. Uh,” you start. “You’re—steadfast. Once you decide something matters to you, you stay. Even when it’s hard.”

He hums. “You’re perceptive. You always notice the things no one else does.”

“You’re thoughtful,” you go on. “You remember things—like people’s favorite snacks or how they take their coffee. It’s never loud, but it’s there.”

“You’re funny,” he says, a little more quickly. “In a smart way. You don’t always say the joke out loud, but when you do, it lands.”

You laugh. “That’s the first time you’ve called me funny.”

“I call you funny in my head all the time,” he replies.

You don’t quite know what to say to that, so you look down at your phone.

“You’re earnest,” you offer. “Even when you try not to be. Especially then.”

His grip on the wheel tightens for a split second before relaxing again. “You care deeply. About people. About doing the right thing. Even when it tears you up.”

Joshua drives just a little below the speed limit, as if trying to stretch this moment out. You don’t say it out loud, but you both know you’ve passed five.

You wonder if that’s the point.

The hum of the car is soft under the quiet that settles again between you. The GPS chirps—still three hours to go. Still three hours of pretending it doesn’t sting to sit this close to him. Still three hours of pretending like this is just a ride and not a slow unraveling of everything you’d packed away.

You read the next prompt aloud, your voice only slightly more confident now: “Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘We are both in this room feeling...’”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Three each? That's excessive.”

You shrug. “Take it up with Dr. Arthur Aron.” 

Joshua rolls his shoulders. “Okay. One: We are both doing our best to not make this weirder than it already is.”

“One: We are both extremely bad at not making things weird,” you counter.

He laughs, and it's the kind of laugh that softens something in your chest. “Two: we both care more than we probably should.”

You hesitate. Then, “Two: We both don’t really know what to do with all the leftover feelings.” 

Joshua exhales like you had punched the air out of him. 

So far, everything has alluded to this. To the eventual conclusion that you both had things you still wanted to say. Joshua was never slick; you know why he’s insisting on playing this game. 

He’s hoping to find closure—some twisted semblance of it—in between questions one to thirty-six. Or maybe he’s hoping to find something else. A hint. A reason. An opening. You don’t know for sure, but you know Joshua Hong is the type of person that always has a motive.

Leftover feelings is just a nice way to put it. 

“Three,” he goes on, as if he physically can’t bring himself to address your second statement, “We both remember everything. Even if we pretend we don’t.”

You look at him. His hands on the wheel, that little crease between his brows that forms when he's thinking too hard. You say, quietly, “We are both still here. In this car. On this trip. That counts for my last one, right?”

He doesn't answer right away. Then he says, voice lighter than it’s been all day, “Are you still okay with all this?” 

It feels like the first real question he’s asked you—not part of a list, not pulled from a script, not something rehearsed. It’s a moment of benevolence, an offer for an out. If you told him your heart was cracking open, he’d find one of his own playlists and you would throw in the white flag at the start of set three. 

You turn toward the window. “I’m okay if you are,” you say, because it’s true, because you’re indecisive, because you kind of want answers, too. 

From the corner of your eye, you see him nod. “Okay.” A pause. “Then we keep going.”

You move on to question twenty-six.

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’”

Joshua shifts his grip on the wheel. The road outside blurs into long stretches of beige and green, but neither of you is looking at it.

He exhales. “...small wins.”

You think of the refrigerator in your shared apartment, the one with fish-themed magnets and Joshua’s accomplishment reports pinned up like kindergarten drawings. You think of his evening prayers, the sleepy mumbles of Hey God, it’s me, Joshua, and the gratitude for no traffic or healthy corals. You think of the crumpled look on his face when you couldn’t quite understand why he was so happy over something, the way his shoulders would fall when you couldn’t share in his small but certain happiness. 

You give your own answer. “...my fears.”

It lands heavier than it should. There are notebooks full of pages upon pages of writing, words you should have probably divulged to Joshua but chose not to. There are sweaters, and hoodies, and jackets with loose threads around the sleeves, from all the times you’d gotten scared but took it out on yourself instead of saying something. There are memories of Joshua—on his knees, slamming the door—asking for you to give him an inch. You never did budge. 

The car suddenly feels small. Too small for the weight of things unsaid.

“Twenty-seven,” you announce, voice wavering. “If you were going to become close friends, please share what would be important for him or her to know.”

You look at Joshua. His jaw tenses. It’s a query that works best in the context of the study. The questions are a first-date gig, meant for strangers looking to be friends or friends praying to be lovers. 

Not exes. Not you and Joshua. 

“That I get quiet when I’m overwhelmed,” he responds. “That it doesn’t mean I’m shutting people out. I just need space to think.”

You give a jerky nod, then answer, “That I overthink most things. That I’ll ask for reassurance even when I know the answer.”

He glances at you. “You still do that?”

“Yeah.”

The silence this time is different—not the awkward kind from the first hour of the trip, but something rawer. Tension prickles at the base of your neck.

You tap the GPS map. “Can you pull over at the next gas station? I have to pee,” you say, even though your bladder is the furthest from full. 

Joshua grunts his approval.

A few minutes later, he turns off the road. You murmur a quick thanks before slipping out of the car.

The restroom is fluorescent-lit and smells faintly of soap and old tiles. You grip the edge of the sink and lean forward, staring into the mirror.

“You’re fine,” you tell your reflection. “You’re fine. Don’t go there again.”

You splash cold water on your face, the shock of it grounding. You know what this is starting to feel like. A ledge, a pattern, a memory dressed up like something new. 

You’re not sure if you can fall again and survive the landing.

Behind your reflection, the bathroom door creaks open. You dry your face and brace yourself to step back into the heat of the day—and into a car that feels more like a confession booth with every mile.

Joshua drums his fingers along the curve of the wheel, elbow resting by the window as highway signs blur past. Your hair is still slightly damp at the edges from where you splashed your face. The radio hums low between you, some soft indie band murmuring about lost time.

“Two more hours,” he informs you. Not quite a warning, not quite a relief.

You nod, thumbing through the article on your phone. “Eight more questions.”

He exhales a laugh. “Maybe space it out? Take your time with the hard ones?”

“I’ll take a break after the next one,” you say. “Number twenty-eight.”

There’s a half-smile on his face, like he remembers the first time twenty-eight was posed. “The big one.”

You clear your throat and read aloud: “Tell your partner what you like about them; be very honest this time.” 

You both laugh, maybe a little too hard. You’re thinking of the first date—how you’d nervously said you liked that he was punctual, how he’d said he liked your jacket. Neither of you were very brave, then, or honest. 

Will you be now? 

“Okay,” he says, tapping the wheel in rhythm to the Billy Joel song that has started to croon. “I’ll go first.”

You don’t stop him.

He speaks slowly, at first. As if he’s the weight of each word. You had expected maybe one or two big things, but the fact that there’s an upcoming break seems to embolden him. 

He says he likes how you read people before they know they’re being read. He says he likes how you tilt your head when you’re thinking too hard. That you always ask baristas how their day’s going. That you cry during movies, but always pretend it’s allergies. That you never half-listen to someone when they talk.

Each word feels like it’s making the air between you warmer. Thinner. More charged.

He goes on, and on, and on. Some things, you already know. Some things, it’s the first time you’ve heard. 

Some things, you thought he had hated—only to find out it was the complete opposite. 

Some things, you’re surprised he even noticed.

When he patters off, he looks a bit sheepish, like he hadn’t expected to ramble. Neither of you steal a glance at the car’s analog clock. There’s no need to check, to confirm he spent perhaps a little too long extolling your virtues and waxing poetics you no longer felt like you deserved. 

You inhale.

“I like how you look like you’re trying not to smile when you are,” you start. “I like that you leave voice memos instead of texts when you’re tired. That you care about fish more than people sometimes, but you’ll never admit it. That you always carry two chargers. That you know the scientific names for all your favorite corals but still call them ‘little guys’ when you talk about them.”

Your list goes on, and on, and on. You like the calluses on his fingers from the years of guitar-playing. You like the soothing cadence of his voice when he’s reading something out loud. You like the slightly absurd way he sits, and the empathy he gives out as easily as one gives out gum, and the expressions he makes when somebody does something questionable. 

You stutter to a stop, knowing you’ve said as much—maybe even a little more—as him. The entire time, you’d kept your eyes on the road, but now you dare yourself to look. You regret it immediately. 

He’s gnawing at his lower lip, fighting back a smile. You don’t know how long he’s been trying to hold it back, but from the ruddiness of his cheeks, you’d say it’s been a couple of minutes. “Don’t say all that,” he manages. 

“Why not?” you say defensively. 

“Makes me want to kiss you,” he says outright, so softly it folds itself between the cracks of your ribcage. “And I’m not supposed to want that anymore.” 

His eyes flick over to you. You meet his gaze for half a second longer than is wise.

“Keep your eyes on the road, Hong,” you say, voice steady even as your pulse wavers.

He does as he’s told, but the smile on his face still tries its damnedest not to break.

The silence between you now is lighter, almost companionable. The kind that doesn’t need filling. You’re both tired, but not from each other—at least not in the same way you were when the drive began. 

There’s still an ache, a wariness, but it’s no longer sharp. Just an awareness of proximity and time passed.

Outside the window, the highway begins to bleed into coastal roads, winding through the kind of sleepy seaside towns that barely show up on a map. You catch a whiff of salt in the breeze when Joshua cracks the window open. The air is briny and cool, and your landlady’s city can’t be more than ten minutes away now.

“Bring up the next one,” Joshua prompts. “Question twenty-nine.”

You unlock your phone and read aloud, “Share with your partner an embarrassing moment in your life.”

You think for a second before answering. “One time during a client pitch, I said ‘orgasm’ instead of ‘organism.’ Completely straight-faced. No one corrected me. I didn’t even realize until hours later.”

Joshua barks out a laugh. “That’s… incredible.”

“Corporate girlie era. Not my best work.”

The road narrows, bending toward the sea. Then, he says, “A few weeks after the breakup, I accidentally called you during a team meeting. Like, I butt-dialed you. I was underwater a lot at the time, so I’d listen to your old voicemails whenever I could. Guess my phone got confused. Everyone heard it. The voicemail. You were talking about soup.”

You blink. “Soup?”

He nods solemnly. “Tom kha kai. You were mad I ate yours.”

You stare at him. He tries to act like it’s nothing, like the voicemail wasn’t from very early into your relationship, but his ears are pink.

“That’s…” You want to say sweet, or something else foolish. “Embarrassing. Yeah. I get it.”

He nods, but doesn’t meet your eyes.

Neither of you speak after that. The silence returns, soft and warm. The car turns down a familiar street, and the ocean gleams in the distance like it remembers you both.

Your landlady—sorry, ex-landlady—Minjung lives in a cheerful, sea-salted bungalow at the end of a sloping road. The pavement gives way to pebbles and gull cries. It’s the type of house you and Joshua once joked about retiring in. 

