#Like a tourist in Istanbul

[captain-price-unofficially]

Japanese man on his way to join ISIS captured by Turkish gendarmerie in Gaziantep Turkey, March 2016.

[ryuatewater]

Shhhh

Constantinople

Shhhh

hhh im reminds me of that one song

[pinkcadillaccas]

My 65 year old dad is doing a 6 week bike trip around the coast of Portugal and Spain on his own without a solid plan or firm booking for most of his stops, 5 days cycling 2 days off each week and let us not forget it is February. Terrified.

[nanamiskentos]

SALVATORE — jujutsu kaisen x reader minors dni

prologue. → going on summer vacations with the jjk men and things get a little...hotter?

pairings. satoru gojo x afab!reader / suguru geto x afab!reader / nanami kento x afab!reader / choso kamo x afab!reader / ryomen sukuna x afab!reader / toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings+. non-sorcerer/jujutsu au, from the back, exhíbitíonism, mild food play, ríding, máting press, creámpíe, against the wall, oral (f. receiving), fíngeríng, hey even in a cave! reader is called good girl, princess, baby, darling, my love.

word count. 4.1k! song inspiration. salvatore — lana del rey

a/n. update #1 writing this fic had me looking up shit on wikipedia pages abt cities around the world, had me checking meteorology maps...tried to choose cities i've been to but i was still racking my brains. update #2 btw whenever i write smut like this i'm filled with outstanding self awareness and minor shame but thats the fun of it 😭 this is day no.3 of me trying to rewrite this all from scratch update #3 day 4! fawkkkk i wanna go on holiday too now. lmao if i was in the sukuna one, i would have been mad as hell, istanbul is stunning <3

mp3. everything looks better from above my king, like aqua marine, ocean's blue

TOJI FUSHIGURO — all the lights in miami begin to gleam 📍 miami, america

"o-oh, fuck. think she's really tellin' me to keep going like this, don'tcha think?"

your boyfriend is mean when he's like this. sharp, jade eyes narrowed as they take in the sight of your puffy folds swallowing him up over and over as he's stuffing himself into your sticky walls. and if you turn your head away, from where you're smashed against the pillow, you can see the floor-to-wall ceilings of the high-rise penthouse that offers an uninterrupted view of miami's glittering skyline.

"how - how, did you even get this place, hah, toji?" it's a wonder you can even get a coherent sentence out right now, your guts are practically being stuffed with inches of your boyfriend's veiny cock, and it's leaving you, well, delirious.

but with humble credit and thanks to what you can assume is your own nasty grip, toji's not faring much better either. his brawny frame is practically shuddering, and while you can't see his face in this position, you're certain that a sharp canine has sunk into his lip, and his breath is coming out in hulking groans.

"heh, you're n-not meant to ask questions like that, princess? gotta, ohhh, gotta keep some business s-secrets up my sleeve, huh?" and he's practically a beast right now, handling you on all fours of this king-sized bed, draped in silk sheets the colour of red wine, "just a reward for a-, haah, a job well done."

any job well done from toji was most likely something illegal, but you can't even bring yourself to care, not when there's a bucket of chilled champagne on the glass table to your left, and certainly not when his fat cock is smearing right through you, leaving a coil in your abdomen that only he can unravel.

you whine, feeling the fat tip of his cock practically rummage and make a home in your cunt, "toji, wan' more," and you're pushing the plush of your ass against his pumping hips, and you hear his sharp intake of breath.

a rough hand has snaked underneath you, creating a small gap between you and the bunched-up fabric on the bed, and his callous fingertips are now circling sloppy, messy circles over your clit, leaving you bucking in his hold.

"n-now, stay still, princess. not done with you yet."

SUGURU GETO — ciao, amore. soft ice-creams. 📍 amalfi coast, italy

you're not sure how long you've been trembling under suguru's mouth, but it must have been an eternity under the ministrations of his tongue.

the sun has been blazing high, casting a golden glow over this part of the private beach, hidden away from the towns bustling with tourists like yourselves who had descended upon the coast for the summer.

soft waves lapped in ebbing waves, the rhythm breaking the perfect stillness of the afternoon, in this wooden cabana, separated from the terracotta villas.

and no, your mind was nowhere near admiring the turquoise waters of the ocean, but rather your lover's mouth practically exploring every inch of your cunt like this.

the tapered tip of his tongue had long been probing around your fluttering pussy, taking in every last drop of your pearlescent luster that was practically dripping over his chin.

not to mention the absolutely sticky and languid trails of melting ice-cream, each biting cream drop that fell on your hot swollen folds getting promptly cleaned up by the one who was enjoying this sweet game.

"shhh! don't wanna get kicked off this beach, do ya, pretty?"

and suguru looks positively devious, his violet eyes gleaming with crude intent. his black hair is a tangled mess, long locks falling victim to your clawing nails that tumble carelessly over his bare back, kissed by the sun and glowing with a soft, rosy pink hue.

and when he smiles, the sunlight catches onto his lips, making the slick on his mouth sparkle and wink up at you.

"been - it's been an entire hour by now, can't you just let me cum," you huff, closing the plush of your thighs around his ears, boxing him in.

geto flashes you a mischievous grin, running a slow finger through your sopping folds, and lightly brushing over your entrance as you mewl again.

"where would the fun in that be, pretty?" he murmurs, "love seeing how wet this cunt gets for me, need to let me have my fun."

what a devil. clearly, getting under your skin is a sport for him.

you're hardly given a moment to breathe before he's jostling two thick digits right into the thick of it once more, in and out, in and then out, as his thumb find its home on the slope of your bare mound again.

"besides, we can take it slow for 'nother hour, can't we?" and now suguru's toying with your clit, and his teeth lean down to graze the swollen, throbbing bud, "gotta see just how much you can beg for me."

NANAMI KENTO — catch me if you can, working on my tan 📍 gold coast, australia

"w-wait, darling," nanami shudders under your touch, under your fresh set of nails raking small patterns over his neck, "anyone could just walk past here, y'know."

you curl your lip, before pressing your mouth in an open mouthed kiss to his stretched neck, warm and flushed.

you can feel the galloping thrum of his pulse beneath your lips, the heat almost intoxicating, mingling with the faint tang of the pool water's chlorine, and the scent of banksia and frangipanis in the air.

you can also feel his thick cock dragging through your walls, as you ram the weight of your hips over and over again. it seems like the shimmering skyline of surfer's paradise was just what nanami needed, after months of work, and you're determined to make the most of your time here.

he's got you bouncing practically like a ragdoll, heavy balls swinging up and smacking your skin in what little space remains between the two of you, and he's panting into your chest, "whatd'ya gonna do if someone sees?"

"mhm, don' care, no-one's here, nanami."

his broad arms loop around you in the pool chair, as you straddle the sizeable bulge that's making a tent in his briefs, "nasty, sometimes, aren'tcha?"

you smile, as your husband's large hands roam over your back, making you arch your back into his touch — as he deftly pulls at the tight knot holding your damp bikini top together.

"ah, don't get shy now. let me see these," and you can only nod hazily as he lets your tits spill out, and press up against his bare, chiselled torso, "wanted this so bad, just a minute ago, yeah?"

"s-still want this," and for good measure, you grind your hips down over his cock with even more pressure, feeling him jolt with a quiet 'fuck!' underneath you.

"haah, that's not fair, darling," and he's crashing his weeping, curved tip so far into you, that you're certain you're seeing stars on the saltwater horizon, "what happened to playing nice?"

you know you should be weary of the flicker of challenge that glints in his stern brown eyes, softened by the haze of your squelching cunt, "do y-your worst, otherwise what? can't keep up?"

a cocky smile curves over his mouth, and that's the wave of satisfaction you were looking for, hoping that he'd take the bait.

he leans further back in the pool chair, now with an arm wrapped lazily around your gyrating hips, but you can feel his grip tighten, stealing the humid air right out from under you, "we'll see who can't play nice when you're begging for my cock to fill you up."

CHOSO KAMO — all the lights are sparkling for you, it seems 📍santorini, greece

"hey, shh, shhh..."

choso's voice is a low rumble as he glides his thick, leaking tip down your slick core, and you shiver as the cool ocean breeze mixes with the warm slick gathering between your bodies, "w-wow, you're doing so good, handling it so well, my love."

you must have made a good choice, choosing this suite. one carved seamlessly into the tan-rock of one of the island's famous caves. and well, your sweet boyfriend has been fucking you so incredibly that you feel your eyes start to water, blear away from the pretty blue and terracotta accents on the mantelpiece.

his girthy cock sinking into you send shivers to your pussy that leave you fluttering and squeezing around him tighter, clenching around the veins as he sinks even deeper, so the thickened head is practically kissing your cervix, and filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

"d-does it feel good for you too, cho?” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers playing with the soft choppy strands that fall around his shoulders, "this...this is what you wanted, right, baby?"

the pale mauve of his lips curves into a faint smile, and despite the sharpness of his thrusts making a home in your gummy walls, there's a tenderness in his shadowed, hazel eyes as his palm glides down your torso, cupping your tits gently, "w-would go anywhere in the world, if it was with you."

and he's looking at you with such love that you just cannot help but believe him when he says, no, shudders out a "you're so beautiful."

the sound of the water lapping against the rocks below fills the room, mixing with your soft whimpers, as the slow roll of choso's hips leave your puffy folds weeping. the thick, throbbing head of his cock brushes against your g-spot, right there, and you moan, lost in the sensation.

"god, y-you’re so good at this," he breathes into your ear, his voice hoarse and strained, and suddenly far more shaky, "ah - could do this forever."

"w-will you?" you whisper, eyes fluttering as you lose yourself in what is surely ropes of stringy white cum painting you lovingly inside, "wan' feel you all the time, cho."

choso's misty, flushed gaze locks onto yours, filled with a heat that makes your heart race, and fireworks shoot through your abdomen, "think you're g-gonna be my wife someday, yeah?"

you bite your lip, a shy smile painting your face despite the way that he's practically jostling inch after inch into your pussy, pressing into you like a vice, "really mean t-that, cho?"

"ahh, 'course i do," he shudders, brushing a thumb down the swan-arch of your neck, "now, hold onto me."

RYOMEN SUKUNA — dying by the hand of a foreign man, happily 📍istanbul, turkey

"huhh, oh my god! you're an animal," you huff at your fiancé, who's currently sprawled on the plush bed underneath your straddling thighs, under the sheer curtains that billow softly in the warm breeze from the open latticework windows.

and right now, sukuna looks like a mess.

and it brings you a great deal of satisfaction to see your usually composed and aloof fiancé so undone and disheveled, as he grins up at you — the black markings on his face creasing with the movement.

his rosy-pink hair is a tangled heap, but you can't resist running your fingers through the short, tousled spikes.

and his lips, which have been marking you up consistently for the past ten minutes, gleam glossy and full, as his crimson eyes lock onto yours with the smug satisfaction of a cat who's gotten its way.

he'd barely waited a mere minute after the two of you had arrived back to your hostel's room, from a whirlwind tour of the sultanahmet district, before he had pounced on you, and had practically tore your long skirt off.

you don't quite think it's worth mentioning that you've been pawing equally at your boyfriend in the same time as well, pulling his thick and lengthy shaft out of the confines of his boxers, and swiping a thumb over the angrily-gleaming tip.

"d-didn't even take a second to think about all the places we just saw? the history lessons, and - sukuna, were you even listening?"

by now, you're fighting back heaving shivers at the way the pads of his calloused fingers run under your top.

"hah! yeah, yeah. history and all that," he murmurs, low and amused, but his focus is clearly elsewhere, his lips now resuming their previous task of snapping at your torso, letting pretty berry-red marks beam.

you roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at the corners of your own glossy mouth, "y-you're impossible," and you try not to squirm as his forefinger and thumb on each hand pinch at a nipple under your top, "don' even know why i bothered bring this...this camera around. the guide said that these sights were o-once, oh fuck, sukuna, get a grip, said the sights were once-in-a-lifetime b-breathtaking."

"breathtaking, huh?" sukuna shifts closer to you, scooting you further over his wide lap, and his voice has dropped to a low and sultry whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, and leaves you aching, "i think you're breathtaking. wan' explore this," and here, he snaps at the elastic band of your lace panties, "instead."

"and besides, i was listening," and now, he's patting his sculpted, exposed thighs behind the plush of your ass on him, "the guide said that this city straddles two continents."

he's emphasising his words with a deliberate tap, clearly hoping you'd catch the awful word-play.

"say something like that again, and i'm booking the next flight home."

"hah, so now you hate it when i am cultured."

by now, his two rough hands kneading at you has left you...airless. thick heat has been pooling in your core, and you just can't help but let out a soft whimper, "sukuna…only wanted y-you to focus."

he shakes his messy head, laughter rumbling deep in his chest, under thick pectoral muscles, "no can do, brat. you’re my focus now. done enough sightseeing outside today, wanna do something inside."

"you’re impossible!" but you gasp as he skims a thumb over your cloying, dewy clit, making you jolt.

you know he must be in a rare, mellowed mood because he breathes, "impossibly in love with you," and it's quiet, teasing as the heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, "now tell me how much you want this, and maybe i'll think about giving you a different type of lesson."

franky, by now you want nothing more than to be filled with heavy, hot inches that curl into you, sloshing their way to the most sensitive spot of all, and sukuna must see that on your face.