There’s none of those jokes today. 

The two of you pull up just after one in the afternoon, both exhausted but trying not to show it. The air smells like fried dough, and there’s a breeze that tangles your hair the second you step out.

Minjung opens the door almost as soon as you knock. She’s wearing her usual floral house dress, grey hair pinned up in a neat bun, and when she sees you both standing side by side on her porch, her eyebrows lift so high they nearly disappear into her hairline.

“Oh, you both made it,” she says. Her voice is kind but pointed. “Together, even.”

You and Joshua smile politely, murmuring greetings as you step inside. The living room is exactly how you remember it: mismatched furniture, a faint smell of liniment, crocheted doilies covering every available surface. She ushers you in, offers you barley tea you both politely decline, and sits with a huff in her favorite armchair.

The conversation is short and mostly administrative. Paperwork is signed, keys are handed over, deposits are discussed. She asks if you've found new places to live, and you both assure her you have. When the last form is signed, she takes a long look at the two of you.

“I’m surprised,” she says plainly, “that you two didn’t make it. I had a good feeling about you.”

You glance at Joshua, whose smile is tight but not insincere. “We had a good run,” he says, voice gentle, and that’s somehow the part of this whole endeavor that tears you up the most.

Minjung hums, not quite convinced. But she pats your hand and says she wishes you both well. You thank her. 

It’s done. After everything, it’s finally done. 

No more shared bills or split chores. No more arguing about groceries or laundry schedules. Just clean breaks, and quiet endings, and another eight hours back home you’ll probably sleep through.

You’re on the porch again, about to step off the last stair, when Minjung opens the door behind you.

“By the way,” she calls out. “You two didn’t have to come all this way, you know. I have a—what do you kids call it? Van-me? Venmo? Yes, that. I have that now.” 

She shuts the door in your faces before either of you can respond.

You and Joshua stare at each other. For a beat, silence. 

Then, laughter. Real, deep, absurd laughter.

You double over, hands on your knees. Joshua leans against the porch rail, laughing so hard he wheezes. Your cheeks hurt, your eyes blur, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re laughing with him like you used to—like nothing ever changed.

“I hate us,” you manage between giggles.

“She really let us suffer through all that,” Joshua gasps. “An eight-hour drive, a motel with one bed, all for... this.”

You can’t stop laughing. Not for a while. And when you finally do, breathless and dazed, you’re not sure what the ache in your chest means anymore.

Joshua invites you to the beach after Minjung’s door shuts behind the both of you. He says it casually, like he’s not asking you to walk across a tightrope of memory, but just to sit, to rest, to let the waves be the only thing talking for a while.

You agree. Because it’s the least you can give him, considering the fact he’s in for another long drive. Because Joshua said that nothing in the world made him happier than the beach, and you. 

“We should finish the questions,” he says, already headed toward the shoreline. “Might as well. Before we have to get back in the car.”

You follow him. It’s easier to, now.

The wind’s picked up, but not so much that it makes the air cold. Just enough to push your hair around your face and coat your skin with salt. The two of you find a smooth stretch of sand near the water, a small incline that gives you a view of the waves curling back on themselves. The city behind you is quiet and gray, the kind of place where time seems to wait a little longer between minutes.

You settle in beside him, knees pulled up to your chest. Joshua stretches his legs out in front of him, leans back on his palms.

You open your phone and pull the list up again. “Alright,” you say, trying to make your voice light, “question thirty. When did you last cry in front of another person? By yourself?”

He hums. You think he's stalling, but when he answers, it’s immediate.

“By myself? Last month. One of my undergrads turned in a paper about the death of coral ecosystems and how they linked it to their relationship with their dad. It hit me. I cried in the breakroom.”

“And in front of someone?”

He glances at you. “Right now doesn’t count, right?”

You smile. You don't answer.

“You?”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “By myself, probably... a couple weeks ago. Work stuff. And in front of someone?” You give him a look. “When we broke up.”

He nods like he remembers, and you know he does.

Question thirty-one. “Tell your partner something that you like about them already.”

Joshua chuckles. “This is like the third time they’ve asked this.”

“Reinforcement is key.”

He looks at you. Not in the way he used to—hungry and open—but with a quiet sort of affection, like he's memorizing without needing to possess. Really looks at you.

“I like how you look when the wind hits your hair. Like you're always on the verge of something. Running or staying,” he says. 

You roll your eyes, but your heart doesn’t get the memo.

“You’re such a sap.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“Still do,” you mutter.

Joshua doesn’t press it. You give him your answer—something about the way his eyes light up when he’s watching the sunset. He takes it with grace, angling his face a little more towards the horizon like he’s trying to remind you of what you love about him. As if you’d need a reminder. 

Question thirty-two. “What, if anything, is too serious to be joked about?”

You take longer with this one.

He answers first. “Grief. Not because it can’t be joked about, but because not everyone gets to laugh about it. You have to earn that.”

You look at him.

“What?” he says.

“That was... insightful.”

“I’m a marine biologist, not a clown.”

You huff out a laugh. Your chest is tight, and your heart is full, and your throat is dry with words you shouldn’t say. 

Not now. Maybe not ever.

You tell him you agree with him, and he doesn’t claim you’re trying to field the query. He knows you’ve earned the right to say the same thing. 

The waves crash in slow rhythm, and the sun slips further down the sky. Joshua turns his head slightly toward you, just enough for the breeze to tousle the hair at his temple.

“We doing all thirty-six today?” he asks, a small smile playing on his lips.

You shrug. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

The wind answers for you both. 

It tugs at your sleeves and hair, but not enough to be cruel. Just enough to remind you where you are: a little too far from home, and closer to something else you can't quite name.

“Alright,” you murmur, tapping into your phone. “Thirty-three. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?”

You expect him to hesitate. Instead, he answers softly, “That I forgive my dad.”

You glance at him. He stares out at the water, eyes glazed over and jaw tense, but his voice is even. “I kept waiting for the right time. For him to earn it, maybe. But some things... you give, not because they deserve it, but because you need to let it go.”

You nod, even though he isn’t looking. You don't ask questions. You don’t press. It feels sacred, what he said.

He turns to you. “What about you?”

You think for a long moment. The waves come in, and the waves go out.

“That I’m proud of myself,” you say, eventually, your voice cracking around the confession. “That I spent so long trying to be someone worth loving, I never stopped to tell myself I'd made it.”

Joshua’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I’m proud of you, too,” he says. 

He says it not because it’s some concession, not because it’s a consolation prize he wants to give you in the face of your honesty. He says it because he means it, the same way he probably meant it when he said he was proud of you for starting your corporate job, proud of you for opening a jar without his help, proud of you for this, and that, and simply existing. 

You smile at him. He smiles back. It’s the moment you will carry in your pocket when it’s all over, the one you’ll replay when the morning comes and no trace of Joshua is left. 

“Question thirty-four.” You clear your throat. “Your house, containing everything you own, catches fire. After saving your loved ones and pets, you have time to safely make a final dash to save any one item. What would it be? Why?” 

“This feels like a game show.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Final answer, Hong?”

He grins, but it fades quickly, as if he’s realizing just how serious the question is. “There’s this box,” he says, “in my closet. Letters, ticket stubs, Polaroids. I guess I thought I’d forget otherwise.”

You know the box. You’d added to it once. Movies you had watched. Grocery receipts. Post-Its with crude drawings of sea animals that he deemed worthy of keeping despite your disgruntled protest. 

That had always been Joshua’s way—loving every part of you, every scrap and morsel, even the ones you didn’t think deserved love. Especially the ones you didn’t think deserved love. 

You turn back to the sea, silence stretching between you. You’re not sure what your answer to the question is. Everything you own feels replaceable lately. 

You open your mouth. Then close it. 

And then, softly, “There’s a necklace. My mom gave it to me before college. It wasn’t worth much, but... it made me feel safe. Like I was tethered to someone.”

He knows the necklace. He’d fixed it once. You were hysterical when it broke, and he painstakingly gathered every broken charm, every loose bead. He watched three YouTube videos and treated the necklace with such care that it came back to you good as new. 

You stopped wearing it shortly after, though, out of fear that it would snap again. That Joshua might some day not be around to fix it one more time.

Joshua reaches across the space between you and takes your hand, gently, as if asking permission without words. You let him.

For the first time in months, you feel tethered again.

The question lingers between you like sea mist: soft, hazy, impossible to ignore. Joshua is still holding your hand, thumb barely moving, but the warmth of it spreads up your arm like it's been waiting all this time to find a home there again.

You read out loud thirty-five. “Of all the people in your family, whose death would you find most disturbing? Why?” 

You share a look, then, simultaneously—the same way you had when you first encountered the questions—you both say, “Skip.” 

“Thirty-six,” you go on, voice a little thinner than you'd like. “Share a personal problem. Ask for advice. Then—”

“—have the other person reflect back how you seem to be feeling,” Joshua finishes for you. His smile is faint but real. “I remember that one.”

The tide hums its low lullaby, and for a while, you pretend to be thinking.

You both stare out at the ocean instead of each other, even as the last question hovers between you, even as his fingers shift—no longer just clasping, but sliding between yours, interlocking like they used to. 

Like it’s the last time he'll get to do it. Maybe it is.

Then, you crack. Partly because the entire trip has been absurd, because thirty-six questions got you here in the first place and was now bringing you back.

Partly because you think it’s the last time you’ll have this, too. 

You laugh. It escapes like air from a balloon, breathless and tinged with disbelief. “I have a personal problem,” you admit, looking down at your joined hands. “It’s really serious.”

Joshua tilts his head toward you, brows raised.

You meet his eyes. The world around you fades into pale sand and blue waves. “I really, really want to kiss my ex right now.”

His breath hitches, but he doesn’t look away.

And then, softly, like it's the simplest thing in the world: “I can fix that.”

He leans in, and you meet him halfway.

His free hand slides to your cheek, yours to his chest. His heartbeat—usually so certain and steady—hammers underneath your palm. There is nothing scientific about the way it undoes you.

Whatever comes next, you’ll figure it out later. For now, the question has been asked.

The answer is this.

Four years ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart on your sleeve. 

After running through the thirty-six questions, you had asked him between giggles whether he was in looove with you now. He had looked at you like he was trying to remember how to breathe. 

You got some ice cream for dessert. You had felt like you were floating, as if your feet weren’t touching the floor, and the feeling only worsened when he tried and failed to be cool about holding your hand. 

At the door of your dormitory, he had kissed you good night. A proper kiss. And when he’d leaned in, you put a hand to his chest and told him to leave the night clean and quiet. Leave it at that, you had said against his lips. 

That one, perfect kiss. We’ll have more, you had promised, and he responded with I’m going to collect. 

You had watched him turn the corner and go. Right before disappearing, he glanced over his shoulder and flashed you a giddy smile. 

The ocean gives— 

Five months ago, you sat in front of Joshua with your heart in his hands. 

The conversation ended with less than thirty-six questions. There is only so much times you can argue, and compromise, before the spats threaten to spill into resentment. In a small voice, you had asked him if he still loved you. Yes, he had said breathlessly, but you and I both know love isn’t always enough. 

In the freezer, a tub of his favorite ice cream waited. One you had picked up in the grocery store, remembering him. It would remain there, cold and sweet and untouched, because the argument started mid-dinner and ended with you feeling like you were an astronaut jettisoned into space. One that would never come back down to Earth. 

At the door of the apartment, he had kissed the crown of your hair with quivering lips. You were the one with a friend nearby, the one with a place you could stay at before the two of you had to figure out the shared apartment. Joshua had tried to kiss you properly, but you shook your head wordlessly. 

Clean and quiet.

All Joshua could do was love you hard. All you could do was let him go. 

You had gotten into a cab. Right before you turned the corner, you twisted in the seat to look in the rear window.

Joshua had been by the gate, watching you leave. 

The ocean takes away—

It was easier than you thought, quitting your job. 

After the roadtrip, that seemed like Joshua’s parting gift. The realization that you had wanted to do something meaningful with your degree, that running or staying was always a choice you could make. 

And so you put in your two-week notice, and looked up Master’s programs, and got a part-time job at a non-government organization with an advocacy you believed in. You had been looking for an excuse to change your life, anyway, and here it was. 

It was not like anything happened after the kiss by the beach. Somehow, it had reminded you of that first night—how you had advised Joshua not to push his luck. 

He knew, you knew, that the kiss was perfect as is. To try and steal another would do neither of you any good. 

He hadn’t answered question thirty-six. The kiss took away that opportunity, and so the two of you simply got back into his car without another word. 

You slept the entire ride back and woke up to Joshua listening to some podcast about investigating subtidal zone organisms using a light source. He dropped you off at your apartment, wished you well with a one-armed hug, and drove off into the night. 

It’s not like you’d been expecting a follow-up text, but it sure would have been nice. 

You don’t dwell on it. You transition your replacement and tie up all loose ends. On your last day in the office, you pack up your desk. Whale-themed calendar, coral-shaped push pins, blue Post-It’s. 

“I’ve always loved that about you,” a co-worker says in passing as you rearrange your belongings like a perverse Tetris game. “All the sea stuff.” 

It hits you, only then, that you’d been a walking, talking documentary for all the things Joshua Hong loved. You could almost cry at the realization. Instead, you laugh politely. 

You’re logging out of your work computer for the very last time when the Mail app pings. You’re inclined to ignore it, to just open it up on your phone and be done with everything, but the preview in the notification has your brows furrowing. 

You open the email. 

To: yourusername@gmail.com From: hong.jisoo@mabik.kr Subject: RE: My personal problem

I never got to answer thirty-six. It’s because my ‘problem’ is this: I have a couple of questions I want to ask you. 

For your reference and kind consideration. 

Have you eaten today?

Did you remember to water the plant on your windowsill?

What time did you wake up this morning?

Are you sleeping okay lately?

Did you bring your jacket today like I told you to?

What song have you been listening to on repeat?

Is your favorite mug still the blue one with the chip in it?

Did you ever replace the broken lamp in your room?

When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt?

Are you still drinking your coffee with too much sugar?

What’s the last book you finished reading?

Do you still cry at that one movie you always cry at?

Have you called your mom lately?

Do you still keep emergency chocolate in the freezer?

What’s the newest dream you’ve had for your life?

What do you miss the most about living with someone?

Do you ever think about our old kitchen, and how the faucet always leaked?

Are you still scared of thunderstorms?

When was the last time you let someone take care of you?

What’s the one thing you wish you could say without it sounding like too much?

Do you remember how we used to dance in the living room when it rained?

What memory have you been holding onto lately?

Have you forgiven me for the words I didn’t say when I should have?

Do you think it’s possible to love someone differently, but just as much, the second time around?

Do you think timing is a real excuse, or just a convenient one?

What did I do that hurt you the most?

What did I do that made you feel safest?

What was your favorite version of us?

What do you think we did right?

What do you think we got terribly wrong?

What did you learn about yourself when we were apart?

What made you fall in love with me, back then?

What did you fall out of love with?

What’s something you wanted to ask me, but never did?

What would you do differently, if we had a second chance?

Could we have a second chance? 

– J. 

[mariacallous]

Last weekend, former President Donald Trump posted another anti-immigrant screed to Truth Social. It would have been unremarkable ― at least, graded on the Trumpian curve of extreme xenophobia ― except for one word.

“[We will] return Kamala’s illegal migrants to their home countries (also known as remigration),” he wrote. “I will save our cities and towns in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, and all across America.”

Many people might have glossed over his use of “remigration.” White nationalists did not.

“#Remigration has had a massive conceptual career,” Martin Sellner — leader of the Austrian chapter of Generation Identity, a pan-European white supremacist network — tweeted in his native German. “Born in France, popularized in German-speaking countries and now the term of the hour from Sweden to the USA!”

It was a succinct and accurate history from Sellner, a 35-year-old who typically trafficks in vicious lies and conspiracy theories, particularly about Black and brown people. He has been at the vanguard of pushing “remigration” — a euphemism for ethnically cleansing non-white people from Western countries — into the popular political lexicon in Europe.

Now Sellner was seeing his favorite little word all grown up, moving overseas in service of the 45th president of the United States, who has promised to implement the largest mass deportation of immigrants in U.S. history if elected back to the White House in six weeks’ time.

Trump’s use of “remigration” is the latest instance of the GOP’s intensifying anti-immigrant rhetoric in the run-up to November’s election, underscoring the degree to which one of America’s two major political parties is sourcing many of its talking points and policy ideas directly from neo-fascists.

“Trump’s rhetoric about ‘remigration’ has its origins in the international far-right,” Jakob Guhl, a senior manager of policy and research at the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, explained to HuffPost in an email. “The term remigration was popularized by groups adhering to Identitarianism, a pan-European ethno-nationalist movement, as their policy to reverse the so-called ‘great replacement.’”

“The great replacement theory is a conspiracy theory which claims that ‘native’ Europeans are being deliberately replaced through non-European migration while suppressing European birth-rates,” he continued. “This theory has inspired numerous terrorist attacks, including the Christchurch massacre, where 51 people were killed, as well as attacks in Poway, El Paso, Halle, Buffalo, and Bratislava.”

Pat Buchanan, the onetime presidential hopeful and former aide to President Richard Nixon, used the term “remigration” to whitewash his own call for ethnic cleansing as early as 2006, in his racist tract “State of Emergency: The Third World Invasion and Conquest of America.” But the term’s journey into the Trump campaign’s vernacular more likely got its start in November 2014, when 500 far-right activists gathered in Paris.

The inaugural Assises de la Remigration, or Annual Meeting on Remigration, was organized by Generation Identity. Its featured speaker was Renaud Camus, the travel writer-turned-philosopher who coined the term “great replacement” in his 2012 book by the same name. Camus’ book built off the work of another French author, Jean Raspail, who wrote “The Camp of the Saints,” an extraordinarily racist French novel that depicts a flotilla of feces-eating brown people invading Europe.

“The Great Replacement is the most serious crisis that France has witnessed in 15 centuries,” Camus told the crowd, eliding many bloody episodes in the country’s history, including a pair of world wars that killed nearly 2 million French people. For Camus, “remigration” was the best solution to the imagined crisis of the “great replacement,” the two terms essentially joined at the hip.

Camus and his fellow subscribers to identitarianism “have always been quite clear that the objective of ‘remigration’ is to create greater ‘ethnocultural’ homogeneity,” Ruhl told HuffPost. “For them, culture and ethnicity are inseparable, and they view (white) European identity as being fundamentally threatened by the presence of migrants ― necessitating drastic, far-reaching responses.”

According to a study by the Institute for Strategic Dialogue, the term “remigration” was “used over 540,000 times between April 2012 and April 2019” on Twitter, particularly from accounts in France and Germany. Usage of the term skyrocketed after the Annual Meeting on Remigration in Paris. Camus himself was one of the main promoters of the word online.

As “remigration” became an increasingly discussed term, militant far-right groups adapted it as their own. In 2017, police in France arrested 10 far-right activists over a suspected plot to kill politicians and migrants and to attack mosques. Officers found a shotgun and two revolvers in the home of the group’s ringleader, who’d sought to create a militia, according to a post on Facebook, to kill “arabs, blacks dealers, migrants, [and] jihadist scum.” Per French investigators, the group, known as OAS, was formed to “spark remigration.”

The term made an appearance in Canada, too, where a far-right fight club called Falange — named for the fascist group that served under the Spanish general Francisco Franco during the Spanish Civil War — put signs with the word “Remigration” across Quebec City.

And that same year in the U.S., the group Identity Evropa — modeled after Generation Identity in Europe — burst into the public consciousness for its participation in the deadly white supremacist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia. Identity Evropa’s proposed policies included “remigration,” and when its members marched in Charlottesville, they invoked the “great replacement” concept, chanting “You will not replace us.”

Back in Europe, in March 2019, Sellner started a channel on the chat app Telegram called the “European Compact for Remigration,” the beginning of a campaign, he announced, to influence far-right parties across Europe to support “de-Islamisation” and “remigration.”

That same month, a white supremacist in Christchurch, New Zealand, livestreamed himself walking into two mosques and opening fire, killing 51 Muslim worshipers. He’d posted a genocidal screed online before the shooting. Its title was “The Great Replacement.” Nevertheless, one week after the shooting, Sellner’s Generation Identity group in Austria staged a protest against the “great replacement,” again calling for “de-Islamisation” and “remigration.”

A couple of months later, it emerged that the shooter in New Zealand had communicated with Sellner only a year prior, donating over $2,300 to Sellner’s white supremacist group. “Thank you that really gives me energy and motivation,” Sellner wrote to the shooter in an email.

“If you ever come to Vienna,” Sellner added, “we need to go for a café or a beer.”

Despite these revelations, Sellner’s efforts to get far-right political parties to support remigration started to see results in the following years. In 2019, Alternative for Deutschland — which recently became the first far-right party since the Nazis to win a state election in Germany — inserted “remigration” into its list of official policy proposals.

Four years later, an investigation from Correctiv found that AfD members held a secret meeting with neo-Nazis and wealthy businesspeople to discuss the “remigration” of asylum seekers, immigrants with legal status, and “unassimilated citizens” to a “model state” in North Africa. The plan — which bore an unnerving resemblance to the Nazis’ initial idea to mass-deport Jews to Madagascar, before they settled on a wholesale extermination campaign — was Sellner’s brainchild.