"i -," you begin, but the words falter as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, and the weeping tip of his cock taps against the wet pool staining your underwear darkly translucent.

"just say it, brat. tell me how bad you want it, i'll even be nice this time," he urges, his voice a sultry purr, "just gon' give it to you as you ask, yeah?"

"wan' you in me, 'kuna," you finally admit, breathless, "i want you so much it hurts."

"good girl," he mutters, his eyes darkening with desire. "now you're getting the right idea."

you sigh, content, but then still your rocking hips suddenly, "but after this, we're still going out to the bazaar for dinner."

"for fuck's sake."

GOJO SATORU — like a boss, you sang jazz and blues 📍paris, france

you're not quite sure where exactly you should be training your ears, whether you should be listening to the sultry notes of a saxophone that wrap around the plush velvet booth where you and gojo are seated.

or the thick, clingy swish of his fingers practically bullying themselves in and out of your pussy. the air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars that make you wrinkle your nose, and fine whiskey (that makes gojo wrinkle his nose) and the sweet tang of your own slick, privately, just for the two of you.

your boyfriend sits close to you, his left hand tight on your waist, and the other working a fine instrument, bunching up underneath your ysl silk dress.

"baby, look at how your perfect cunt's talkin' to me," he's whispering, and you can hear the sheer glee in his voice, his breath hot against your ear.

meanwhile, your jaw is slack and you're doing your best to not meet his touch with a sultry, rhythmic grind of your own hips, but the knot is quickening and tightening within you.

but gojo just smiles, and you can see the blue in his eyes darken underneath his sunglasses that have slipped slightly down the slope of his nose, "but can't have everyone hearing this melody, can we? might think you were the main fuckin' attraction for the night and not -" he cocks his head to the quartet serenading the paris night sky, and the other patrons of this filthy wealthy club.

you just sink your teeth into your painted lip, suppressing a whine as he curls three fingers within you, reeling you entirely pliant and having you lean against his broad chest under his jacket, "b-but satoru, 'm getting close."

he's being awful, you think. and when he had pulled his hand out earlier, it had been entirely coated in a ribbon of your arousal, the slow syrup beginning to run down his slender digit, but he had parted his lips and let not a drop go to waste on his tongue.

the music is swelling, it's a jazzy crescendo that fills the air, and your gaze hazes and wonders, focusing on the open window where the eiffel tower stands ablaze in lights. soft gasps are escaping your lips, when gojo starts slamming his fingers up and up further, right up to his glossy knuckle, clearly searching for your g-spot.

and you are so glad that this booth is turned away from the rest of the club's patrons, for if they saw you, it would be no secret as to what exactly was going on underneath your gown.

"focus on me, love. just focus on how you're soaking me."

he's pressing his fingers impossibly deeper, stroking your walls in a way that make it impossible to think of anything else but him.

"gojo, please…" you breathed, struggling to keep your voice low, "what if someone sees?"

he laughs, pressing his mouth to your neck, and you know he's inhaling the new scent that you had picked up at the luxury flagship stores earlier, his treat.

"let them. paid good enough money to get in here," and now he's getting more insistent, practically ravishing your aching pussy now, "besides, they wanna say anything about it? i'll cut out their tongue."

"p-pretty sure that's, mmph, i'm sure that's i-illegal, 'toru."

"don't want your pretty head thinking about anything else right now, 'kay?" and god, it's one of life's greatest works, how he just knows how to work his magic like this, and the way that he's pinching, rolling and twirling his fingers has you convinced that the holy six-eyes technique, passed down in the sacred tradition of the gojo clan, is being put to nasty work.

sure enough, a little spark! there, and a bigger zap! against your clit practically confirms your suspicions, as does the unearthly glow you catch in gojo's wide eyes, and you can feel yourself hurtling towards a precipice, panting open-mouthed against him.

"dirty girl, you don’t want to make a scene, do you?" he says this like he was not the one who pulled you into this booth, and palmed his way up your slip-dress. like he's not the one who tore into your lace panties, and shoved them into his pocket.

"it feels so good, satoru,” you babble, barely able to contain yourself, as he scissors his fingers wide, nudging your walls apart, "i can’t — "

"then don't," he interrupted, his voice low and commanding, "just let it happen. i want to hear you, i wanna hear her too, but only if you can keep it down."

you nodded, breathless, watching as waiters in impeccable black-and-white attire glide between the tables, carrying trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres and glasses of dom pérignon.

"good girl," he murmured, his fingers curling just right, pushing you closer to that exquisite precipice, "now, be quiet and enjoy the moment."

just as he pinches your clit, you feel everything around fall away in shattering starfall. bolts of lightning shoot and splash through your lungs, stilling your heart, leaving your cunt pulsing with a life of its own, fluttering against satoru's fingers which still haven't stopped.

it's only then you realise that the band has stopped playing, and the other patrons of the clubs are leaning out of their seats, slapping their hands together in fervount applause.

but you can only stare, dazed and boneless from the remnants of an excellent fucking orgasm, as gojo leans in, just over the shell of your ear.

"how about we go back to the hotel room? wanna see an encore?"

[enjakey]

Light Switch in the Dark

Or, the train to Paris that led to Shanghai

Pairing: architect!Sunghoon x author!fem!reader

TWN | (30k) | strangers to lovers, right person wrong time | a single perfect night could change the course of everything | so much yearning | angst, suicide, blood, mental health issues, loneliness, loss of partners, reader gets Alzheimer’s | not your average happy story and very sad ending ig | written into five distinct parts, each framing a significant point in their lives | heavily inspired by HIMYM and Grey's Anatomy and this reel.

Summary: two strangers travelling on the same path with different journeys in mind meet on a train to France. They spend a night of adventure, only to part ways the next morning. A decade later, they cross paths again in a book store in Shanghai. They’re both different people now, obviously, with so much life under their belts- success, loss, age. But the spark of the train still flickered between them. Did that mean the pair would live happily ever after or would they still have to struggle the curveballs thrown at them- Alzheimer’s, depression and utter fear of mortality?

i. The Train to France

The train was part of an old European railway network- one that spanned four countries, took three days, and moved like it was in no rush to arrive. Neither were the passengers. Most people opted for this train because it was slow and tranquil, because it was built for expansive journeys and for people that wanted a break, an escape from their lives.

Outside the window, the world blurred in gentle motion. Some places looked untouched with rolling pastures dotted with wildflowers, sleepy cottages tucked into hillsides and rivers that stitched their way across valleys like threads of silver. Occasionally, the train slipped by cities, glass buildings flickering in the reflection of early afternoon sun or passed small towns where the houses were still painted in vibrant pinks and yellows and bougainvillea grew like wild weed. Sometimes, the train passed through forgotten stations where no one ever boarded and no one wanted to get off.

Inside the train, things were quiet. It wasn’t the quiet that hushed like peace but the kind that vibrated with restrained life. Babies cooed or cried in soft bursts, children were coaxed to sleep, tourists tried to speak over headphone wires to gesture at maps (that were far beyond folding back) with crooked fingers and somewhere in the coach, there was an old married couple who started off with affectionate intent but ended up in an argument their son was trying to fix. There was also an old man with wiry hair that was asleep, his walking stick clutched between his knees like a weapon- so one saw him eat or drink water or even wake up, but the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated his life.

There were families with matching suitcases, travel groups with heavy coats and light eyes and lovers who couldn’t stop touching each other and then there were people like Y/N who boarded in Istanbul alone and waited for their destination in France alone.

She sat by the window with a modest stack of books beside her- books she tended to read again and books she had never read before, waiting to be explored. She told herself that in the three day train ride, she would finish reading them- but honestly, she was far from it. Some were underlined and dog-eared, others held paper scraps as bookmarks that no longer made sense. It was easy to get distracted in that train, as surprising as it was. Watching the scenery would immediately have her hand itching towards her pen to fill her notebook- her notebook that now lay open in front of her, nearly every page covered in scattered handwriting and ink-smudged sketches of things she noticed. People, trees, buildings, the flow of the rivers. And not all the words in her notebook made sense. Some were quotes she found and forgot to cite, some were just scribbles that looked like Russian cursive- absentminded movements of a restless hand.

There was an empty coffee cup tipped slightly on its side, leaving a pale brown ring on the edge of a page. When she grew bored of writing or reading, Y/N dipped her fingertips into the puddled remains of it, painting quick strokes in the margins- little trees, the silhouette of a bird mid-flight, a sketch of a mountain that might have been a memory or a dream.

That was all she really did in the first two days of the trip- read, wrote, watched the world move backwards from the glass. Sometimes, she liked to pretend like she was leaving things behind to start a new life, to create a new identity as the eccentric traveler. But Y/N could never be that- she was too quiet, too grounded into her reality. And perhaps, that was where her loneliness stemmed from. She felt lonely- not in the heavy, aching sense that people seemed to love succumbing to. This was the loneliness she had grown immune to- a dull companion that hummed in the background but never really asked for attention. 

Now, at twenty-five, Y/N was content with it. She grew accustomed to the quiet. She liked that her days were filled with Greek and Latin literature and academia while her nights were stolen by books and philosophical texts to analyse. She liked that she needed no one- this was enough.

Outside, the sky had begun to change- the golden wash of the late afternoon slipped into a cooler blue, edges softened by lavender. Towns gave way to sharper silhouettes of buildings and the world wasn’t moving backwards anymore, slowly catching up to Y/N’s pace. The train began to slow down as it curved the edges of a waking city.

Y/N looked up as the wheels beneath her softened into a screeching halt. The platform signs were in German now. People were beginning to stir, stretch and gather their things- people who left were replaced by new passengers. Her fingers were still damp with coffee. She wiped them on the inside of her sleeve and closed her notebook with a sigh, head leaning against the window again.

Zurich.

She wasn’t getting off here, but the brief lull in motion always felt significant- like the story might shift if you paid close enough attention.

And it did.

Because somewhere amidst the movement of passengers, the hiss of doors, and the tired shuffle of new bodies settling into old seats, someone slipped into the space across from her. No suitcase, no coat- ust a tall cup of coffee, a phone, and a man with dark eyes and an expression that said very little.

He didn’t ask if the seat was taken- he didn’t need to. For the first time since Y/N got on the train, the seat across from her had been claimed. It was out of pure luck, she thought, that no one wanted to occupy it- there were either enough seats or not enough passengers. Perhaps, this time, it was that there were no more seats left to occupy but the seat in front of her.

The man just looked at her, nodded once like they were already acquainted and turned to face the window. And just like that, the table she had thought was hers alone- her sanctuary of scribbles and silence- was now shared. And Y/N, for the first time in two days, found herself watching something other than the world outside.

Y/N tried not to stare, she really did. 

But there was something curious about him- this stranger who came bearing nothing but a steaming drink and a phone he hadn’t looked at once since sitting down. He leaned back against the seat like he’d done this before, like he belonged to this train more than the tracks did. His eyes moved slowly across the scenery as if he were trying to memorize the shapes of things. He looked so fresh, so bright despite the scowl look of his resting face- sharp eyes and eyebrows, a clenched jaw.

He didn’t look out of place. But he definitely didn’t look like he was a local either. His hoodie, navy in color and looking stiff, gave it away- it was brand new, most likely bought in account for a trip.

She returned to her notebook, flipping to a clean page. The tips of her fingers were still stained with coffee. Without thinking, she began painting again- small birds, crooked rooftops, the tracks the very train moved on.

He noticed.

“You draw with coffee?” he asked, his voice low, lined with amusement.

Y/N blinked. It was the first time anyone had spoken to her on this train. She glanced up. “Only when I run out of ink.” It felt new to even be talking. It felt like she hadn’t heard her own voice in eternity- she almost sounded foreign to herself.

He smiled at that, and it softened him. “Seems inefficient.”

“Only slightly,” she said. “But I like the color. Feels more honest than black ink.”

He nodded thoughtfully and sipped his coffee. “That’s poetic.”

“I��m a writer,” she said, as if it explained everything.

“Ah,” he gestured to the pile of books beside her. “I figured you were either that or a librarian on the run.”

A small laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Depends. Did you commit a literary crime?”

She leaned forward slightly, propping her chin on her hand. “I guess I stole too many endings that weren’t mine.”

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of interest deeper than casual banter. “Then maybe we’re both criminals.”

She raised a brow. “You’re a writer too?”

He shook his head. “Architect. I steal pieces of cities and try to turn them into buildings.”

“That sounds noble,” she said, tilting her head. “Or maybe romantic.”

“It’s mostly just paperwork and disappointment,” he admitted. “But maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to build something that stays.”

Y/N fell quiet at that, because she knew exactly what he meant.

“So,” he said, tapping his cup lightly against the table, “how does this work? Do we exchange names now, or do we pretend we’re ghosts passing through each other’s lives?”

She studied him a moment longer, then extended her hand across the table.

“Y/N.”

He took it, his grip warm and firm. “Sunghoon.”

And just like that, the train began to move again, slowly at first, then with a growing rhythm.

The scenery shifted once more. But the air between them was different now- thinner, sparking. Something had changed. Not loudly, not all at once. But enough for Y/N to realize that loneliness had finally taken a step back. And someone else had taken its seat.