That same year, as noted recently by Mother Jones, a jury of linguists in Germany selected “remigration” as the “non-word” of the year. “The seemingly harmless term remigration is used by the ethnic nationalists of the AfD and the Identitarian Movement to conceal their true intentions: the deportation of all people with supposedly the wrong skin color or origin, even if they are German citizens,” one guest juror wrote.

Mother Jones also noted that earlier this year, “an AfD candidate in Stuttgart campaigned with the slogan ‘Rapid remigration creates living space,’ a nod to the concept of Lebensraum used by the Nazis to justify the genocidal expansion into Eastern Europe.”

And finally, this year in Austria, the far-right Freedom Party (FPOe), founded after World War II by former Nazis, and which recently enjoyed success in national elections, called for the creation of a “remigration commissioner” in the country.

Still, very few, if any, U.S. politicians have uttered the word “remigration” in recent years. Trump’s use of the term stateside has coincided with his renewed embrace of dehumanizing language when talking about immigrants.

The former president’s promotion of a false story about Haitian immigrants eating pets in Ohio was classic fascist fare, depicting an entire category of people as savages. And earlier this year, the GOP nominee said immigrants were “poisoning the blood” of the nation. Historians quickly noted that Trump’s language echoed the words of Adolf Hitler. “All great cultures of the past perished only because the originally creative race died out from blood poisoning,” Hitler wrote in “Mein Kampf.”

But who in Trump’s orbit might have introduced him to the term “remigration”? The Trump campaign didn’t immediately respond to HuffPost’s request for comment. One possible culprit, though, might be Stephen Miller, who served in the Trump White House as an adviser and speechwriter. Miller’s ties to white supremacists are legion, and while working as an editor at Breitbart in 2015, according to leaked emails obtained by the Southern Poverty Law Center, he suggested the website publish articles about “The Camp of the Saints,”the racist French novel that inspired Renaud Camus.

Miller, like Sellner, was thrilled with Trump’s use of “remigration” last weekend.

“THE TRUMP PLAN TO END THE INVASION OF SMALL TOWN AMERICA: REMIGRATION!” he tweeted.

[lanternlit]

DASH GAME: BEHIND THE MUN

NAME: Havu.

PRONOUNS: They/them.

MOST ACTIVE MUSES: On this blog, Iris, Cas, Izzy, Will and Hannibal are being the loudest gremlins. Also the Doctor, mostly Thirteen, and Fifteen very much trying but I am sooo intimidated by the thought of starting to write him (me whenever I write a regeneration of the Doctor I haven't written previously).

EXPERIENCE: I started roleplaying privately with friends when MSN Messenger was a thing, in my teens, in the mid-late 2000s. We migrated to private phpbb forums with some friends for one-on-one platforms for more organisation than private messages. I transitioned to tumblr in 2013 when I found out the independent rpc here (I was on tumblr in a generic way since 2010). I pitched an idea for a Doctor Who OC to someone on anon to see if they would be interested in writing with her, I didn't know how the rpc functioned, etc. And then I made a blog for her. That was Iris, by the way, if you can believe that.

From 2013 to 2017 I wrote various OCs and Doctor Who canon muses, namely an AU version of Rose Tyler for a while, and then mainly the Eleventh Doctor for several years (my url was legsyes and later snogboxed but the latter was 2018). I was so unwell I was nearly psychotic around 2015-2017 and I was on the wrong meds etc. so I took a long hiatus of over a year from 2017 to 2018.

A huge part of my recovery process was coming back to the rpc with Cas in june 2018 (waywardfeathered). He was my primary muse for a long time, but I also came up with Jillian around that same time, and had some other muses in their own blogs, so in 2019 I consolidated everyone that wasn't Cas on a multimuse, on this blog (I think it was Jillian, Eleven, Charlie, River and the TARDIS, maybe Thirteen, and I've since retired Eleven). Now you know I recently moved Cas and Thirteen here from their respective blogs, and I still have Shepard on her own blog @dutyworn and I changed my url here from smokedanced to lanternlit.

FLUFF, ANGST, OR SMUT: Angst, smut, and fluff. I love multi-genre interactions, a little bit of all flavours in different threads between the same muses. Fluff is the only one of these I need to balance with something else to enjoy it a lot. I can write angst and smut without craving for something else for contrast.

LONG OR SHORT REPLIES: Both. I vastly dislike focusing on reply length as any sort of an indicator of how good someone is at roleplaying; it makes sense for length to vary. Are you setting a scene with lots of exposition? Are the characters having rapid fire dialogue? The former easily suits novella replies and the latter easily suits a single paragraph. I like dynamic threads where the response length feels natural considering the scene.

PET PEEVES: Relating to the previous one, my ultimate prose related pet peeve is when replies become like... two or even more threads in one thread? Consider:

Muse A asks Muse B, "How have you been?" Thread proceeds to have plot happening, and Muse A's internal thoughts regarding it.

Now Muse B's writer is stuck in a situation where, if they have their muse react to the dialogue before the following events, they are splitting the thread into two timelines, if Muse A's writer wants to be able to have their muse react in any way. This makes incredibly awkward writing flow where you are basically writing two interactions in one thread. I think people do this because they want to write longer replies but it becomes so unnatural and difficult to work with. I've been guilty of this as well. I always try very hard to consolidate a thread into a singular interaction, but sometimes that means I am forced to have my muse react to stuff only internally, or answer to questions delayed, etc. and it can be difficult to justify. And this is so difficult to explain it's hard to bring up with people if it happens because I don't even know what words to use to describe it - I drew a diagram to a friend once XD

Less of a pet peeve, more of a "I am going to block you", but any kind of rhetoric that even HINTS AT judging other people based on what kind of (no matter how problematic) content they enjoy in fiction.

ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE: For the most part, I am very different from all of my muses. I think it's because I would make a very boring fictional character, so there simply aren't ones much like myself; I'm very passive, unadventurous, etc. and I have no issue with that, I would rather be safe and comfortable than "an interesting fictional character" LOL. There are some, mostly minor, things, that I can relate to with most if not all of my muses, but these are usually either small quirks or life circumstances, not values or personality defining traits. For example: I relate to Castiel and him having been heavily controlled by other people, in having been controlled/abused by people who had authority over me, myself. I relate to feeling like I am existing as an outsider looking, like Iris (being isolated from society, for her for totally different reasons, for me due to disability) and tbqh many of my other muses. I am aromantic and pansexual, so I relate to Dean being demiromantic and bisexual. I am easily startled, and so is Lucius, so I relate to him in that. And such.

TIME TO WRITE: I don't have a set time that's easier than others, but in general (i say as i type this at 3:39am) my ability to function decreases exponentially if I am not maintaining a sleep schedule. The biggest reason for me going radio silent for weeks is "I couldn't sleep for 1 night and now I'm sleeping during the day and this has made me like 9000 times more disabled than usual".

TAGGED BY: @naitfall, thank you! TAGGING: @qapsiel, @shepcdr, @hellweep, @henosiis, @uselessdevice & anyone who wants to do it tag me so i can see!

[zepskies]

Hey, Zep! Any advice on writing a good kiss scene? (Totally not for upcoming chapters or fanfics or whatever and I’m procrastinating and possibly hyperventilating-)

But yeah. Any tips and/or tricks?

Hey there!

Oooh, what a great question. 😉 (Aww, don't worry, this is the fun part! lol ❤️)

So when it comes to any kind of romance scene, it has to do with the buildup. Where is the couple at this point? Is it desperation, longing and yearning, hurt/comfort, pure fluff and sweetness, raw, dirty, gritty desire, or a combination of these things?

And when they come together for that moment, is there a bit of hesitation, or even fear -- the idea that once they do this, there's no going back to the way it was before? Is the kiss tentative and sweet, chaste at first, or hungry and devouring from the onset?

Anticipation is also a big part of the first kiss especially. It's the culmination of a "will they, won't they," and it's a cathartic moment for a romance.

A kiss can start out small, just a meeting of lips. It can lead to more, as passion builds. You want to think of what emotions are driving each of them -- what defines their connection and chemistry, and this need to be together physically.

Word choice here can also be very important in how to convey passion, because again, "passion" can be expressed in different ways. To help figure this out, I try to visualize a scene in my head like a movie, down to the:

Setting: Are they out in the open? Is there the threat of getting caught? Are they in the privacy of a bedroom, in the kitchen, couch, potentially knocking things about? lol

Character "Blocking": The characters' physical movements in the scene, like the placement of hands, head tilting, movements of lips, teeth, tongue, bodies pressing, hand brushing the cheek, holding the hips or waist, hands cradling/caressing their partner’s face, hands slipping under layers of clothing, fingers tangling in the hair, gripping, pulling, or soothing, etc.). And of course, where on the body their partner is kissing, if they migrate from the lips after a while. 😏

Internal Thoughts: "God, should we really be doing this?" vs. "Freakin' finally," etc. 😂

Dialogue: Potentially breaks up the "action." Quipping remarks, teasing, heartfelt romantic words, sexy/dirty talk, etc. But sometimes there's no time for words, if you catch my drift. 😉

The Emotions: The key to what's driving each of them throughout the scene.

Taking these into account (in my experience) can help you create a unique romantic scene. ❤️❤️

Thanks for the question, lovely. Let me know if this helps! 🫡

[goawaypopup]

Roddacember Day 5: Magic

Something I like about the magic of Deltora's universe, something that not every fantasy media tries or manages to pull off, is how it's less a scientifically defined thing and more, almost, cultural.

Something like Dungeons and Dragons has spells that aren't just strictly defined, but universal. I can turn bat guano into a fireball by exploiting the laws of fictional physics, and someone across the continent can do the same thing if they learn how.

Other works will have something a little closer, where you have to be one of the people born with special blood. Magic is just something that happens sometimes, and if you're not either a random monster that innately uses it or one of the setting's wizards, you're out of luck.

What Rodda does, though, hits on an aspect of magic that I think is a better use for it than as setting dressing or a plot lubricant: the wonder.

Magic, as a piece of human imagining, is the natural consequence of a world where we have to work very hard to do things. "What if," says the archetypal everyman, "these dishes leapt into the sink and washed themselves, and I could stop using my precious god-formed fingers for things other than reaching for bonbons?"

The natural progression from there is... what if I could do things that I can't do now with any amount of effort? What if I could wipe away sickness with the touch of my hand? What if I could call upon the untameable forces of the natural world?

We all know, in the modern day, that the world is cold and made of smaller building blocks than we can comprehend. Disease is not made of elemental evil, but a multitude of complex problems of human homeostasis that our words and understanding can only capture the very surface of.

Of course, we still tell stories of magic potions that can cure any ailment. This is what magic has always been all about. It bridges the gap between the things that humans find meaning in, and the things that matter to the mechanical universe. A world with magic can have these categories be one and the same.