The train hummed like a lullaby beneath their feet as Europe unfolded around them under moonlight. Seats hummed with quiet life, arranged in open clusters with personal tables- no compartments, no doors to close behind. Just people and stories and the soft flicker of overhead lights as the train curved gently around valleys and mountains alike. In the corner of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, listening to each other share life stories- two attractive strangers, staring into each other's eyes like this was permanent. 

Y/N told him about her degree in Greek literature and how her parents were against it when she first announced her decision. Their distaste towards her academic goal was understandable- what kind of living would their daughter make out of such a fickle degree? And truth be told, Y/N was struggling. After graduating, she barely made a living through small writing gigs and coffee shop jobs as a barista. Now, she was on the hunt for a story to hopefully write her first book- hence her lonesome presence on a three day train, from Istanbul to France. 

“Oh, you haven’t published yet?”

“That’s why I call myself a writer. Not an author yet,” she grinned, hiding her embarrassment. 

“There’s a difference?” Sunghoon’s brows raised.

“It’s clear how much you don’t read.”

Sunghoon listened with the kind of attention that didn't feel performative. His gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t press either. Just there… with his warm curiosity towards this new person he met.

And when Y/N finally asked him to speak about himself, he started ranting about his architecture career- twenty-seven years in the making, since the day he was born. Apparently, when he was born, his parents went to an astrologer who said that Sunghoon would grow up to be an architect. And the gola never changed, only manifested deeper into him as he grew up- from stacking legos that stood taller than his body as a kid to his professors adoring his models in college. 

“I just want to contribute to a skyline,” he said. “Doesn’t matter which city. Doesn’t even have to be famous. I just… I want people to look up and feel something.” His voice grew softer. “My boss doesn’t get it. He’s just… numbers and deadlines and grey rectangles.”

There was something oddly touching in that, a boyish idealism that had somehow survived into adulthood. He wasn’t jaded- not fully.

“Is he a brutalist?” Y/N asked.

“No, he’s just… boring. And brutalist architecture isn’t boring.”

He explained he’d been on a trip across Europe with his two best friends- a plan they’d made years ago, when life was still about university cafeterias and late-night dreams. But he’d broken off from the group for a detour to Zurich, to see his younger sister, now studying there. It had been a short, sweet visit. Familiar in the way only siblings could be- awkward hugs, sarcasm, shared complaints about their mother’s relentless texts. Now, he was rejoining his friends in Paris. “They’ve probably eaten their way through half the restaurants by now,” he grinned. “And argued over where to go next.”

“They’re all architects?”

“No, just me,” Sunghoon nodded, proudly. “But, one’s studying to be a lawyer. The other is gonna be an intern for surgery soon.”

Their conversation melted into the sound of the train wheels against the track. Their conversation didn’t feel like two strangers getting to know each other. It felt like slipping into a rhythm that had always existed, like picking up a thread from a story that had already begun. There were no awkward pauses, no searching for the right words- just an easy back-and-forth that felt strangely familiar. Like they were old friends who had somehow forgotten they were old friends. Like this was a reunion, not a first meeting.

At some point, he coaxed her up, dragging her down the aisle with a mischievous “You can’t sit still forever, writer girl.”

She resisted at first, rejecting his grip on her wrist with a hesitant gaze of her eyes. But he was too persistent- that sharp smile of his, was too persistent. And shyly, almost awkwardly, she stood up and followed him. And that would be the first time Y/N got up for reasons other than using the washroom or finding a meal to eat.

The train during the night was more alive than it was in the morning. That’s just the way it was with things like this- when a group of strangers came together to travel across borders. It was a silent promise of haven, of comfort. They walked past the soft flicker of reading lamps, the faint rustle of pages and whispered exchanges in many languages. They passed a woman knitting tiny socks with blue yarn, a man asleep with his head tipped back and opera music playing from his phone, a child pressing glow-in-the-dark stars against the window.

In the lounge coach, someone was playing the harmonica. The sound was low and imperfect, but so achingly human that it felt like a story in itself. 

“This is definitely something I want to write about.”

Sunghoon looked at her, confused. He couldn’t see the expression on her face, he was towering over her to get a glimpse of her hair that was hidden by her hair. But by her voice alone, he could hear the sparkle in her eyes.

“Yeah?” Sunghoon said. “What can you say? It’s just a guy playing a harmonica. Incorrectly, at that.”

“But do you hear the history in it?”

Somewhere near the middle of the train, tucked into a dimly lit dining car, was a makeshift poker table- though it wasn’t official, and the chips were mostly replaced by foreign coins, buttons, and old candy wrappers. A group of old men sat around it, the air thick with the scent of tobacco that no one was actually smoking, and laughter that came in easy bursts like waves hitting a dock. They sang as they played- old folk songs in accented English and native tongues, clapping along to choruses only they knew. One had a flute he’d chime in with between rounds; another drummed his fingers rhythmically on the edge of the table like it was a snare.

Sunghoon was the first to slow his steps, then Y/N. Something about the scene pulled them in- the warmth of it, the chaos, the openness of strangers too old to care who joined as long as they knew how to smile. The invitation came with a gesture- a crooking finger, a grin, a gap-toothed nod toward the table. They didn’t resist.

They slid into the seats like they’d always belonged there, excited smiles and palms rubbed together. A few coins from Y/N’s pocket, some spare notes from Sunghoon’s wallet- it wasn’t about winning. The old men were ruthless and charming, teasing them in thick accents, telling them the rules only after they'd broken them. Sunghoon forgot which suit beat what, and Y/N mistook her hand for something stronger than it was. They lost every round, but they laughed harder each time. It was never about the cards. It was about the way joy could travel across decades, across languages and lives, and land right there between two young people on a midnight train.

One of the men told a story about a girl he almost married in Portugal after two drinks too many, another about a time he danced barefoot in a rainstorm on the German border. One told the story of how he lost his arm during the war- Y/N and Sunghoon didn’t know which one, but were too scared to ask. Their words stitched across the table like quiltwork- melancholy in parts, hilarious in others, but always rich. Y/N listened with wide eyes, mentally bookmarking characters she hadn’t even written yet. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, one arm resting behind her, the other fiddling with a useless hand of cards. Every now and then, they’d glance at each other and grin- caught in a secret moment neither of them could explain.

By the end of it, they had lighter wallets and heavier hearts, full of names they’d forget by morning (Sunghoon would forget, not Y/N) and faces they’d remember forever. When the group eventually dispersed, the men wished them luck- at life, at love, at whatever came next. And then the dining car emptied slowly, leaving Y/N and Sunghoon alone at the table with empty glasses and leftover laughter.

For a long time, they just sat there. But Sunghoon dragged her up again, like he was impatient on what he would find next. 

They reached the back of the train. The stars were louder there, with no glass to filter them- sharp and endless, scattered above the moving world like they’d been nailed into the fabric of the night. The wind whipped fast and gentle all at once, lifting their hair in small chaotic dances- Sunghoon’s dark strands tousled back like the wind was styling him on purpose, while Y/N’s hair tangled and curled around her face, occasionally catching on her lips, on the collar of her coat, in the crook of Sunghoon’s arm when they stood too close.

The railings were rusted, chipping with time and weather, flecked with the stories of thousands of travelers before them. They leaned on it anyway- elbows pressed into the cool metal, fingers curling over the edge, palms warming the cold. It groaned slightly beneath them, like it remembered what it meant to hold someone’s weight.

The air smelled like the wild- earthy and crisp, threaded with something that felt like memory. Below them, the world blurred in soft motion- dark forests, sleeping towns, rivers that shimmered like liquid glass beneath the stars. Above them, constellations took their time- Orion with his quiet confidence, Cassiopeia lounging in her eternal curve. Neither Y/N nor Sunghoon said anything for a while. 

There was a stillness in that speed- a paradox only night trains seemed to understand. The kind where time slowed down just long enough to notice the way his knuckles grazed hers on the railing, or the way her eyes reflected stars like she’d been born from them.

And then Sunghoon said, quietly, like he was saying it to himself, “I feel like I’m running out of time.”

Y/N didn’t look at him, but she listened. You could tell she was listening by the way her breath caught a little, and how her fingers curled tighter around the metal bar.

“I’m twenty-seven. I know that’s not old,” he continued, “but it’s not exactly new either. And there’s this pressure- this... noise in my head that says I should’ve done something big by now. Left a mark, built something that outlasts me.”

The train curved then, slow and smooth, and the stars tilted slightly in the sky. Y/N still said nothing.

“I feel like no one gets it,” he added, half-laughing, but it was a bitter kind of sound. “I feel like no one understands why it’s so important to build something beautiful. All everyone seems to care about these days is money and loopholes.”

She looked at him then, finally. Just a glance, soft and brief.

He looked over at her. “But you get it, right?”

Y/N nodded, then turned back to the night. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.” Her voice was quiet, not in a sad way but in the way Sunghoon understood that she was feeling it too- his plight. “When I say I want to write a book, I don’t mean just anything. I mean… I want to leave a mark, I want my work to be talked about. I want to be as great as Clarice Lispector or Kazuo Ishiguro.”

Sunghoon said nothing, mostly because he didn’t know the authors she’d just mentioned. He just watched her speak.

“But lately... I don’t know. I feel like I’m borrowing other people’s words. Like I haven’t lived enough to write anything worth reading.” Her fingers brushed the railing again. “My parents still think I should’ve picked something safer. Like business or economics or something. And maybe they’re right.”

“No, they’re not,” he said, too quickly. “You need to live to write. You can’t just… watch life through windows and call it enough.”

“I know,” Y/N’s eyes were welling with tears at that point. But she convinced herself that it was the wind hitting her eyes and not the weight against her heart. “I think I’m just scared.”

“Of what?”

“Living,” she said, almost laughing. “Living, experiencing everything right- only to ultimately fail and write something unforgettable. It’s so stupid. Sometimes I feel like writing is so stupid.”

“It’s not,” Sunghoon shook his head. He stared straight ahead, crossing his arms on the railing. “You know how they say every artist hates their own work? I’m sure Louis Sullivan hated his first building. But it didn’t stop him from completing it.”

Y/N tilted her head, blinking away the burn behind her eyes. “Who’s Louis Sullivan?” she asked.

Sunghoon smiled faintly. “Architect. They call him the father of skyscrapers.” He hesitated, then added, “His buildings didn’t even get much attention when he was alive. It all came later. But still, he kept going. Even when it felt like no one cared.”

“I’m assuming with your career, you learnt a lot about architects,” she chuckled.

“I’ve got a whole archive of information,” he grinned proudly.

Y/N looked away again, the wind catching the edge of her jacket and lifting it gently behind her. The rusted railing creaked softly beneath their weight, but they didn’t move. There was something sacred about the discomfort- like they owed it to the moment to stay right where they were.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” she asked eventually. “Giving your life to something that might never be seen?”

“I’d like to think it’s better than not trying at all,” he said. “But sometimes, I don’t get it. When I saw my sister, she was thriving- university and all that. But I’m still figuring shit out. It’s like I always have been.”

“You’re not alone in that,” Y/N said. “I don’t think anyone really figures it out. Some of us are just better at pretending.”

He smiled. Not a big one, just enough.

“I used to sit on my roof as a kid,” he said. “Stare at the stars and make wishes even though I didn’t believe in them.”

Y/N tilted her head, curious. “What did you wish for?”

“A lot of things,” he shrugged. “Toys, lenient parents, a sibling… and I eventually got a sister. Then eventually, I stopped believing in it.”

She didn’t respond. Just leaned into the railing a little deeper. 

“The stars remind me of myths,” she said after a while. “The ones I studied. Greek tragedies, gods turning into animals, lovers becoming constellations just to be together.”

“You believe in that?” he asked.

She paused, then smiled. “No. But I like that someone once did.”

And in that space between them, something invisible and delicate bloomed. Not love, not yet. But something heavy and soft, rooted in the chest. The kind of connection that only happens at the back of a moving train, with stars sharp above and wind in your teeth, and a stranger who suddenly isn’t one anymore- something permanent, even if they were not.

Eventually, they made their way back through the softly dimmed train- past the poker table now quiet and empty, past sleeping passengers curled beneath jackets and scarves- to their seats. The overhead lights buzzed gently above, their little corner of the train wrapped in a hushed stillness.

Y/N pulled out a pen from her tote and tore a napkin into squares. “Tic-tac-toe?” she asked, already drawing the grid.

Sunghoon grinned. “Prepare to lose.”

She tore the corner of an old train pamphlet and started scribbling grids. Tic-tac-toe. Then hangman. Then the dumbest drawing contest either of them had ever participated in. She dared him to draw a duck and he came up with a lopsided blob with antennae. She laughed so hard her eyes watered. He laughed too, head tossed back, his knees pressed into the seat in front of him, body curled like it was trying to hold the joy in.

They spoke less as the hours dragged on. There was no need to fill the silence. The kind of quiet they shared wasn’t awkward- it was warm, stretched like a blanket over the two of them. They sipped from a tiny carton of orange juice they found buried in her tote and whispered about the most useless superpowers they’d want to have. (He said being able to always know which lane moved fastest in a grocery store. She said being able to taste colors.)

Eventually, her eyelids drooped. She laid her head on her folded arms, right there on the tiny table between them. Her hair spilled over like ink, her breathing evened out, and her mouth twitched slightly in sleep- like she was smiling at something in a dream she wouldn't remember.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

He watched her for a long while. Not in a creepy way. Just… in awe. At how still she was- how peaceful. There was something about the way the moonlight through the window painted across her face that made him feel like this moment was borrowed- like time had paused and he’d been given a glimpse into something sacred, like an old Victorian painting.

He turned to the window. The stars were fading now, washed thin by the first hints of dawn. He pressed his palm against the glass and felt the faint thrum of motion beneath it.

And he thought- about how fleeting everything felt lately. About how moments like this- ones that sneaked up on you and made you feel deeply human- never lasted long enough. He thought about the future, about buildings he hadn’t yet sketched, about lines and edges and spaces that could become something living. He thought about asking her for her number, how he’d even phrase it, how not to make it weird.

He thought about what kind of book she would write- maybe something strange and wandering, the kind of story that didn’t apologize for taking its time. He thought about how her characters would probably be like her: observant, quiet, a little brave without realizing it.

The train kept moving.

And then… morning came. It wasn’t loud- just a slow blooming of gold across the sky. The clouds turned soft and lilac at the edges, and the air began to shift. The train started to slow. The brakes hissed, metal groaned.

They were in Paris.

The station was already awake- blurred voices, hurried footsteps, the distant beep of announcements he couldn’t quite make out. But inside their little cabin, everything still felt untouched.

Sunghoon looked at Y/N. She was still sleeping, arm tucked under her head, breath warm against her sleeve.

And for a moment- just one- he didn’t want to wake her.

He let the idea wash over him like a wave. What if they stayed on? Just didn’t get off. Let the train roll again, take them to another city, maybe even another country- Vienna, Lyon, wherever. Just so he could sit beside her a little longer. Just so he could hold onto this stillness.

But reality was patient. And it always catches up.

So he reached out, gently pressing his fingers to her shoulder. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, almost apologetic. “We’re here.”

She stirred slowly, blinking against the light. “Huh?”

“Paris,” he said.

Her eyes widened. She sat up, sleep still clinging to her limbs, disoriented but already reaching beneath her seat for her suitcase. Her hair was tousled, face creased slightly from her nap, and she looked so real (he didn’t even know how to explain it, it was the fact that she wasn’t his imagination, that she was a person, had a life, outside of the night they had together) in that moment that Sunghoon’s chest ached.

He stood too, grabbing her bag and guiding her to the exit. The train doors hissed open with a kind of finality that neither of them were ready for.

They stepped onto the platform.

It was colder here than he expected- a sharp, Parisian morning air. It was the kind that carried the scent of fresh bread and motion. People hurried past them with cameras and coats and open maps, but the two of them just stood there- still holding their luggage, still close enough to touch but too far to say anything meaningful.

And then it hit her.

That this was it.

This was goodbye.

She looked at him, like, really looked. Not like someone she met on a train, not like a stranger. But like someone whose existence, however brief in her story, left a ripple.

“I guess this is…” she began, then trailed off.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon said, swallowing. His adams apple bounced. “It is.”

His attention, however, was ripped towards the opposite direction- Sunghoon heard them before he saw them.

“SUNGHOON! LET’S GO!”

Jake’s voice echoed across the platform, followed by Jay dramatically flailing his arms like he was about to take flight. “WE'RE GONNA GET CHARGED AN EXTRA HOUR FOR PARKING!”

They were standing near the exit, beside a wheezing rental car with an uneven paint job and too much luggage crammed into its trunk. They looked like they belonged in a different world, one that hadn’t just stood still all night; one that hadn’t just sat across from someone and quietly fallen into a version of affection that didn’t need time to grow- it bloomed instantly, and painfully.

Sunghoon looked at them.

Then… looked away.

He turned back to Y/N.

She was already pulling her suitcase handle upright, her face composed, wearing that brave expression that people wear when they know the goodbye will hurt but they’re choosing dignity over drama. Her eyes were a little puffy from sleep- or maybe it was emotion. He didn’t ask.- he would never know.

“Guess that’s your ride,” she said, the smile on her lips not quite reaching her eyes.

He didn’t reply. He wanted to say something- anything- but every sentence that formed in his throat felt too small, too stupid or too late. His emotions didn’t make sense to him anymore. His heart skipping a beat at the way the sunlight hit her eyes didn’t make sense anymore.

Y/N took a small step forward and stuck her hand out between them. Her fingers were steady, her voice wasn’t.

“Maybe we’ll meet again,” she said, smiling softly. “But for now… goodbye, Sunghoon.” It could’ve ended there. But she blinked- just once- and added, quieter: “Thank you for making the night a little less lonely.”

And just like that, he was ruined.

Sunghoon took her hand, firm, certain- like that moment deserved at least that much clarity. And maybe that was the saddest part of it all- how their story ended the same way it began: with a handshake.

Two people. One shared night. A lifetime’s worth of unanswered questions.

He held on for a beat longer than he should have. Then he let go reluctantly. Then stepped back with a nod, his eyes memorizing the shape of her one last time. And without another word ((he didn’t even find it in him to reciprocate a goodbye), he turned and jogged toward his waiting friends, who were still dramatically yelling about the parking ticket.

Behind him, Y/N turned in the opposite direction, hoping to hail a taxi to her hotel.

She didn’t look back. Neither did he.

When Sunghoon finally caught up with them, breath uneven and head a little too full, Jay and Jake didn’t waste a second. They manhandled him into the backseat like he was carry-on luggage.

“We’ve been waiting for hours,” Jake exaggerated from the passenger side, twisting halfway around to stare at him. “You better have a Nobel-worthy reason for making us risk another parking fine. How’s your sister, mate?”

Jay, hands on the wheel, sunglasses on even though it was barely sunrise, shot a look at Sunghoon through the rearview mirror.

“Fuck that,” he said. “Who was the girl?”

Sunghoon groaned, dropped his head back against the seat, crossed his arms over his chest like a sulky teenager. Suddenly, the night that had felt so luminous, so important, shrunk down into this weird, private ache. The kind that couldn’t be explained without sounding stupid. Because how do you tell your best friends that one night on a train with a stranger made you question everything you thought you wanted? Made you feel more than you had in months?

Sunghoon just stared out the window as the city passed in a blur and tried not to think about how fast it was all slipping away. Jake and Jay didn’t wait for an answer. Of course not- they were already in full chaos mode, cooking up scenarios like they were writing for a shitty soap-opera.

“You sat beside her?”

“Made a new friend?”

“Fucked the new friend, perhaps?” Jake added with a dramatic gasp, clapping once. “Train version of the mile-high club, huh?”

“In the bathroom?” Jay asked, feigning shock. “Dude, gross. Those toilets flush like portals to hell.”

“Oh, wait-” Jake snapped his fingers, “you kissed her. That’s it. You kissed her and then cried about it while looking out the window like you’re in a sad indie film.”

Sunghoon inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “You guys,” he said, voice low and deadly calm, “are disgusting.”

Jake and Jay erupted into laughter.

“Which means,” Jay said smugly, tapping the steering wheel, “something definitely happened.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He just leaned his head against the window, the cold glass pressing into his skin. The city of Paris unfolded outside, but he wasn’t really seeing it. Not the cafés, or the early risers with fresh bread tucked under their arms, or the old men reading newspapers on benches.

He was still on the train. Still in that quiet, starlit space. Still listening to her say thank you for making the night a little less lonely.

ii. Ten Years Too Lonely

When Y/N was young, her parents used to tell her about how they met. Her bedtime stories weren’t made up of dragons or fairies, but of reckless youth, of laughter echoing in tiny bars that no longer existed, of impossible nights that somehow still lived on in memory. Her parents had lived like people in novels- messy, brave, complicated. They told her stories filled with bad decisions that made great memories, spontaneous road trips, heartbreaks that healed over time, and a small group of friends who stayed, who always stayed.

Those friends were still around- her honorary uncles and aunts. They showed up for the big moments: the day she was born, the major birthdays, and all her graduations. They were the ones who took her out for her first legal drink, who called her kiddo even when she was twenty, who looked at her like she belonged. And maybe it was only around them that she ever felt like she did. Like she was part of something bigger, warmer, something permanent.

But outside those rare, glowing reunions, Y/N felt like a ghost of a person. Like she hadn’t been fully written yet. Like her edges were blurry, her voice a little too quiet, her presence too easy to miss. She used to think that one day, she’d grow into herself. That she’d wake up and suddenly feel whole. But the days kept ending and nothing changed.

She’d always been unlucky with friendships. People liked her, sure- they said she was nice, called her sweet. But no one stayed. No one ever fought to keep her close. She was the kind of person you texted when you were bored, not when your world was falling apart. She was always the one listening, nodding, comforting. Rarely the one being held. She didn’t know what she did wrong- maybe she didn’t shine enough. Maybe she was just forgettable. She tried to tell herself that wasn’t true, that she mattered, that someone would one day see her the way she longed to be seen. But most days, the silence was louder than any hope she tried to build.

Relationships? Those were worse. Crushes that never looked her way, dates that fizzled before they even began, almost-loves that ended in vague texts and unreturned calls. She couldn’t even be mad at them. She understood. Why would anyone stay with someone who didn’t really stand out? She wasn’t the bold, flirty girl with a spark in her eyes. She wasn’t magnetic, or mysterious, or even particularly witty. She was just… there, easy to walk away from.

And that was the thing that hurt the most- the thought that people would forget her. That she could pass through someone’s life and leave no mark at all. That years from now, someone she once shared a laugh with wouldn’t even remember her name. That she was the kind of person you had to try to remember. Not because she was unpleasant. But because she was just so easy to overlook.

She hated that. She hated how much it bothered her. She hated that she wanted to be seen so badly, wanted to matter to someone- anyone- just for a little while. And more than anything, she hated that she’d let life pass her by. That she hadn’t been brave enough to chase the moments she dreamed about. The semester abroad she kept telling herself she’d apply to. The marine research internship near the beach she’d bookmarked five times but never actually submitted an application for. The universities she never left her hometown to attend. She watched opportunities drift by like trains she couldn’t get herself to board.

And every time she missed one, she told herself it was fine. That there would be another. That she was just waiting for the right time. But deep down, she knew. She knew she wasn’t waiting. She was hiding. From the possibility of failing. From the pain of not being enough. From the crushing weight of trying her best and still falling short.

But the thing is… her parents had always known that Y/N would make a life for herself. From the day she was born to the day she graduated and began the daunting task of job hunting, they’d looked at her with a kind of certainty that Y/N never really understood. “It’s just that your life hasn’t begun yet,” they would repeat to her like a prophecy.

And for a long time, she believed them. Or at least she tried to. She clung to the hope that one day, her plight would mean something, that she'd wake up and suddenly become the person she was always supposed to be. But that hope wore thin. Especially in the years that followed graduation- years where nothing really happened. Where she lived at home again, working part-time jobs she never talked about at family dinners, feeling more and more like she was treading water in a pool where everyone else was learning how to swim laps.

Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore- the guilt of still living under her parents' roof, the quiet shame of watching life pass by like a train she kept missing. So, in a burst of desperation or courage or maybe both, she booked a trip to Europe with the savings she’d been hoarding for no particular reason. She drained her bank account in one impulsive night of scrolling and airfare. And just like that, she was gone.

And suddenly- suddenly- her degree in Greek Literature didn’t feel so useless anymore. Not when she was exploring a three-day train with a stranger. Not when she was wandering through the streets of Athens, tracing the ruins her textbooks used to speak of in dusty academic tones. Not when she stood beneath the Parthenon at sunset with a backpack and a journal and no plans for the next day. And just like that, her life started to change.

In the month she spent abroad, she felt herself unfold. Like some slow, patient blooming. She talked to strangers without rehearsing the conversation beforehand. She danced at rooftop bars in Lisbon with people whose names she barely caught. She took a spontaneous night bus to Prague with a pair of Finnish siblings she met in a museum café. She broke down crying in a quiet alley in Florence and was comforted by a woman named Elif from Istanbul, who shared her gelato and told her heartbreak was a sign of living. In Barcelona, she accidentally joined a group of traveling circus performers for three days because they mistook her for someone else and she was too embarrassed to correct them- until she wasn’t. She even kissed someone under a broken street lamp in Amsterdam, someone whose name she still remembers but whose face is already fading in her mind.

There were so many stories. Wild, unthinkable, movie-scene type stories. But perhaps the most unbelievable part was how alive she felt. For the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like a background character. She didn’t feel like someone waiting for something to happen to her. She was the happening.

She met people. She lived with them. She cooked pasta in tiny hostel kitchens, shared beds with near strangers, drank cheap wine in public parks, danced barefoot, and got lost more times than she could count. She met Luca, a Sicilian med student who taught her how to flirt in Italian; Josie, a Canadian street artist who carried a notebook filled with secrets from people she met; and Santiago, a chef from Buenos Aires who taught her to make empanadas while talking about love like it was a religion.

They were fleeting people. But they mattered.

And she kept in touch with most of them- at least for a while. They exchanged numbers, promised to visit, sent postcards and songs and memes across time zones. Luca sent her a blurry photo of his med school graduation. Josie invited her to a pop-up art show in Toronto that she couldn’t attend. Santiago messaged her every few months just to ask how she was, calling her mi poeta.

But life moved on. As it always does.

Y/N came back home, and things had changed, but she wasn’t quite sure if she had. She floated through a string of jobs- proofreading textbooks, writing content for lifestyle blogs, tutoring high school students in Greek mythology. Nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever felt like hers. Until one day, almost on a dare to herself, she sat down and started writing again- not for money, not for work, but for herself.