The way that magic works in Deltora reflects this principle. Magic comes from the land itself, and seems to be invested in rare lineages that have strong ties to it - the dragons and the royal Del line, the Torans, the Maris, the Fellans, the sorceress Tamm and the mud of Tier, all (that we know much about) carry magic because their ancestors found meaning and power in the land. And all of their powers are different, and - for the most powerful, still-united groups - used to maintain the connection with the land, and meet the needs of the people.

There is a spring in the Emerald Territory woods that checks whether it likes your inner motivations, and if it doesn't, kills you dead (via dendrification). There is another spring on another continent, this one definitely untouched by human hands until its discovery, that instantly heals wounds both internal and external, and apparently can restore blood to your body, specifically to allow the local yakbeasts to complete their migration and maintain a healthy ecosystem. We have 8 separate known instances of tribes finding - being gifted - extremely powerful magic stones that allow them to unify and defend their people. These are completely nonliving places - that clearly have motivations like people.

In Deltora's universe, in the eternal dialogue between people and the world, the world is actually talking back.

[thozhar]

Gulf migration is not just a major phenomenon in Kerala; north Indian states also see massive migration to the Gulf. Uttar Pradesh and Bihar accounted for the biggest share (30% and 15%) of all Indian workers migrating to GCC1 countries in 2016-17 (Khan 2023)—a trend which continues today. Remittances from the Gulf have brought about significant growth in Bihar’s economy (Khan 2023)—as part of a migrant’s family, I have observed a tangible shift in the quality of life, education, houses, and so on, in Siwan. In Bihar, three districts—Siwan, Gopalganj, and Chapra—send the majority of Gulf migrants from the state, mostly for manual labor (Khan 2023). Bihar also sees internal migration of daily wagers to Delhi, Bombay, and other parts of India. Gulf migration from India’s northern regions, like elsewhere in India, began after the oil boom in the 1970s. Before this time, migration was limited to a few places such as Assam, Calcutta, Bokaro, and Barauni—my own grandfather worked in the Bokaro steel factory.

Despite the role of Gulf migration and internal migration in north Indian regions, we see a representational void in popular culture. Bollywood films on migration largely use rural settings, focussing on people who work in the USA, Europe, or Canada. The narratives centre these migrants’ love for the land and use dialogue such as ‘mitti ki khusbu‘ (fragrance of homeland). Few Bollywood films, like Dor and Silvat, portray internal migration and Gulf migration. While Bollywood films frequently centre diasporic experiences such as Gujaratis in the USA and Punjabis in Canada, they fail in portraying Bihari migrants, be they indentured labourers in the diaspora, daily wagers in Bengal, or Gulf migrants. The regional Bhojpuri film industry fares no better in this regard. ‘A good chunk of the budget is spent on songs since Bhojpuri songs have an even larger viewership that goes beyond the Bhojpuri-speaking public’, notes Ahmed (2022), marking a context where there is little purchase for Gulf migration to be used as a reference to narrate human stories of longing, sacrifice, and family.

One reason for this biased representation of migration is that we see ‘migration’ as a monolith. In academic discourse, too, migration is often depicted as a commonplace phenomenon, but I believe it is crucial to make nuanced distinctions in the usage of the terms ‘migration’ and ‘migrant’. The term ‘migration’ is a broad umbrella term that may oversimplify the diverse experiences within this category. My specific concern is about Gulf migrants, as their migration often occurs under challenging circumstances. For individuals from my region, heading to the Gulf is typically a last resort. This kind of migration leads to many difficulties, especially when it distances migrants from their family for much of their lifetime. The term ‘migration’, therefore, inadequately captures the profound differences between, for instance, migrating to the USA for educational purposes and migrating to the Gulf for labour jobs. Bihar has a rich history of migration, dating back to the era of indentured labor known as girmitiya. Following the abolition of slavery in 1883, colonial powers engaged in the recruitment of laborers for their other colonies through agreements (Jha 2019). Girmitiya distinguishes itself from the migration. People who are going to the Arabian Gulf as blue-collar labourers are also called ‘Gulf migrants’—a term that erases how their conditions are very close to slavery. This is why, as a son who rarely saw his father, I prefer to call myself a ‘victim of migration’ rather than just a ‘part of migration’. It is this sense of victimhood and lack of control over one’s life that I saw missing in Bollywood and Bhojpuri cinema.

— Watching 'Malabari Films' in Bihar: Gulf Migration and Transregional Connections

[beardedmrbean]

President Rumen Radev expressed skepticism about Ukraine’s chances of achieving military gains, even with increased financial and military support, during his remarks at the high-level "Aqaba Process for the Balkans III" meeting in Sofia. He said that had more voices of leaders and experts been heard earlier, the Ukrainian counteroffensive launched in 2023 — which he described as fatal — might have been avoided. Radev reiterated his position that providing additional funding and weapons to Ukraine would not bring success, but instead prolong destruction, cause more casualties, hinder peace efforts, and lead to further territorial losses for Ukraine.

The Bulgarian president warned that the international community must abandon the illusion that peace and security can be ensured for certain countries or regions at the expense of others. He emphasized the importance of dialogue and cooperation among state leaders to strengthen security, particularly at a time when threats are becoming more immediate and widespread. According to him, history has repeatedly shown that during global conflicts, no region can remain untouched, and isolated pockets of peace cannot exist.

The "Aqaba Process for the Balkans III" meeting, co-chaired by Bulgaria and Jordan, gathered nearly 30 delegations, including heads of state, government representatives, and officials from international organizations and diplomatic missions. King Abdullah II of Jordan and President Radev jointly welcomed the leaders of Bosnia and Herzegovina, North Macedonia, Montenegro, Slovenia, Albania, Kosovo, Croatia, and Serbia, as well as the Belgian interior minister, to the forum.

Established in 2015 by King Abdullah II, the Aqaba Process aims to tackle global challenges such as terrorism, radicalization, and illegal migration. This third high-level forum, focused on the Balkan region, underscores the area’s heightened sensitivity to security issues, given its proximity to military conflicts that contribute to trafficking, migration pressures, and extremist threats.

Radev noted that the Balkan countries are particularly vulnerable to the broader consequences of instability beyond their borders. He emphasized the importance of seeking shared solutions through platforms like the Aqaba Process and highlighted the need for a collective understanding of regional and global security risks.

[unepjpmun2025]

Mama a ship in Antarctica… it’s fishing??????

BREAKING NEWS: Gigantic Chinese Fishing Vessels Caught Red-Handed in Antarctica—Penguins File Official Complaint!

Antarctica—In a shocking turn of events, a massive Chinese fishing vessel was spotted illegally trawling the icy waters of Antarctica, blatantly ignoring international Conservation laws, and more importantly, deeply unsettling the local penguin community.

Krill-ing the Ecosystem, One Net at a Time

Eyewitness reports (mainly concerned scientists and very disgruntled seals) confirm that the ship, dubbed the “Krill Killer 3000” by frustrated marine biologists, was seen hauling up enormous quantities of Antarctic Krill—a species so vital to the ecosystem that even the whales are side-eyeing this operation in disbelief.

Sources claim that when confronted, the ship’s crew gave the classic “Who, us? We’re just sightseeing” excuse—despite the fact that their “sightseeing” involved industrial-sized nets and more seafood theft than a pirate-themed buffet.

Penguins Demand Justice—March in Protest

In a historic move, hundreds of furious Adelie penguins were seen gathering on the ice, flapping their wings in what the experts are calling a “undeniable act of protest”. One particularly enraged penguin, who we can only assume is their leader, was seen dramatically pointing his beak at the ship while making aggressive honking noises—an unmistakable sign of discontent.

International Response: “Seriously? Again?’’

The discovery has sparked global outrage, with conservation groups calling for immediate action. Officials from the Commission for the Conservation of Antarctica Marine Living Resources (CCAMLR) has reportedly sent a very strongly worded email (which will, as usual, be ignored). China’s Foreign Minister, Mr Wang Yi, however has given a typical unfazed response: “China has always been a responsible global partner in environmental protection and marine conservation. We strongly reject any baseless accusations regarding illegal fishing activities in Antarctica. The vessel in question was merely conducting scientific research—a routine and entirely peaceful operation to study krill migration patterns… using nets. Large nets. Very large net, but purely for research, of course. Furthermore, China remains committed fully to upholding international maritime laws and strongly supports sustainable fishing practices—as long as they align with our economic interests. We are open to engage with all parties in constructive dialogues, and to our penguin friends: if there is truly an issue, we are open to mutually beneficial discussions—perhaps over a nice seafood dinner.”

The Secretary of State for United States, Mr Marco Rubio has given a rather critical response of China, by saying: “Once again, we witness a blatant disregard for international law as a foreign fishing vessel, conveniently flying Chinese colours, depletes Antarctica’s marine ecosystem for profit. We stand in full solidarity with the affected environmental organisations and most importantly—the penguin population. The United States is prepared to work with our allies to strengthen enforcement in Antarctic waters and we urge China to reflect on its actions, respect international agreements, and for, once, leave the krill alone.”

What’s Next?

As pressure mounts, authorities are scrambling to take action, while the fishing vessel remains conveniently “unreachable” for comment.

Stay tuned for updates… and if you see a suspiciously large pile of krill, you know who to blame.

[trump-executive-orders]

Imposing Duties to Address the Flow of Illicit Drugs Across Our Northern Border

Issued February 1, 2025.

By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, including the International Emergency Economic Powers Act (50 U.S.C. 1701 et seq.) (IEEPA), the National Emergencies Act (50 U.S.C. 1601 et seq.) (NEA), section 604 of the Trade Act of 1974, as amended (19 U.S.C. 2483), and section 301 of title 3, United States Code,

I, DONALD J. TRUMP, President of the United States of America, find that the sustained influx of illicit opioids and other drugs has profound consequences on our Nation, endangering lives and putting a severe strain on our healthcare system, public services, and communities.

This challenge threatens the fabric of our society. Gang members, smugglers, human traffickers, and illicit drugs of all kinds have poured across our borders and into our communities. Canada has played a central role in these challenges, including by failing to devote sufficient attention and resources or meaningfully coordinate with United States law enforcement partners to effectively stem the tide of illicit drugs.

Drug trafficking organizations (DTOs) are the world's leading producers of fentanyl, methamphetamine, cocaine, and other illicit drugs, and they cultivate, process, and distribute massive quantities of narcotics that fuel addiction and violence in communities across the United States. These DTOs often collaborate with transnational cartels to smuggle illicit drugs into the United States, utilizing clandestine airstrips, maritime routes, and overland corridors.