The book came quietly. No agents, no fanfare. A small indie publisher picked it up. And somehow, her first novel resonated with enough people to warrant a tiny book signing tour. She visited three cities. Five bookstores. Signed a hundred copies with her slightly messy, unsure signature.

And still… She felt alone.

As the years passed, the messages from her travel friends became less frequent. The jokes grew stale, the memories stopped coming up in conversation and eventually, keeping in touch became just liking each other’s Instagram posts or sending the occasional emoji reply to a story. 

When she moved to Shanghai to teach English at a small local university, she barely told anyone. She packed her life into two suitcases, boarded the flight alone, and arrived in a city where no one knew her name. The loneliness there was quieter, less sharp. It didn’t ache the way it used to. Because in times like this, feeling lonely was inevitable and she didn’t beat herself up for it. Because this was going to be her new life, her new norm.

She taught classes, went to the market, and drank tea by her apartment window. Life was simple. She liked it. And she realised how her age was catching up to her, that she was yearning for the peaceful moments in her life rather than late night travel trips.

And yet, some nights, when she couldn’t sleep, she’d scroll through old photos- grainy hostel selfies, street corners, sunset skies she had once sworn she’d never forget. She would look at those faces and wonder if any of them remembered her too, if she’d been as temporary to them as they were eternal to her.

Because the truth about Y/N was that no matter how much she saw, how many stories she collected, or how far she ran, she still came out of it alone. Not broken, not bitter- just… still waiting. Still wondering if her life had really begun yet, or if she was still standing on the edge of something bigger, too afraid to take the leap.

Though some nights, the memories haunted her, most days, Y/N kept moving. She walked the same narrow streets from her apartment to the university, nodded politely at the same old man who sold dough strips by the metro station, and let her world stay predictable and repetitive.

But it was on a rainy Sunday- one of those Shanghai afternoons where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet concrete and jasmine- that things would change again.

She’d been wandering aimlessly, an umbrella tucked under her arm, letting the drizzle kiss her skin as she browsed street vendors and quiet alleys she hadn’t taken the time to explore before. She wasn’t even looking for anything in particular when she ducked into the tiny bookstore nestled between a tea shop and a dry cleaner, a place so unobtrusive she’d passed it a dozen times and never noticed it.

Inside, the lighting was dim and golden, the smell of old paper and incense wrapping around her like a blanket. There was jazz playing faintly from a record player near the counter. A cat slept on a stool in the poetry aisle. And for the first time in weeks, she exhaled without even realizing she’d been holding her breath.

She wandered through the shelves slowly, fingers brushing over cracked spines and titles in Mandarin, English, French. It reminded her of a place she visited in Lisbon, one she never thought she’d think of again.

She turned the corner of the aisle, absently reaching for a poetry collection when her eyes landed on him.

At first, she only saw the profile- the clean lines of his face, the sharp curve of his nose, the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead- and for a heartbeat, her mind couldn’t quite place it. Her body stilled before her brain caught up.

Then he turned slightly, lifting his head toward the Popular Picks display by the counter, a stack of three books balanced in his arms, one tucked awkwardly beneath his chin.

And she knew. She just did.

The recognition crashed into her like a wave she hadn’t braced for.

Sunghoon.

Just like that, the bookstore shifted from quiet nostalgia to something surreal. Her fingertips curled slightly around the spine of the book she was holding, as if steadying herself. Her breath caught somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. And suddenly,she was naive and twenty-five again, sitting in a train with a stranger to entertain.

And as if he felt her gaze, Sunghoon looked up- eyes landing on hers instantly.

The air between them was still. The jazz in the background faded. So did the cat, the incense, the muffled rain tapping at the windows.

He blinked, almost like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Then slowly, the corners of his mouth turned upward- not quite a smile yet, just the beginning of one.

They just stared at each other for a second too long. Not out of awkwardness- but because neither of them wanted to be the first to break whatever this was.

Then Sunghoon shifted, took one step forward.

And that was her cue.

Y/N slipped her book back onto the shelf and walked toward him, steps careful, like she was still half-convinced he might disappear if she moved too fast.

“Hey,” she said, voice quieter than she expected. “I wasn’t sure it was you.”

Sunghoon let out a soft breath, the ghost of a laugh caught in his throat. “I wasn’t sure you were real.”

They both smiled- wide and full this time- the tension breaking like light through overcast skies.

Y/N blinked, still grounding herself in the impossible fact that it was him. “What are you doing here?” She asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would break the spell.

Sunghoon gave a soft breath of disbelief, almost a laugh, like he wasn’t quite sure how this moment existed. “I live here now… I’ve been living here for three years.”

Y/N gave a half-smile. “Five years for me.”

And that was the moment it hit him. Five years. They’d been orbiting the same city, breathing the same air, living maybe a handful of metro stops apart- and somehow, they never crossed paths until now. It felt like too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence. Like the universe had deliberately waited, held its breath, timed this to some impossible rhythm only it understood.

“I teach at the public university,” she offered before he could ask. “English. But I publish sometimes as well.”

Of course it was her. The name had been bothering him ever since he picked up that book, strung together in a delicate serif font on the spine- a first name and a last name that brushed up against something familiar in his memory, but not enough to sound the alarms. He’d held it in his hands, flipped through the pages, even lingered on the blurb wondering why it made his chest ache a little. But he hadn’t made the connection. Not until she was standing in front of him, telling him, almost offhandedly, that she wrote now- had published a few books. And then it hit him like cold water: that book. The one he’d nearly bought before settling on something else. He almost felt guilty now, absurdly so, for not choosing hers. As if picking another novel over hers had been some kind of betrayal- to her, to that night, to the unspoken space they’d both carried all these years.

He nodded slowly, his chest tightening. “Still an architect,” he said, then glanced at her with something just shy of a smile. “I think you’d be proud of me.”

It was a soft, unassuming statement, but it hung between them heavily. He was thinking of that night- the train, the way her words had stayed with him long after the lights of the station faded. Ten years ago. Ten full years. He didn’t know if she remembered.

But Y/N’s expression shifted in that subtle way that told him she did. Of course she did.

“Yeah?” she asked, eyes bright.

“Yeah,” he looked down for a second before meeting her gaze again. “I’m glad you finally published.”

And he meant it. Beneath the sincerity sat his quiet guilt- one he wasn’t going to admit just yet. He hadn’t searched for her name. Not once. Not online, not on bookshelves. And now that he knew, now that he held the knowledge of what she'd gone on to do, it felt like an ache. Because he had thought of her- more often than he let himself admit. He’d bring her up sometimes when he was drunk, recalling that weird night on the train, the girl who talked about words like they were living things. But he hadn’t done anything more. 

And now here she was.

“This feels insane,” he murmured, voice softening.

He was staring at her- not just with disbelief, but with the kind of quiet reverence reserved for things once lost and now unexpectedly found. And as he stood there, barely hearing the rustle of pages or the distant hum of jazz, a thought rose, unbidden and almost embarrassing in its honesty- this was the girl who had changed him.

In one night- a single stretch of hours between train stations and tangled conversations- she had shifted something fundamental inside him. He’d started reading not long after that. Nothing big at first- just a book she’d mentioned, something he'd scribbled down on a receipt in his wallet. But it became a habit, then a hunger. Because of her. Because of how she spoke about stories, about words like they were holy. Because of how she saw the world- like it was both tragic and beautiful and worth telling anyway.

And now, a decade later, here she was. Not a memory, not a story he told his friends after two beers. But real and alive, standing in front of him again- older, softer in some ways, sharper in others. Still her, always her.

And all he could think was: I can’t believe it’s you.

Sunghoon arrived at the café early. Of course he did. He always did that when he was nervous- pretending it was about punctuality, about professionalism, about making a good impression. But really, it was about control, about giving himself a moment to settle the way his heart had been stammering in his chest for days.

Since that day in the bookstore, he hadn’t stopped thinking about her- Y/N- her voice, her eyes, the way the rain had traced soft lines down the bookstore’s fogged windows while they talked. He hadn’t said it out loud, but as soon as they’d agreed to meet again, he’d gone home and done something impulsive- something a younger Sunghoon might’ve laughed at. He bought all of her books. Every single one. Three novels, each with a cover so delicate and so deliberate, he almost didn’t want to crack the spines.

But he did. In fact, he devoured them. He read like he was chasing something. Like he was trying to catch up on a decade of her life that he hadn’t been a part of.

Her writing stunned him. It was raw and strange and poetic and painfully observant. But it wasn’t just that. It was familiar. Not in the stories themselves- they were nothing like him, nothing like the night they’d shared- but in the details, in the quiet gestures of a supporting character, or the rhythm of someone’s speech, or the offhand way a man in his late twenties scratched the back of his neck when he was uncomfortable.

That was him. That was 27-year-old Sunghoon. He remembered doing that on the train, mid-conversation, when she’d asked him about the kind of buildings he wanted to design someday. There was a character in her first book who did the same thing- and that character had a way of seeing cities like they were made of feelings, not steel. It was him, even if it wasn’t.

He hadn’t known she’d remembered him. Not like that. He’d told himself it was just one night. A good night. But fleeting. Something the world would blur out with time. And yet… she had remembered. She made it permanent on ink- she eternalized him.

And here he was- in Shanghai, of all places.

Sometimes he still couldn’t believe it. He’d said yes to the opportunity three years ago- an architecture firm in Seoul was invited to pitch a design for a mixed-use skyscraper, and he’d poured himself into it with the hunger of a man who needed to be consumed by something. It was his vision that won. A sinuous, glass-and-steel tower that mimicked the ripple of the Huangpu River, with an atrium shaped like a lantern- part office space, part museum, part observation deck, a living homage to old Shanghai meeting the new. 

The project had saved him. Or maybe it had given him something to hold onto after everything else fell apart.

Nora.

Even now, her name carried the weight of a thousand sharp edges- soft at first, then all at once like glass. He met her at a work party, back when his firm was still small and barely making a name for itself. It had been hosted in a high-rise lounge, the kind where conversations floated over clinking glasses and low jazz murmured beneath everything. He remembered spotting Nora by the bar, laughing with a group of journalists, her voice rising and falling like it belonged to the room. She was magnetic- self-assured in a way that didn’t demand attention but still received it, effortlessly. She had this grin, this unmistakable fire behind her eyes, and when she asked what he did, she looked at him like she actually cared about the answer.

They started seeing each other after that night- cautiously, at first. She was always busy, always moving between studios and press conferences and flights to cover some political chaos. But she made time. For him, she made time. She’d wait for him at his office sometimes with takeout, wearing heels and an oversized coat, telling him that he worked too much and kissed too little.

They dated for two years. Two golden years that felt too good to be real. There were lazy Sundays with her head on his chest, whispered fights over whose turn it was to do the laundry, travel plans never taken, and endless conversations about buildings and breaking news and what it meant to chase something until you caught it.

He proposed on a rainy night in Busan, when they’d gone for a vacation and spent the evening ice skating in a mall. She was trying to keep up with him, giggling while finding her balance. And just like that, he glided towards her on one knee and revealed the ring and he just… said it. Marry me. And she had said yes like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

They were married for four years. Four whole years of learning each other in all the quiet, invisible ways- the morning rituals, the favorite side of the bed, the type of silence that felt warm instead of cold. He’d never known that kind of peace. Even with her career constantly pulling her toward chaos, even when they were barely passing each other at home- it still felt like they were orbiting something steady. 

And then, one morning, she left for work like she always did. Hair still damp from the shower, still brushing lip balm onto her mouth as she stepped into her heels, grinning at him like she had some scandalous news she couldn’t wait to share after her segment.

She never made it to the station.

The accident happened in a flash. A truck ran a red light on the Olympic-daero. Witnesses said the rain had made it hard to see. She was gone before the ambulance even arrived, but they tried. Jake tried.

He remembered Jake’s call- the way his voice cracked over the line. "Come to the hospital. Now."

Sunghoon remembered sprinting through corridors, his hands cold, his lungs burning, shirt and tie astray with wide eyes and matted hair. And then- Jake, his closest friend and one of Seoul’s top trauma surgeons, standing outside the trauma unit, drenched in blood that wasn’t his, eyes hollow, surgical mask hanging off one ear. No words- just a slow, agonizing shake of the head.

Sunghoon collapsed.

The days after were a blur of numbness, sirens and screaming silence. There was no funeral that could contain that kind of grief, no eulogy that could articulate how deeply broken the world had become in just one moment. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t look at the chair she used to sit in. Her mug sat untouched for months. He buried himself in work until even the blueprints started to blur, until the only thing that snapped him back was his other best friend, Jay- who took one look at him and told him to press charges.

The man who caused the accident had been drunk. Slightly below the legal limit, but enough to impair judgment. Jay, relentless in a courtroom, helped Sunghoon file lawsuits that dragged on for nearly two years. They won. But it didn’t bring her back- nothing would, nothing did.

And then came the offer, an international firm asking him the chance to design a tower in Shanghai- something iconic, something bold. He said yes without thinking. He needed to go, to leave, to start over, to breathe somewhere else.

And now here he was, four years later. Sitting in a sunlit café in Shanghai, about to see the only other person who had ever made him feel like the future might be a story worth reading.