The challenges at our southern border are foremost in the public consciousness, but our northern border is not exempt from these issues. Criminal networks are implicated in human trafficking and smuggling operations, enabling unvetted illegal migration across our northern border. There is also a growing presence of Mexican cartels operating fentanyl and nitazene synthesis labs in Canada. The flow of illicit drugs like fentanyl to the United States through both illicit distribution networks and international mail -- due, in the case of the latter, to the existing administrative exemption from duty and taxes, also known as de minimis, under section 1321 of title 19, United States Code -- has created a public health crisis in the United States, as outlined in the Presidential Memorandum of January 20, 2025 (America First Trade Policy) and Executive Order 14157 of January 20, 2025 (Designating Cartels and Other Organizations as Foreign Terrorist Organizations and Specially Designated Global Terrorists). With respect to smuggling of illicit drugs across our northern border, Canada's Financial Transactions and Reports Analysis Centre recently published a study on the laundering of proceeds of illicit synthetic opioids, which recognized Canada's heightened domestic production of fentanyl, largely from British Columbia, and its growing footprint within international narcotics distribution. Despite a North American dialogue on the public health impacts of illicit drugs since 2016, Canadian officials have acknowledged that the problem has only grown. And while U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) within the Department of Homeland Security seized, comparatively, much less fentanyl from Canada than from Mexico last year, fentanyl is so potent that even a very small parcel of the drug can cause many deaths and destruction to America families. In fact, the amount of fentanyl that crossed the northern border last year could kill 9.5 million Americans.

Immediate action is required to finally end this public health crisis and national emergency, which will not happen unless the compliance and cooperation of Canada is assured.

I hereby determine and order:

Section 1. (a) As President of the United States, my highest duty is the defense of the country and its citizens. A Nation without borders is not a nation at all. I will not stand by and allow our sovereignty to be eroded, our laws to be trampled, our citizens to be endangered, or our borders to be disrespected anymore.

I previously declared a national emergency with respect to the grave threat to the United States posed by the influx of illegal aliens and illicit drugs into the United States in Proclamation 10886 of January 20, 2025 (Declaring a National Emergency at the Southern Border). Pursuant to the NEA, I hereby expand the scope of the national emergency declared in that Proclamation to cover the threat to the safety and security of Americans, including the public health crisis of deaths due to the use of fentanyl and other illicit drugs, and the failure of Canada to do more to arrest, seize, detain, or otherwise intercept DTOs, other drug and human traffickers, criminals at large, and drugs. In addition, this failure to act on the part of Canada constitutes an unusual and extraordinary threat, which has its source in substantial part outside the United States, to the national security and foreign policy of the United States. I hereby declare and reiterate a national emergency under the NEA and IEEPA to deal with that threat. This national emergency requires decisive and immediate action, and I have decided to impose, consistent with law, ad valorem tariffs on articles that are products of Canada set forth in this order. In doing so, I invoke my authority under section 1702(a)(1)(B) of IEEPA and specifically find that action under other authority to impose tariffs is inadequate to address this unusual and extraordinary threat.

Sec. 2. (a) All articles that are products of Canada as defined by the Federal Register notice described in section 2(d) of this order (the Federal Register notice), shall be, consistent with law, subject to an additional 25 percent ad valorem rate of duty. Such rate of duty shall apply with respect to goods entered for consumption, or withdrawn from warehouse for consumption, on or after 12:01am eastern time on February 4, 2025, except that goods entered for consumption, or withdrawn from warehouse for consumption, after such time that were loaded onto a vessel at the port of loading or in transit on the final mode of transport prior to entry into the United States before 12:01am eastern time on February 1, 2025, shall not be subject to such additional duty, only if the importer certifies to CBP as specified in the Federal Register notice.

(b) With respect to energy or energy resources, as defined in section B of Executive Order 14156 of January 20, 2025 (Declaring a National Energy Emergency), and as otherwise included in the Federal Register notice, such articles that are products of Canada as defined by the Federal Register notice shall be, consistent with law, subject to an additional 10 percent ad valorem rate of duty. Such rate of duty shall apply with respect to goods entered for consumption, or withdrawn from warehouse for consumption, on or after 12:01am eastern time on February 4, 2025, except that goods entered for consumption, or withdrawn from warehouse for consumption, after such time that were loaded onto a vessel at the port of loading or in transit on the final mode of transport prior to entry into the United States before 12:01am eastern time on February 1, 2025, shall not be subject to such additional duty, only if the importer certifies to CBP as specified in the Federal Register notice.

(c) The rates of duty established by this order are in addition to any other duties, fees, exactions, or charges applicable to such imported articles.

(d) Should Canada retaliate against the United States in response to this action through import duties on United States exports to Canada or similar measures, the President may increase or expand in scope the duties imposed under this Executive Order to ensure the efficacy of this action.

(e) In order to establish the duty rate on imports of articles that are products of Canada, the Secretary of Homeland Security shall determine the modifications necessary to the Harmonized Tariff Schedule of the United States (HTSUS) in order to effectuate this order consistent with law and shall make such modifications to the HTSUS through notice in the Federal Register. The modifications made to the HTSUS by this notice shall be effective with respect to goods entered for consumption, or withdrawn from warehouse for consumption, on or after 12:01am eastern time on February 4, 2025, except as otherwise noted in subsection 2(a) of this section, and shall continue in effect until such actions are expressly reduced, modified, or terminated.

(f) Articles that are products of Canada, except those that are eligible for admission under "domestic status" as defined in 19 CFR 146.43, which are subject to the duties imposed by this order and are admitted into a United States foreign trade zone on or after 12:01am eastern time on February 4, 2025, except as otherwise noted in subsection 2(a) of this section, must be admitted as "privileged foreign status" as defined in 19 CFR 146.41. Such articles will be subject upon entry for consumption to the rates of duty related to the classification under the applicable HTSUS subheading in effect at the time of admittance into the United States foreign trade zone.

(g) No drawback shall be available with respect to the duties imposed pursuant to this order.

(h) For avoidance of doubt, duty-free de minimis treatment under 19 U.S.C. 1321 shall not be available for the articles described in subsection (a) of this section.

(i) Any prior Presidential Proclamation, Executive Order, or other presidential directive or guidance related to trade with Canada that is inconsistent with the direction in this order is hereby terminated, suspended, or modified to the extent necessary to give full effect to this order.

(j) The articles described in subsection (a) of this section shall include those encompassed by 50 U.S.C. 1702(b).

Sec. 3. (a) The Secretary of Homeland Security shall regularly consult with the Secretary of State, the Attorney General, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, and the Assistant to the President for Homeland Security on the situation at our northern border. The Secretary of Homeland Security shall inform the President of any circumstances that, in the opinion of the Secretary of Homeland Security, indicate that the Government of Canada has taken adequate steps to alleviate the opioid crisis through cooperative actions. Upon the President's determination of sufficient action to alleviate the crisis, the tariffs described in section 2 of this order will be removed.

(b) The Secretary of Homeland Security, in coordination with the Secretary of State, the Attorney General, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, and the Assistant to the President for Homeland Security shall recommend additional action, if necessary, should the Government of Canada fail to take adequate steps to alleviate the illicit drug crises through cooperative enforcement actions.

Sec. 4. The Secretary of Homeland Security, in consultation with the Secretary of the Treasury, the Attorney General, and the Secretary of Commerce, is hereby authorized to take such actions, including adopting rules and regulations, and to employ all powers granted to me by IEEPA as may be necessary to implement this order. The Secretary of Homeland Security may, consistent with applicable law, redelegate any of these functions within the Department of Homeland Security. All agencies shall take all appropriate measures within their authority to implement this order.

Sec. 5. The Secretary of Homeland Security, in coordination with the Secretary of the Treasury, the Attorney General, the Secretary of Commerce, the Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, and the Assistant to the President for Homeland Security, is hereby authorized to submit recurring and final reports to the Congress on the national emergency under IEEPA declared in this order, consistent with section 401(c) of the NEA (50 U.S.C. 1641(c)) and section 204(c) of IEEPA (50 U.S.C. 1703(c)).

Sec. 6. General Provisions. (a) Nothing in this order shall be construed to impair or otherwise affect:

(i) the authority granted by law to an executive department, agency, or the head thereof; or

(ii) the functions of the Director of the Office of Management and Budget relating to budgetary, administrative, or legislative proposals.

(b) This order shall be implemented consistent with applicable law and subject to the availability of appropriations.

(c) This order is not intended to, and does not, create any right or benefit, substantive or procedural, enforceable at law or in equity by any party against the United States, its departments, agencies, or entities, its officers, employees, or agents, or any other person.

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Can I request 1, 7, 8, 15 and 20 for Charlotte Roselei for your ask game?

CHARRRRRR

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

Okay, so, I like her... concept? As in, she's supposed to be The Strong Independent Woman who's making it in a man's world. And she is! But.. I think that her character is watered down by the excessive emphasis on her crush on Yami. As in, I wouldn't mind it being in her internal dialogue! I wouldn't mind her having those moments of "iiiiikkkkkk *doki doki*" I really wouldn't, but the amount of screentime those moments get in comparison make it seem like it's most of her personality.

I think that... when we first saw her in canon, during the battle against Licht where she was teleported to, to kinda save Yami's ass, she was very dignified. She was calm and collected, but had that little voice in the back of her head saying "calm down Charlotte, can't let your emotions for him to get the better of you" and I think that was the closest canon has come to portraying the Canon Intended Charlotte. And from there on, it kinda went down hill?

And while I think that there is an important character development point in her confessing to her girls that she does actually fancy Yami, and it's okay to have these feelings for another person, because they're perfectly human, again, these seem to portray majority of her personality.

Charlotte is the rose that was intended to be red, but was cursed to be something else, a rare beauty that was more fragile (as canonically her blue roses are less powerful than her *real* red roses) than she was created to be, but who chose to take the thorns of the blue rose and create herself anew.

With her, too, I think that the fandom does a more... accurate (sorry Tabs) portrayal of her than canon. Or of the intended her anyways.

7. What’s something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

Make her into more of the Independently Owned And Governed type of a strong woman that she is. I honestly like the fandom versions of her more than the canon portrayal of her. I'm circling back to the answer above (in #1 of course).

8. What’s something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

Hmm... Hmm... Hmm...

I don't think I'm well versed enough in Charlotte to say if there's something... I'd downright despise the fandom doing? I don't think I have seen the fans make her into something that I would really hate. Maybe the emphasis on hating men? If it's taken to the extreme? I get that there are people out there who feel that way (about men), but I think that Charlotte's "...men" is an over-emphasis of how she's so fed up with being downplayed simply because she is a woman. It's frustration. And I get that too, at times, and perhaps it's worse in where she has lived, which is why she feels the need to quite visibly roll her eyes and utter: "men..."

But I don't think I have seen the fans doing something with her that I'd despise.