He wasn’t sure how he managed to tell her all of it- the job offer, the building, the wife, the accident, the ache. But he knew one thing: telling her all of this, over coffee, across a tiny round table in a quiet café… it felt oneiric. Like time had folded in on itself and handed him a second chance he hadn’t dared hope for.

Y/N listened like she always had- with stillness, with presence, with that rare ability to make silence feel like safety. When he spoke about the building, her face lifted, just slightly. Her eyes softened, like she was genuinely happy for him- not surprised, not performative- just quietly proud. 

But when he said Nora’s name, something shifted. The subtle tension in her brow, the way her fingers paused mid-motion on the coffee cup’s handle, the sudden stillness in her breathing- it all changed. She didn’t interrupt nor did she didn’t look away. She just let it wash over her, the grief, the enormity of it. Her eyes, when they met his again, held something solemn and full- not sympathy, not pity, but that unspoken understanding of loss. And for a moment, Sunghoon wondered if that’s what had drawn them together again- not fate, not coincidence, but the quiet ache of having both learned how to live after breaking.

“I lost someone, too,” she nodded. “My uncle- well, technically, one of my parents’ best friends. But we were close. He was my godfather.”

Then she told him, how her godfather had taken his own life just months before she made the move to Shanghai. Y/N had been in the middle of her own upheaval, getting ready for the transition that would take her to this city, to this life. But before she could even leave, she had to contend with the shock of losing him in the most horrific way. His death was nothing like the natural rhythm of loss that people often prepare for. No, this was the kind of pain that tore through the fabric of life with no warning, no sense. She never had the chance to say goodbye, never had the chance to make sense of it- her parents never let her read the suicide note.

Y/N’s aunt had found him, face-down in the bathtub, the water around him turning crimson. The image of it must have haunted her even now. Sunghoon could imagine the cold shock that must have flooded her godmother’s body as she found him there- her best friend, her partner in life, lifeless in a way that made the world seem unreal. The knife had slipped from his hand, the weight of it barely more than a detail in the aftermath. But the emptiness in his eyes, that was what stayed with her. 

It didn’t make sense, the way Y/N described it, the way the world just seemed to stop making sense after that. Her godfather had always been a constant, someone everyone relied on, someone who had always been there. And yet, just like that, he was gone, leaving behind an ocean of unanswered questions. His kids, her honorary cousins, had been the most affected. They had been too young to grasp the weight of what had happened, but in their confusion, they’d come to resent him. They couldn’t understand why he had chosen this moment, why he had left them without a second thought. It was that kind of loss that tore at the edges of families, that strained relationships with no answers to make it right.

Y/N’s parents had struggled too. In the wake of his death, they didn’t know what to do. They didn’t know how to explain it or how to handle the grief that had flooded their lives. So, in an attempt to do something, they set up a fund in his name. The money went to children in need, a small part of it allocated to his family to keep them afloat, to provide for them until they could get back on their feet. But in truth, nothing really ever settled. The ache never fully left, and the questions remained unanswered.

Y/N never spoke of the details, the parts of it that were too horrific to describe, the part of the story that would stay locked away, untold. But Sunghoon could feel the weight of it all. The pain, the loss, the confusion. The fragility of life, of the people we think will always be there, and how suddenly that certainty could be ripped away. 

Both of them had experienced it- the kind of loss that reshaped everything, that left scars that didn’t heal. It marked them, carried their loss, holding it within them, even now. 

"Okay, so... all of that," she started, hesitating before looking for something to shift the conversation. "Tell me more about your building. How far along is it… considering," She trailed off, smiling a little. "I’d love to hear more about it."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, his hand instinctively reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his phone, unlocking it and swiping to the photos he’d been saving. The sleek, minimalistic sketches of the building, fuzzy early shots of its half-constructed frame, and the sweeping views from the construction site filled the screen. He held the phone up for her to see, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched her reaction.

"It... it’s still a work in progress. Probably gonna take a couple more years- there were a lot of legal constraints to worry about in the beginning," he admitted. "The final designs are much more refined, but this is the stage we’re at right now,” he scrolled through the images, showing her various angles of the building, the steel beams twisting upward like a forest of metal. "It’s supposed to be a mixed-use space- office floors at the top, public space at the bottom, some retail. It’s going to contribute to the skyline, be one of those landmarks that people would look at and think, 'Yeah, that's part of the city now.'"

Y/N leaned forward slightly, peering at the screen. She nodded appreciatively, her eyes scanning the images with curiosity. "It looks amazing," she said, her voice a little lighter now. "I’m proud of you, Sunghoon."

She was proud of him- not just for the building, but because this was the man he’d dreamed of becoming, the path he’d mapped out for himself on that train ten years ago, now finally real and unfolding in front of her.

Sunghoon grinned, but there was something in his eyes- an edge of quiet pride. 

Sunghoon’s voice broke through the gentle quiet that had settled over their table. “How have you been, Y/N?” he asked, not like a casual question, but something deeper. Something closer to how did the world shape you, after we parted ways? “How was Europe… after that train ride?”

Y/N smiled, and it was the kind of smile stitched with memory. She set her coffee down and reached for her phone, unlocking it with ease, swiping through the familiar glow of her gallery. “Messy,” she said, almost laughing. “But good.”

She turned the screen toward him, letting the photos tell the story. Blurry hostel mirrors, cobbled streets washed in soft morning light, a half-eaten croissant on a balcony in Lisbon, a tiny annotated map with a coffee stain in the corner, a carousel in Florence, a dog she didn’t know the name of but still remembered.

“This one,” she said, pausing on a photo of her standing by a stone archway in Athens, sunlight catching her cheek, “was taken the day I finally got the courage to walk up to a stranger and ask for directions.”

Sunghoon leaned in, quietly taking it all in- not just the images, but her voice, the tone of it, how alive she’d become in those moments. He watched the way her thumb lingered over some pictures longer than others, how her smile flickered when she reached one taken in the rain. He didn’t ask what it meant. He just listened.

“It was everything I hoped it would be,” she said. “And nothing like I imagined.”

And Sunghoon nodded, because he understood that too well. Maybe not for the same reasons as her, but he understood it, at least, to an extent. 

She went on, showing him more- strangers who became friends, books scribbled with notes in the margins, sunsets over rooftops that looked like paintings. There was something sacred in how she shared it, like she was letting him hold a decade of her life in the palm of his hand, one swipe at a time.

Most people, when they finally receive the thing they long for, the thing they had built up in their heads, carried in the quiet pockets of their hearts- don’t really know how to sit with it.

At first, it felt surreal, like handling porcelain so fine you were afraid it might break just by looking at it wrong. They moved carefully around the edges of it, half-believing, half-doubting, waiting for the catch, the sudden hand that would snatch it all away. And then, slowly, imperceptibly, it shifted. The dream stopped feeling like a dream. It became ordinary. The extraordinary blurred into everyday life the way sunrise blends into morning- so gradual you didn’t even realize it was happening until you looked up and found yourself living inside what you once thought was impossible.

Because when something becomes real- when you brush your teeth beside the person you once thought was lost to time, when you argue about laundry or grocery lists, when you kiss them goodnight without even thinking about it- that’s when you know it’s yours.

Not a moment snatched from fate. Not a miracle about to be undone.

Just yours.

That’s what it was like for Y/N and Sunghoon.

They didn’t crash into each other the way they had once imagined, all desperate declarations and sweeping promises. No, they folded into each other the way dusk folds into night- quietly, inevitably, without needing anyone to announce it had happened.

Their days together began quietly. The café became a second home- tucked between two stone buildings in YuYuan Garden, its windows fogged with steam and stories. They always met at the same table near the back, beside the bookshelf that tilted slightly to the left. When Sunghoon wasn’t at site meetings and Y/N wasn’t buried under red-marked essays, they sat across from each other. Sometimes they spoke, other times they didn’t have to.

Sunghoon would talk about things like glass density and foundational anchoring- things Y/N barely understood but always found beautiful in the way he described them. And she, in return, would read out loud lines from her students’ essays, shaking her head in disbelief, saying, “even I wouldn’t have thought of something so beautiful.”

Eventually, coffee dates gave way to quiet afternoons in the city. The café wasn’t enough anymore. It was Sunghoon who suggested they meet somewhere else. “Just a change of pace,” he said, “we don’t have to talk,” he said it like he always did- casually, softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever fragile thread was stretching between them.

Their first outing was to the art museum. A safe place, one where quiet was expected. They walked side by side through galleries washed in cold white light, pausing before each painting with the solemnity of churchgoers. Y/N liked watching Sunghoon look at art- the way he tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. She wondered if he’d always observed the world like that.

Then, from there, the places they’d visit became less quiet, but somehow even more intimate- an afternoon at the aquarium, a stroll through the zoo, then a trip to Shanghai’s architectural icons- the Pearl Tower, the Shanghai Tower, and finally the World Financial Center.

When Sunghoon pointed up at the tower’s iconic trapezoidal aperture and told her, with absolute conviction, “A plane could fly through that,” Y/N laughed and promptly named it the keychain tower because, well, it did look like a keychain. He didn't even argue. He just smiled like someone who had been waiting a long time to be teased like that.

Eventually, their meetings moved indoors.

Y/N invited him to dinner one night. She made a strange mix of Italian and Chinese dishes- spaghetti with a recipe learned from an old Roman chef who once told her that Italians lived without regret through their pasta, and mala tofu with stir-fried bok choy, a dish she had perfected alone in her Shanghai kitchen which they had with a small bowl of sticky rice.

They ate slowly, in no rush, their conversation trailing between bites. Sunghoon leaned his forearms on the table as she told him stories about the Roman chef who had taken her under his wing for a week after she accidentally helped him carry groceries through cobbled streets. He laughed harder than he had in weeks, his mouth full of overcooked noodles and his heart unexpectedly light.

After dinner, they opened a bottle of red wine Y/N had been saving for a "meaningful occasion"- the label long peeled off, the cork slightly stubborn. They sat on the floor, backs against the couch, wine glasses in hand. She asked him about his time in university, about what he had been like before architecture turned into a career and not just a dream. He asked her about the books she didn’t publish, the ones she kept hidden in folders titled things like maybe one day and this one’s a mess. She didn’t deny it- just sipped her wine and smirked into the glass.

Later, Y/N reached behind the couch and pulled out an old, mismatched box of Jenga, the kind where a few pieces had pencil doodles and one was mysteriously chipped at the corner. “No pressure,” she said. “But I haven’t lost a game since college.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes. “You wrote your thesis on Greek tragedy, and now you’re challenging me at Jenga?”

“Exactly,” she grinned. “I’m well-versed in watching things fall apart.”

They played three rounds. She won two. The third collapsed in a drunken fit of laughter when Sunghoon accidentally sneezed and nudged the table, knocking the whole tower down.

It was one of those nights- quiet, unassuming, the kind you don’t realize is special until much later. Nothing big happened- there were no confessions, no kisses. But the air between them had changed by the time they stood at the door. There was something gentler in the way she leaned against the frame, something softer in the way he adjusted his coat before stepping into the cold.

He didn’t stay over.

He called a taxi, waited with his hands in his pockets, and when the headlights turned onto the street, he looked back at her- just once. She was still standing there, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. Not asking him to stay, not pushing him away. Just there, like always.

When Sunghoon invited her over for the first time, it wasn’t for dinner. It wasn’t even for coffee or idle conversation. He had something he wanted to show her- something that felt almost too private, too close to the part of himself he rarely let anyone touch.

The original blueprints.

He had spent years sketching versions of this building in the margins of notebooks, on napkins, on the backs of receipts. Rough ideas first, then refined ones- layer after layer of graphite and ink until they became something almost real. And now, sprawled across his living room floor, they looked delicate, almost fragile, like pieces that belonged in a museum archive.

Y/N knelt beside him without hesitation, legs folded underneath her, her hands moving carefully across the pages as if they were ancient ruins of history. She didn’t speak at first. She just traced the lines with the tip of her finger, pausing now and then to tilt her head, her brows knitting together in thoughtful concentration.

Sunghoon watched her more than he watched the drawings. The way her eyes scanned the layers of floor plans and elevation sketches, how her mouth twitched upward at the little handwritten notes he’d left for himself in the margins: rethink lobby entrance, sunlight angles too harsh?, find better material for glass- don't cheap out.

“This,” she finally said, looking up at him with something shining in her expression- not awe exactly, but something heavier, something fuller- “is incredible.”

They spent hours like that, sprawled across the floor, Y/N asking questions, Sunghoon explaining the angles of support beams and the challenges of balancing beauty with function. At some point, he realized he was rambling, getting too technical, but she never once looked bored. She just listened, the way she always had, like every word mattered.

At some point, night swallowed the city outside. The only light in the room came from a single dim lamp near the window, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. And when she finally left, long after midnight, he felt a strange ache in his chest- the kind that only comes when you realize you’ve just given someone a piece of yourself you can’t take back.

The next morning, he brought her to the construction site.

It wasn’t glamorous. The building was barely a skeleton of what it would become- exposed steel frames reaching skyward, the floors still raw and unfinished, the air thick with dust and the scent of wet concrete. Workers moved around them like ants, shouting instructions in Mandarin, the noise of drills and hammers clattering through the cool morning air.

He didn’t know why he brought her there. Maybe because part of him wanted her to see it- not the polished, finished dream, but the messy, imperfect beginning. Maybe because part of him wanted her to understand that this wasn’t just work. It was a piece of him, standing stubborn and half-built against the skyline.

She wore a bright yellow hard hat that was slightly too big, the strap loose against her chin, and an oversized reflective vest that swallowed her frame. She looked ridiculous, she looked adorable.

Sunghoon pulled out his phone and snapped a picture without thinking.

In the photo, she was smiling- not a big, posed grin, but a small, shy one, the kind of smile you give when you’re proud of something, even if it’s not yours. Behind her, the skeleton of the future loomed, all raw beams and silent promises.

He would keep that photo tucked away for years. Through the good days and the unbearable ones. Through everything that would come after.

Their friendship blurred, slowly. It didn’t surprise either of them. Somewhere, in the back of their minds, they had always known it wouldn’t stay platonic forever. From the moment they met on the train ten years ago, there had been something- not chemistry, not even longing. Just... inevitability.

It was the way their silences folded easily into each other. The way their glances lingered a beat too long, not searching, just... settling. It wasn’t some great romance that unfolded with fireworks and declarations. It was subtler than that. Quieter, like the way you reach for a light switch in the dark- it was instinctive, without needing to think.

There was no single moment when the line between them vanished. It just stopped mattering. It was in the way Sunghoon started buying her favorite kind of breakfast without asking. In how Y/N started showing up at the café with a book tucked under her arm, one she thought he might like even though he rarely read. It was her making him lunch boxes when he needed to go to the construction site. It was in the pauses between conversations- the way they both leaned in just a little, without meaning to.

They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t really need to. There was no confession, no careful declaration of feelings. It was all already there, hanging between them in the air, in every shared look, in the quiet comfort of knowing that somehow, inexplicably, you had ended up in the same place as the one person who once felt like a fleeting moment.

It wasn’t falling, it was remembering.

Remembering that even if they’d only spent a single night together on a train a decade ago, it had never truly ended when she said goodbye. That night had only paused and carried itself across years, across cities, across grief and growth- just to arrive here. And now, sitting across from each other again, it finally resumed. Like picking up a song mid-verse. Like they were simply continuing something that had never really finished.

Sunghoon told his friends about her not long after. It was during one of their three way calls that occurred once a few months, when they could accommodate the time difference and their busy schedules. And when Sunghoon told them that he was seeing someone, that it was getting serious, Jake and Jay hollered for him like they were in a football locker room. Despite their age and the sophistication that was expected by their professions, when they were around each other, they were still the weird trio from university that seemingly did everything together.

“It’s the girl from the train,” Sunghoon said. “Y/N, the girl from the train.”

And the call reached a ceasing silence. It stayed like that for a second, so quiet that Sunghoon couldn’t even hear them breathing.

He pulled his brows together in confusion. “Hello?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake finally said. “What are you saying?”

In all the nights Jay and Jake had stayed up with a drunk Sunghoon- back when they were younger, when heartbreak still looked like bruises instead of scars- they listened to him whine about a girl he met on a train. Mystery Train Girl, they called her, even though Sunghoon had told them her real name a dozen times. It became a running joke between the three of them, a sort of coping mechanism, maybe. Naming her made her feel less dangerous, less real- just another lost figure from a hazy, romanticized past.

But it wasn’t really a joke, not when Sunghoon would sometimes, in the thick of too much whiskey, talk about her like she had been a fixed point in his life. Like somehow, even though they’d only spent a single night together, she had left fingerprints on his ribs.

The stories didn’t stop even when Sunghoon met Nora- even when he fell in love again, even when he married.

They didn’t come often- only sometimes, in the quiet hours between drinks, when Nora was asleep and the weight of old memories pressed too heavily against his chest. But when they did, the fact that he still spoke about Y/N at all said more than Sunghoon probably meant it to. Jake and Jay never pointed it out. Some things didn’t need pointing out.

After Nora died, Sunghoon stopped speaking about love altogether.

He didn’t date, he didn’t flirt, he didn’t even look at anyone the same way anymore. After Nora died, the idea of opening himself up again felt unbearable. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love- he did. He had lived it, fully, with Nora. She had been his real love story, the one he thought would carry him to the end of his days. And losing her had carved something hollow inside him, something too fragile to risk breaking again. It wasn’t about moving on and it wasn’t about forgetting. It was fear- plain and sharp- the fear that if he let himself love again, he would have to survive losing it again too. And he wasn’t sure he could.

It wasn’t until Sunghoon first relocated to Shanghai- when his career finally cracked open and handed him everything he had worked for- that the two friends acted on a thought they had laughed about for years. One night, after too many beers and too much unsaid worry, they pulled out Jake’s laptop and typed her name into the search bar.

And there she was.

Older, yes- different, a little. But still unmistakably the girl Sunghoon had described with a kind of reverence no drunkenness could dull. Her picture stared back at them- in a small university profile, smiling faintly, hair tucked behind her ear.

She had published three books by then. She taught English at a local university in Shanghai. She was real. And terrifyingly close.

Jake and Jay stared at the screen for a long time, the silence between them heavier than either of them expected. They could have told him. They could have shown him. But something about it felt wrong- like opening a door Sunghoon had already chosen to leave closed.

So they didn’t say anything. They closed the laptop, and the next morning, neither brought it up again. And if there was a trace of guilt that lingered between them when they saw Sunghoon staring too long out of windows, lost in thought, or smiling a little too sadly at passing strangers- well, they buried it. Along with the rest of the secrets you keep out of love.

“Mystery Train Girl?” Jay gasped and they could imagine that his eyes were widening. “You’re joking. Y/N?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, pressing his phone closer to his ear as he chuckled. “Can you believe it? I found her. Y/N- Mystery Train Girl.”

“That’s…” Jay trailed off, not knowing what to say.

“That’s incredible, Sunghoon,” Jake said, firmly, as if he was answering for both of them. “I’m happy for you, mate. Are you happy?”

“Unbelievably, so,” Sunghoon breathed, and they could hear the smile on his face- the smile that highlighted his pointy teeth and made his eyes squint.

Jay and Jake didn’t comment much after that, only listened as Sunghoon recalled the story of how they found each other again in a tiny book store. And while listening, they were bracing for the impact of Nora’s name falling out of his mouth- that maybe he would mention her again, maybe he would break down over his first love, his dead wife. But it never came. And it sounded like Sunghoon was happy again. And his two friends didn’t have to worry about him feeling alone in another country.

A month later, Jay announced he was taking a weekend trip to Shanghai. He said it was for business, something about meeting international colleagues. Sunghoon didn’t ask many questions and simply offered him the guest bedroom, knowing it would be Jay’s first time visiting the city. It was usually Sunghoon who made the trip back to Korea, although he preferred not to. The last time he had gone back was for Christmas Eve the year before. This year, he planned to stay in Shanghai and spend the holidays with Y/N.

Sunghoon picked him up from the airport. He had booked a driver to meet them; living in a foreign country didn’t leave him much reason to own a car, and most foreigners in Shanghai got by without one anyway.

When they finally reunited at arrivals, Jay hugged him like a brother lost to time, gripping him tightly and nuzzling his head into Sunghoon’s shoulder with a dramatic sigh. Sunghoon laughed, patting his back with more affection than he realized he still carried.

On the drive back, as the city blurred past the window in streaks of neon and rain, Sunghoon casually mentioned that Y/N had prepared dinner for them. Jay blinked, the words settling slower than they should have. For a moment, he didn’t say anything- just stared out the window, watching the city streak by in blurs of gold and gray.

“Y/N,” he repeated eventually, like he was trying the name on his tongue, reminding himself it was real.

Sunghoon didn’t notice the way Jay’s fingers tightened slightly around the strap of his bag, or how his chest rose just a little sharper with the next breath. He just kept talking- about the dinner she was cooking, about how it wasn’t anything fancy, how she insisted it was "just empanadas" even though she spent all morning preparing it.

Jay nodded, smiling faintly, his throat too tight for much else. And inside, he told himself he wouldn’t ruin this. He wouldn’t say a word about the night he and Jake had found her online, sitting in some Seoul bar with Wi-Fi sticky and regret thicker. He wouldn’t tell Sunghoon that he had almost reached out once, almost booked a flight years earlier just to shove him toward her.

No.

This was Sunghoon’s story now. Finally, it was finding its way back.

Jay leaned his head against the cool glass and closed his eyes briefly, letting the city rush by.

Maybe some things were meant to take the long way around.

Jay was normal again by the time they reached Sunghoon’s apartment. It didn’t take much- just a lot of conviction and slipping back into his usual cocky persona, the one he wore like a second skin. Most lawyers had it; Jay had perfected it. Still, as they crossed the threshold, something in him braced without meaning to. His eyes swept the room instinctively, looking for proof, for her. For a second, it felt absurd- this quiet desperation to confirm that she wasn’t just another ghost Sunghoon had built out of grief and old memories. That she was still real after all these years.

And there she was. Y/N. Sitting at the dinner table, mid-bite, blinking up at them with a startled, awkward little smile that somehow made Jay’s chest tighten.

“So you’re the girl Sunghoon’s been unbelievably happy with,” Jay said, smiling.

His voice was easy, his posture relaxed- all charm, all mischief- and he didn’t mean any harm by it. This was his way of showing acceptance- approval, gratitude.

Sunghoon groaned, already dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t need to know I talk about her to you.”

Jay stepped forward and pulled Y/N into a quick hug- a brief, casual squeeze that made them acquaintances, allies, something realer than strangers but not yet friends. More importantly, it let Jay swallow the last of his disbelief, let him anchor himself to the fact that this girl was real. That Sunghoon had found her again. He couldn’t wait to talk to Jake about this.

He pulled back with an easy grin. “Don’t worry, all good things,” he said.

“I sure hope so,” Y/N laughed, soft and easy, wiping her hands on her jeans. “It’s really nice to meet you.”

As she turned toward the kitchen to check on dinner, Sunghoon called over his shoulder, “By the way, Jay. When’s the business meeting or whatever?”

Jay flashed a mischievous grin, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Not really a business meeting,” Sunghoon immediately understood what Jay meant. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that line. He knew Jay well enough to know that when he said he needed a break, it wasn’t from work, but from the suffocating life at home. “Just needed to get away from the wife and kids for a while,” Jay continued, as if it was nothing more than a simple errand.

It wasn’t the fact that Jay was going out to a club, or that he’d been doing it for years now. What gnawed at Sunghoon wasn’t even the affairs. It was the contradiction that Jay had become. Jay, the man who could charm anyone, the man who always knew how to treat his friends with unwavering loyalty and kindness. Jay, who would never let his mother lift a finger, who’d drop everything for a friend in need, who was the first to volunteer to help anyone. He was the perfect son, the perfect friend. He was the kind of man you’d want your daughter to marry. And he was an amazing father to his kids, too. His son adored him; his daughter looked up to him with the kind of love only a child could give.

But as a husband? It was a different story.

Sunghoon had tried to make sense of it. He’d never been one to pry, but he’d known something was off for a while now. There were the fights, the tension that seemed to hang in the air when Jay spoke of Emma, his wife. The woman who, on the surface, was everything Jay needed- beautiful, intelligent, and ambitious. But beneath that exterior, there was something darker. Something... volatile. Emma was a storm, and Jay was constantly caught in the eye of it. She never seemed to be satisfied, always complaining, always accusing him of neglect. It wasn’t the life he had envisioned when they first married.

Sunghoon had learned the truth two years ago, though. It had been over the phone, after another one of Jay’s “business trips” that seemed to stretch on longer than necessary. Jay had been in Spain, hiding away from his reality. The phone call had come late at night, the words slurred, his voice raw with emotion and shame. Jay had admitted it then, between half-chuckles and half-sighs: his marriage wasn’t just falling apart- it had already shattered.

Jay had been cheating. Not just once, but over and over again. The guilt was written all over his face when he finally confessed, his eyes avoiding Sunghoon’s. It was an open secret now, something neither of them could pretend didn’t exist. 

But Jay asked one thing: that Sunghoon not tell Jake. Jake was too pure for this, too innocent to understand. Jay’s words stuck with Sunghoon, gnawing at him every time he saw his friend. Jake, who was the embodiment of what every relationship should strive for. He was the one who would never hurt anyone, let alone his wife, not intentionally.

Jake was probably the happiest in his marriage out of all three of them. He and his wife had built a life together, with shared goals, trust, and respect. He was everything Jay had once wanted to be, before everything fell apart. Jake wouldn’t get it. Jay knew it, Sunghoon knew it. If Jake found out, it would disgust him.

“Guys, dinner’s ready,” Y/N called from the kitchen, unbeknownst to the stare Sunghoon and Jay were sharing, her voice casual but a little shy at the edges.

The table wasn’t grand- just a small spread of empanadas glistening under the soft kitchen lights, bowls of salad thrown together with whatever they had left in the fridge, a bottle of cheap red wine breathing in the center. But it felt like a feast anyway because Jay was in Sunghoon’s city for the first time and it was celebration enough.

They gathered around with clattering feet. Jay joked that he hadn't had a home-cooked meal since his kids started insisting chicken nuggets were a food group, and Sunghoon rolled his eyes, already grabbing a plate like he belonged here, like they all did.

The conversation started simple- work, weather, flights, cities. Jay filled the gaps easily, weaving stories with the kind of natural charm only a seasoned lawyer could pull off. He talked about his firm back in Seoul, how his youngest daughter had tried to draw on his legal documents with crayons, how his son still teased him for losing an argument to a four-year-old. Y/N laughed, head tipped back slightly, that kind of laugh that warmed the room more than the radiator ever could.