15. What’s your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn’t matter if it’s canon or not.)

I'm boring, and a YamiChar shipper myself. As in, I know I don't make a lot of content for them, but this is one of the ships that I'm behind of. I think that there is great potential for mutual character growth in there, despite the before mentioned problems with placing emphasis on Char's crush-panicking. The fandom has done them justice with fanfic.

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn’t matter?

Okay, y'know what, I sat on this for a while, while sipping wine and staring at the ceiling, but Imma throw a bit of a curve ball:

Sister Lily

Sister Lily became a nun, because she witnessed to injustice and imbalance that exists in the society, and chose to become a nun in an effort to fight the oppression of the weak by doing good. And as she found the system to still be in place within the convent, she migrated even further out into the boonies.

Sister Lily is battling the hierarchy and the system by trying to step away from it and instead doing something concrete good.

Charlotte is battling the hierarchy and the system from within, by trying to claw her way to the top.

Their approaches are very different, but I think that they'd get well along (actually, I think that Charlotte might get well along with Sister Theresa too; may the BC gods bless Sister Theresa, the "hag that will outlive you all" XD ). Sister Lily might be... softer than Charlotte, but I think they both have one thing to unite them: the wish for a change.

And they're both doing something about it. It's one thing to wish for a change, but they're both *doing* something about it. So, I think that they have that balance of being similar, while having something different, that could make them the bestest of friends

[cheerfullycatholic]

Entire article;

For the first time in almost a year, Pope Francis held a press conference aboard the papal airplane this past Friday. During the conference, he was asked to offer guidance to United States voters in the upcoming presidential election as they are “faced with a candidate who supports ending a pregnancy and another who wants to deport 11 million migrants.” Pope Francis responded that both candidates “are against life: the one that throws out migrants and the one that kills children.” He added, “ I can’t decide; I’m not American and won’t go to vote there.”  went on to say, “One must vote. And one must choose the lesser evil. Which is the lesser evil? That lady or that gentleman? I don’t know; each person must think and decide according to their own conscience.” Here he reiterated Church teaching that, in a situation where both candidates hold views that are opposed to Catholic beliefs, each person must vote in accordance with his faithfully formed conscience. He also emphasized the importance of voting and said, “In political morality, it is generally said that not voting is ugly, it’s not good.” (Courtney Mares’s article “Pope Francis: U.S. presidential election a choice between 'the lesser evil'" offers a more detailed summary of the conference and highlights the other topics that Pope Francis addressed.) While the Pope’s words are likely disappointing to supporters of both candidates who would have preferred a more direct endorsement, they follow the Church’s precedent of leaving the act of voting in the hands of the faithful. His words also align with the document of the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) on voting, Forming Consciences for Faithful Citizenship, which highlights multiple issues that voters should consider when determining how to vote.  These include abortion, migration, the right to fair living wages, the right to join unions, euthanasia, racism, international relations, gun violence, climate change, protection of and support for the family, and limits of governmental power. Each of these issues falls under one of the interrelated categories of Human Dignity of the Person, The Common Good, Solidarity and Subsidiarity. The document, which last underwent a major revision in 2015, also recognizes that voters “must consider not only candidates’ positions on these issues, but their character and integrity, as well.” This, too, is a very serious and often underappreciated consideration, which must be submitted to the prudence of an informed conscience. In its new November 2023 introduction to the document, the USCCB suggests that the faithful should approach this election with the spirit of the Good Samaritan, who bound the wounds of his enemy thus forming social bonds and connections. The bishops admonish American Catholics to forego fear and hostility and to instead show mercy to one another while engaging in open and honest dialogue. They suggest that voters take time away from social media and news channels that tend to fuel anger and division. Instead, they ask voters to spend their time in prayer, service for others, adoration, reflection on the Bible and the study of Church teachings – all of which will help to strengthen and form conscience. Fittingly, they close their introduction to the document with the following prayer: “May God bless you as you consider and pray over these challenging decisions. May God bless our nation with true wisdom, peace, and mutual forgiveness, that we may decide together, through our democratic processes, to uphold the dignity of life and the common good.”

[practically-an-x-man]

For Talk Shop Tuesday: Have you ever had any fandom OC concepts that transformed into original OCs? What about recycling scrapped OC and OC concepts into other OCs?

Thank you so much!!

Talk Shop Tuesday

So for fandom OCs that became original OCs... not exactly? Sometimes I get the first nudges of a new OC or concept and I have to decide whether I want to place them into canon or come up with something new, but that usually happens very early on in the process. Here's some examples:

"What if there was a character who could see the threads of the future and was paralyzed by indecision because of it?" - still not sure what I'm doing with this one

"What if there was a character who's on a sort of individual looping timeline, where the world keeps moving forward but they can never die because their internal clock will just reset - but when it does, nobody else will remember that they've died?" - I'm thinking maybe an X-Men fic?

"What if a siren had their throat damaged in a fishing accident and couldn't sing, and therefore couldn't hunt to survive?" - original fiction

"What if werewolves were originally destined to be not monsters but protectors of their hometowns - designed to be strong and agile when non-wolf and able to defend the town from threats, and then the townspeople would return the favor by caring for them through their transformation periods?" - premise for a future fandom OC, though... I might just make this one an original idea since the fanfic would be obscure as all hell lmao

It doesn't always happen this way, I've definitely got some ideas that are purely original and some characters that I create with the intent of fanfiction, but sometimes I'll get a spontaneous idea and have to decide which world it belongs to. I've never had a finished character transfer from fandom to original fiction, just those first concepts.

As for recycling OCs into other ideas or fandoms? Oh yeah. Usually it happens either when my writing skills have outgrown the original concept for the character, and the revamp leads to some ideas being scrapped or recycled; or when I have an idea but the fandom turns out to be toxic, so I migrate the OC elsewhere.

I've talked about how Rae and Mira both stemmed from the same scrapped X-Men OC, back when I first started writing. That's the first example. I created the original OC and had her floating around in my brain for a while, but by the time I actually got comfortable enough to start writing, I revisited the idea and it ended up splitting into two different characters and plots, just for clarity and sophistication.

And for the second example: back when the Wednesday show first came out, I watched it and wanted to write for it, I had an OC built up and two chapters written... and then all kinds of things popped up about some of the actors, offensive dialogue choices, whatever else. I decided it was safest just to abandon that fic and leave it unposted, but I still love the OC idea (a very unique and dynamic person magically cursed to fade into the background no matter what they try) and I intend to recycle them into a future AHS fic I plan to write at some point.

That's a really interesting question, thank you for the ask!! <3 <3 <3

[arecomicsevengood]

WWREC

I really enjoy these WWREC comics, drawn and written collaboratively by Max Burlingame and Angela Fanche. Fanche is maybe most known as an autobiographical cartoonist, due to her diary comics. She also does work which seems autobiographical because of how attuned it is to the voice of its character. In “Performance Of The Love Note,” published by Entropy Editions, there is a monologue, or love note, and visual metaphors spin out from it, to make something that is maybe closer to an avant-garde theater piece than a diary strip. Her work feels very internal, about the whirrings of consciousness, moreso than the back and forth of dialogue. With WWREC, this internal state exists if not in dialogue, then in parallel, to these science-fiction scenarios, chronicled by Max Burlingame. Burlingame’s under-published, I think, I haven’t seen too much in the realm of solo comics by him. He had a short story in issue 2 of Jaywalk, which seemed to begin a story, and had a story that ran in the anthology Cowlick. In that Jaywalk story, you can see that classic sci-fi impulse towards world-building, people in conflict, schemes afoot.

In the two issues of WWREC, these pieces come together. Both cartoonists are drawing on the page, coming up with compositional elements, and seemingly writing as they go. The world of WWREC is constructed according to the internal state of consumerist desire, issue 1 is set in a mall. Issue 2 has characters migrating under the sea, where they hope their lives will be better. Throughout both issues, the drawings are really beautiful to look at, with both artists clearly finding great joy in the act of drawing, making these active tableaus that push and pull between each artist, blurring the line between the decorative impulse and the compositional underpinning, spinning a spiderweb of drawing for its own sake that is also telling a story that develops organically. Really great comics, of the sort I only wish were more widely available. If I were in charge of a black and white anthology, with the responsibility of putting together something that could compete commercially with the rest of the comic book marketplace, like my mental model of 1990s Dark Horse Presents, this is the sort of thing I would put into it, something that could win over the eighties Heavy Metal crowd and Dirty Plotte readers both.

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 5.21

Holidays

Afro-Colombian Day (Colombia)

Agricultural Fair Day

Anti-Terrorism Day (India)

Battle of Iquique Anniversary Day (Chile)

Capitol Build Day (New York)

Circassian Day of Mourning

Daylilly Day (French Republic)

Day of Patriots and Military (Hungary)

Emergency Medical Services Day

EMS Health, Wellness & Resilience Day

End of the World Day

Feast of the Triple Scoop

521 Day

Global Accessibility Awareness Day

Hug Your Interior Designer Day

Hummel Day (a.k.a. Sister Maria Hummel Day)

"I Need A Patch For That" Day

International Day of Statistical Literacy

Journée Nationale des Patriotes (National Patriots' Day; Quebec)

Keanu Reeves Day

Lilies and Roses Day (UK)

National American Red Cross Founder’s Day

National Mamey Day

National Memo Day

National Talk Like Yoda Day

Natura 2000 Day (EU)

Navy Day (Chile)

Passion Play Day (Germany)

Pogo Stick Day

Polar Explorer’s Day (Russia)

Purple Star of Jerusalem Day (a.k.a. Jack-Go-To-Bed-At-Noon)

Rapture Party Day (2011 prediction by Harold Camping)

Recommerce Day

Red Cross Day

Saint Helena Day (Saint Helena)

Sanja Matsuri begins (Tokyo, Japan)

Send a Letter Day

Slap a Patch On It Day

United States Cyber Command Day

World Day for Cultural Diversity for Dialogue and Development (UN)

World Fish Migration Day

World Meditation Day (UK)

World Tree Kangaroo Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

International Tea Day [also 12.15]

International Tennessee Whiskey Day

National Mourvèdre Day

National Waitstaff Day (a.k.a. Waiters and Waitresses Day)

Strawberries and Cream Day

World Chardonnay Day

Independence & Related Days

Malabon (City Founded; Philippines)

Montenegro (from Serbia, 2006)

New Zealand (Proclaimed a British Colony; 1840)

Southwest Vineland (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Valentia Riqueza and Grandeza (a.k.a. ValeVRG; Declared; 2022) [unrecognized]

3rd Tuesday in May

International Dinosaur Day [3rd Tuesday; also 6.1]

National Stop Nausea Day [3rd Tuesday]

Sex Differences in Health Awareness Day [3rd Tuesday]

Taco Tuesday [Every Tuesday]

Festivals Beginning May 21, 2024

The Batch Festival (Bath, UK) [thru 5.26]

Sommeliers Choice Awards (Chicago, Illinois)

Feast Days

Adílio Daronch and Manuel Gómez González (Christian; Saint)

Agonalia (Ancient Rome) [also 1.9 & 12.11]

Albrecht Dürer (Artology)

Alexander Pope (Writerism)

Anastenaria (Fire-Walking Ritual; Ancient Greece)

Andrew Bobola (Christian; Martyr)

Arcangelo Tadini (Christian; Saint)

Chen Dayu (Artology)

Christopher Magallanes, and other Saints of the Cristero War (Christian; Saint)

Day of the Twins: Beginning of Gemini (Astrology/Pagan)

Édouard-Henri Avril (Artology)

Emperor Constantine I (Christian; Saint)

Eugène de Mazenod (Christian; Saint)

Felix of Cantalicio (Christian; Saint)

Festival for Vevodus (God of the Dead, Swamps & Volvanic Movements; Ancient Rome)

Festival of Demeter (Greek Barley Mother Goddess)

Festival of Vejovis (Roman God of Healing)

42 Day (Pastafarian)

Franz Jägerstätter (Christian; Saint)

Free Money Day (Church of the SubGenius)

Godrick of Finkley (Christian; Saint)

Green Four-Net (Muppetism)

Harold Robbins (Writerism)

Helena of Constantinople (a.k.a. "Feast of the Holy Great Sovereigns Constantine and Helen, Equal-to-the-Apostles,” Eastern Orthodox Church, Anglican Communion)

Henri Rousseau (Artology)

Hospitius (Christian; Saint)

John Elliot (Episcopal Church)

Nestinarstvo (Fire-Walking Ritual; Ancient Bulgaria)

Nost-na-Lothion (Elven feast for the birth of flowers; Lord of the Rings)

Ponder Pointlessness Day (Pastafarian)

Rudolf Koller (Artology)

Saint Camping’s Day (Discordian)

St. Luke (Positivist; Saint)

Theophilus of Corte (Christian; Saint)

Hebrew Calendar Holidays [Begins at Sundown]

Pesach Sheni (2nd Passover) [13-14 Iyar]

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Taian (大安 Japan) [Lucky all day.]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 24 of 60)

Premieres

Agents of Fortune, by Blue Oyster Cult (Album; 1976)

Alison, by Elvis Costello (Song; 1977)

Annie (Film; 1982)

The Conquest of Everest, by John Hurt (Memoir; 1954)

Curtain Razor (WB LT Cartoon; 1949)

Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid (Film; 1982)

The Deep Blue Good-By, by John D. MacDonald (Novel; 1964)

Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde (Silent Film; 1908)

The Egg Hunt (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1940)

The Foxy Pup (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1937)

Gimme All Your Lovin’, by ZZ Top (Music Video; 1983)

Godzilla vs. Kong (Film; 2021)

Gypsy (Broadway Musical; 1959)

Hassle in a Castle (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1966)

Hot Shots! Part Deux (Film; 1993)

Injun Trouble (WB LT Cartoon; 1938)

I Sing the Body Electric! & Other Stories, by Ray Bradbury (Short Stories; 1969)

Lunch Poems, by Frank O'Hara (Poetry; 1963)

Mad Max 2 (Film; 1982)

Mask of Orpheus, by Harrison Birtwistle (Opera; 1986)

Maybellene, recorded by Chuck Berry (Song; 1955)

McCartney II, by Paul McCartney (Album; 1980)

Mouse for Sale (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1955)

Naked Came the Stranger (Adult Film; 1975)

Notting Hill (Film; 1999)

Ohio, by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (Song; 1970)

The Optimist's Daughter, by Eudora Welty (Novella; 1972)

Pagliacci, by Ruggero Leoncavallo (Opera; 1892)

Past Perfumance (WB MM Cartoon; 1955)

Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be, sung by Doris Day (Song; 1956)

The Real World (TV Series; 1992)

The Return of the Pink Panther (Film; 1975)

The Rhinemann Exchange, by Robert Ludlum (Novel; 1974)

Riptide, by Vance Joy (Song; 2013)

The Road Warrior (Film; 1982)

The Secret of the Hittites, by C.W. Ceram (History Book; 1956)

Shrek Forever After (Animated Film; 2010)

Snow Excuse (WB MM Cartoon; 1966)

Sour, by Olivia Rodrigo (Album; 2021)

Star Wars, Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back (UK Film; 1980)

Terminator Salvation (Film; 2009)

Touch of Evil (Film; 1958)

Twin Peaks: The Return (TV Series; 2017)

The Twisker Pitcher (Fleischer Popeye Cartoon; 1937)

Under the Boardwalk, recorded by The Drifters (Song; 1964)

What’s Going On, by Marvin Gaye (Album; 1971)

Today’s Name Days

Christoph, Constantin, Josef, Julio (Austria)

Elena, Konstantin, Kosta, Kostadin, Kostadinka, Lenko, Stoyan (Bulgaria)

Dubravka, Eugen, Kristofor (Croatia)

Monika (Czech Republic)

Helene (Denmark)

Kindel, Konstantin, Kostel, Tiino (Estonia)

Konsta, Konstantin, Kosti (Finland)

Constantin (France)

Hermann, Konst, Wiltrud (Germany)

Constantine, Constantina, Elena, Elene, Eleni, Helen, Konstantina, Konstantinos, Lena, Nantia (Greece)

Konstantin (Hungary)

Angelo, Giulia, Vittorio (Italy)

Ernestine, Ingmārs, Vinija (Latvia)

Vaidivutis, Valentas, Vydmina (Lithuania)

Eli, Ellen, Helene (Norway)

Donat, Donata, Jan, Kryspin, Przecława, Pudens, Tymoteusz, Walenty, Wiktor, Wiktoriusz (Poland)

Constantin, Elena (România)

Zina (Slovakia)

Cristóbal, Virginia (Spain)

Conny, Konstantin (Sweden)

Constance, Constantine, Helen (Ukraine)

Adelric, Adiel, Audric, Keaton, Kendrick (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 142 of 2024; 224 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 21 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Huath (Hawthorn) [Day 10 of 28]

Chinese: Month 4 (Ji-Si), Day 14 (Yi-You)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Wu-Chen]

Hebrew: 13 Iyar 5784

Islamic: 13 Dhu al-Qada 1445

J Cal: 22 Magenta; Oneday [22 of 30]

Julian: 8 May 2024

Moon: 96%: Waxing Gibbous

Positivist: 1 St. Paul (6th Month) [St. Luke]

Runic Half Month: Ing (Expansive Energy) [Day 12 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 64 of 92)

Week: 3rd Full Week of May

Zodiac: Gemini (Day 1 of 31)

Calendar Changes

Gemini (The Twins) begins [Zodiac Sign 3; thru 6.21]

Saint Paul (Catholicism) [Month 6 of 13; Positivist]

[ussjellyfish]

16. What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag?

17. Your favorite character to write this year?

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

16. What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag?

I have tagged pregnancy 75 times. That's only 18% of all my fics! (It's a big chunk of my word count...but...uhhh). I feel bad, and don't, and do...I like it, I'm good at it. Someone has to do it? It's a valuable fandom niche.

17. Your favorite character to write this year?

I have written mostly Michael Burnham and Laira Rillak, mostly together. I wrote a handful of drabbles and other short things (like 3000 words worth) but most of my word count has been these two.

I love Michael's logic, and her kindness, how she thinks and feels deeply about everything. She has this great impulsive side too, that's fun to write. She's very thinky, and gentle. I love her caring and optimism.

I love Laira's patience, and her calm. Her sense of humor and her commitment. I love how she's so classy and important, but a wild space pilot at heart. She's more chaotic in her internal monologue, her heart is more of a mystery, while Michael knows hers.

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

In migrations and other recurring phenomena (Star Trek: Discovery, Michael Burnham/Laira Rillak, rated E). Laira manages to very carefully avoid saying she is or isn't ill, distracting Michael from climbing out of the turbolift they're trapped in. It's all very careful dialogue (Michael worries, Laira evades, in the end she's totally fine and they have sex). It was really fun to write. The flirting and the not-flirting. I loved it.

I also really love this section that I haven't published yet.

"In this hypothetical scenario, are you still pregnant?"

"Is there a universe where I'm not?"

"Maybe one or two."

ao3 wrapped questions.

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

3. "Hello, sir. Got time for a few questions?"

GORĄCY KUBEK - The man puts his cup down and replies something, his left hand drawing arcs in the air.

"Do you know what's behind that door?" (Point to the blue door.)

"You've got some impressive pots there."

"I don't think I need anything else. Stay masculine!" [Leave.]

GORĄCY KUBEK - He looks up at you, then looks away quickly, shrugging and muttering something to himself.

COMPOSURE [Easy: Success] - Shrugging is an international sign for: 'No, I don't know what's behind that door'.

2. "You've got some impressive pots there."

GORĄCY KUBEK - He smiles and bangs his ladle against each of his pots in turn.

3. "I don't think I need anything else. Stay masculine!" [Leave.]

Both Kim and Authority suggested we don't talk to the Hardie boys right away, so let's step outside.

INLAND EMPIRE - Was that -- could it be -- the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua?! No. It's probably just your *imagination* ringing in your ear...

Is it? Is there a ringing? (Listen more closely.)

Probably not. [Discard thought.]

INLAND EMPIRE - There seems to be. An *extremely* high pitched ring. Ultrasonic. Lena said it was very high-pitched, right? It's like something *tickles* your ear.

INLAND EMPIRE [Trivial: Success] - But you're not a regular animal. You're not even a regular cop. You see -- and hear! -- beyond the veil.

That last line was triggered by us having Remote Viewers Division. As it turns out, I was wrong about Thoughts - just having them in our Thought Cabinet is enough to trigger dialogue, we don't need to have them equipped.

"Wait, Kim, do *you* hear a high pitched noise?"

Listen closely first.

Move your head toward the sound. (Proceed.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "No. I don't hear the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua -- and neither do you."

INLAND EMPIRE - Of course he doesn't. He's DEAF.

2. Listen closely first.

INLAND EMPIRE - There it is again! You are about to re-discover a long-lost species!

Keep listening.

INLAND EMPIRE - It must be very close... maybe, just maybe it will come toward you...

3. Move your head toward the sound. (Proceed.)

INLAND EMPIRE - Oh no! The sound -- it's moving away, somewhere over there -- go after it!

No... Too late. It's gone... There is no ringing anymore. Just the sound of the streets.

No, come back, please! (Listen more.)

Go then, leave! Leave like everything else! (Don't.)

INLAND EMPIRE - Keep your ears peeled, then. If the species really has migrated to Martinaise, you're sure to hear it again.

Thought Gained: Col Do Ma Ma Daqua