Eventually, the stories shifted and, predictably, they turned toward Sunghoon.

Jay grinned around a mouthful of salad as he launched into tales Y/N had never heard- how Sunghoon, back in college, once pulled three consecutive all-nighters trying to finish a model for an architecture competition, only to sleep through the final submission. How he once broke his wrist during a drunken dare to skateboard down the steepest hill on campus, and still showed up to class the next day with his notes balanced on the cast. How he used to draw intricate skylines in the margins of every notebook, even in classes that had nothing to do with architecture.

And of course, Jay couldn’t resist mentioning the infamous Europe trip- the one that changed everything without them realizing it at the time. He talked about how Sunghoon had been so annoyingly hopeful during that summer, so convinced that life was about to open itself up to him in some grand, cinematic way. How he came back different after that trip- quieter, a little more weighted- but never explained why.

Y/N listened closely, soaking in every word.

There was something almost reverent in the way she paid attention- like she was piecing together the missing years of a story she had unknowingly starred in for far too long. She laughed at the right moments, gasped in mock horror when Jay described the skateboard incident, shook her head when he revealed how Sunghoon had once nearly gotten arrested in Barcelona for accidentally trespassing on a historical site he was “admiring too closely.”

Sunghoon mostly kept quiet, nursing his wine, his gaze flickering between his best friend and the woman sitting beside him. He didn’t mind being the subject tonight. If anything, he liked it- liked the way Y/N looked at him with that half-smiling curiosity, like every ridiculous thing Jay said only made him more real to her.

“You know, on that train?” Sunghoon started, looking between Jay and Y/N. “We played cards with this group of old men. And before leaving, they wished us all the best for the future and for love.”

“I remember that,” Y/N’s smile spread softly as she recollected the memory.

“Isn’t it insane? How things worked out.”

Eventually, the night wound down. The dishes were cleared, the wine finished, the laughter tapering into that familiar, comfortable tiredness that only comes after a good meal shared between people who no longer feel like strangers.

Y/N stood and grabbed her bag, pulling out her phone to book a cab. She moved easily, like she had done this a hundred times before. But Jay frowned, watching her from his place on the couch, a sliver of unease threading through his expression.

“How’s it alright,” he muttered under his breath “for a woman to travel alone this late?”

Before he could say more, Sunghoon cut in, already waving him off. “It's safe here,” he said simply. “Safer than Seoul, honestly. She’s done this a million times.”

Jay didn’t argue further. He just pressed his lips into a tight line, nodded once, and disappeared into the guest room, trust stitched into the quiet way he left the conversation.

Sunghoon pulled on his jacket and walked Y/N down to the road where her taxi was waiting, the night wrapped heavy and slow around them. The city had quieted into a low hum, the air thick with the smell of rain and petrol, streetlights buzzing overhead like tired lullabies. They didn’t speak as they walked. There was no need to fill the space between them; the silence had its own kind of gravity, pulling them closer with every step.

At the curb, they paused. Y/N fiddled with the strap of her bag, glancing at the taxi, then back at him. The cab’s engine purred in the background, patient. Sunghoon stood there, watching her, a hundred words building and crumbling behind his teeth. He didn’t want her to go, not again, not even for the night. Without giving himself the time to overthink it- without giving the fear room to grow- he leaned down and kissed her like he did most nights they were parting ways to go to their respective homes. It was a ritual, an agreement that this was how they chose to end their days, some sort of contact, some form of affection.

She smiled at him, softly, like how she always did, her doe eyes staring back at him. He was sleepy, she could tell by his droopy eyes and ruffled brows.

“Move in with me,” he said, his voice low, almost too casual for the weight of what he was asking.

“What?” she whispered, frowning slightly as if she hadn’t heard him right.

“Move in with me,” Sunghoon repeated, steadier this time. “You basically live here anyway. Half your stuff is already here- your books, your sweaters, your coffee cups...” He gave a small, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Might as well make it official.”

For a long second, she just stood there, caught between him and the waiting cab, the night buzzing softly around them. And then, slowly, impossibly, she smiled and kissed his cheek, her free hand softly cradling his face. She didn’t explicitly say yes, she didn’t have to. She just climbed into the cab with a lingering glance over her shoulder, the answer shining in her eyes before she even closed the door.

And as the taxi pulled away into the night, Sunghoon stood there for a moment longer, jacket hanging open, hands shoved into his pockets, feeling like maybe- finally- he had stopped running.

They found an apartment tucked between Y/N’s university and Sunghoon’s office- a green building at the edge of a sleepy, semi-gated community, where the sidewalks were cracked but clean, and trees arched overhead like old, patient guardians, their branches laced together like clasped hands. Stray cats wandered the streets freely, their coats dusty and proud, weaving between parked bicycles and the crooked legs of plastic chairs.

The building itself was four stories high, its walls covered in creeping ivy that turned gold in the autumn, burgundy in the winter. The paint was chipped in places. The elevator creaked every time it climbed past the second floor. But it was homey in a way most new constructions weren’t- a place that had been lived in, softened at the edges by years of small, ordinary lives.

Their unit was on the third floor, just high enough to catch the breeze but low enough to hear the neighbor’s piano practice in the evenings. The windows were tall and stubborn to open, framed by old iron grilles that let the light scatter across the walls in slanted, golden bars. The living room was small but bright, with just enough space for a second hand couch they picked out together and a low coffee table cluttered with books, half-finished crossword puzzles, and Sunghoon’s abandoned sketches.

The kitchen was recyangular, a single counter running along one wall, stained and scratched from a dozen past tenants. The stove clicked stubbornly before lighting. The fridge leaned slightly to the left. But still, it became a place where pasta boiled over and dumplings burned slightly on the bottom, where mugs clinked in the morning quiet, where grocery lists were scribbled on sticky notes and slapped onto the fridge door.

Their bedroom was tucked into the farthest corner, modest, almost shy. A narrow balcony stretched out from it, barely wide enough for two chairs and a crooked table where they sometimes sat on humid nights, sipping beer or eating cheap ice cream, watching the street lights flicker like tired fireflies.

Downstairs, the community buzzed with a life of its own. There was an old woman who sold baozi from a folding table near the gate every morning, always shouting friendly scolds when Sunghoon forgot his wallet. There was a florist who only opened his shop at odd hours and once gave Y/N a wilting rose for free, just because she said she liked the smell. There were children who played soccer in the narrow lanes, their laughter bouncing off the weathered stone walls, and a retired artist who painted landscapes on the sidewalk with chalk, only to watch them wash away with the next rain.

Inside, they built a life that settled into a rhythm almost without them realizing. Mornings meant fumbling around the kitchen together, half-asleep and heavy-limbed, passing mugs back and forth with clumsy hands and sleepy smiles. Sunghoon usually made the coffee- strong and bitter- while Y/N hovered near the stove, pretending to help but mostly just getting in the way, stealing sips from his cup before her own was ready. Their jokes were softer in the mornings, murmured around yawns, laughter curling lazily into the sunlight pooling across the tiled floor.

Evenings were a little louder, a little messier. Dinner at the small wooden table by the window became a ritual neither of them ever bothered to question. Sometimes it was takeout- greasy dumplings or cold noodles in plastic boxes- and sometimes it was whatever Y/N could cobble together from the fridge after her classes: one-pot pastas, stir-fries that set off the smoke alarm more often than not. Afterward, they curled into each other on the sagging couch, the city flickering outside the window. Y/N would read aloud from whatever novel had captured her that week, her voice threading gently through the room, while Sunghoon rested his head against her shoulder, letting the sound of her fill in all the tired spaces inside him.

Sometimes it was him doing the talking instead- late-night ramblings about impossible project managers, bureaucratic nightmares, steel orders delayed yet again. He would pace the living room in frustration, tossing out architectural jargon, until Y/N tugged him back down beside her and told him, simply, stubbornly, that he was brilliant. And somehow, the knots inside his chest always loosened a little when she said it.

They argued, too- like all real couples did. Sometimes about big things, but mostly about nothing at all. Y/N wanted a pet- a dog, a cat, even a bunny, she said once, her face half-buried in a blanket, grinning. She wanted something living and soft and theirs. Sunghoon resisted, citing their long hours, their unpredictable travel, the fear of leaving something small and trusting behind. Neither of them ever won those arguments outright, but somehow they circled back to it again and again, a low-burning want that never fully left the room.

The balcony plants were another battleground. They had bought them in a fit of optimism one spring- small pots of basil, rosemary, a lemon tree that Y/N insisted would one day bear fruit- but between Sunghoon’s site visits and Y/N’s grading marathons, the poor things wilted and browned faster than they could save them. Every time a plant shriveled into nothing, they pointed fingers half-jokingly at each other, sparring over who was supposed to water them that week.

Some nights, they bickered over movies, scrolling endlessly through the options, each rejecting the other's picks with increasingly absurd excuses. In the end, they usually gave up and flipped to whatever Chinese drama happened to be airing on local TV- always badly acted, always wildly over-the-top, full of improbable plots about secret twin siblings and dramatic amnesia. They would sit side by side on the couch, trading sarcastic commentary, laughing until they couldn’t breathe, until the night felt stitched together with something stronger than just habit.

And just like that, three years had slipped by since they reunited in that quiet Shanghai bookshop, and two years since they moved into their creaky, stubborn apartment- the one with the ivy-covered walls, the third-floor balcony, the kitchen that never fully heated up in winter but somehow became the warmest place they knew. Their home had filled itself over time- birthdays celebrated with mismatched streamers taped hastily to the walls, cooking disasters they cleaned up side by side, little wins toasted with cheap wine until they laughed themselves breathless on the worn-out couch. The walls bore witness to it all- Y/N’s cluttered shelves of trinkets, Sunghoon’s architecture sketches pinned in loose, sprawling lines across the living room, the hum of music on lazy Sundays, the clink of coffee mugs in the mornings, and the quiet, sacred moments of intimacy that didn't need words.

And now, it was time to mark the next chapter. 

Sunghoon’s building- the one he had sketched and dreamed and fought for- was finally complete. His name was folded into the skyline of Shanghai, stitched into concrete and glass, visible only to those who knew where to look. He'd done it- he finally did it.

To celebrate, his company hosted a grand opening, a party far more extravagant than anything Sunghoon would have thrown for himself. It was held in the top floor of the building where the champagne flowed, velvet ropes cordoned off the important people, and unfamiliar faces mingled under bright lights. It was supposed to be about his achievement, his vision made real- but to Sunghoon, it felt heavier, more personal. It felt like surviving. It felt like standing on the other side of everything that should have broken him.

Jay and Jake flew in from Seoul for the event, carrying the kind of chaos and heart only old friends could bring. Jay, with his reckless grin and booming voice, immediately made enemies with the event staff over "no kids running" rules. And the tension between him and his wife didn’t go unnoted. Jake arrived with Minji and their two children, presenting Sunghoon with an aged bottle of whiskey so expensive he almost dropped it in shock. 

When asked what gift Jay had brought, he slapped Sunghoon hard on the back and joked, "Who do you think is gonna be your lawyer when the lawsuits come in?" But later, when the crowd thinned slightly, Jay leaned in and muttered that the real gift- a carved jade vase picked out for him and Y/N- was waiting in his hotel room, too fragile to be dragged through the crowd.

As Sunghoon was swept away by a crowd of people- clients, architects, and reporters, all eager to speak with him, interview him, and congratulate him on the success of his building- Y/N found herself momentarily adrift, the hum of conversations around her blending into a distant background. But before she could get lost in the noise of it all, Jay’s voice broke through, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Y/N,” he called with a warm smile, one that seemed to soften the usual edge in his eyes. “Come meet everyone.”

He introduced her first to Emma, who gave her a polite, though reserved, handshake. Emma’s eyes were kind, but there was something guarded about her smile, as if she were measuring Y/N before deciding how much to let in. Next, Jay introduced her to his children. His son, a bright-eyed eight-year-old, immediately started chatting about his favorite cartoons, while his daughter, a few years younger, shyly held out a hand for a quick shake before retreating to her mother’s side.

Y/N smiled warmly, watching the kids interact with Jake’s, whose boisterous laughter seemed to fill the air as they played together like long-lost friends.

And then, Jake’s family appeared, standing close behind them with easy smiles and a regal air about them, as if their wealth and poise were as much a part of their DNA as their names. Minji, Jake’s wife, stood confidently beside him, her hands full with the impeccable, expensive gift they had brought. She, too, offered Y/N a warm handshake and a glance of approval, one that spoke volumes about the quiet power she held within their circle.

“Your boyfriend’s quite the star tonight,” Jake grinned and raised his wine glass, scanning his eyes across the crowd.

Sunghoon stepped up to the mic, his hand briefly adjusting the collar of his shirt as the room fell silent. A soft clink of silver against glass echoed through the space, signaling the beginning of his speech. He looked out over the crowd, his gaze finding familiar faces among the sea of guests. He looked nervous, his friends could tell by the smile tugging at the corner of his lips and his squinted eyes. Y/N chuckled, clasping her hands together and coaxing him.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, his voice steady but filled with gratitude. "This building has been a lifelong dream of mine, something that’s been in the making for years. I’ve been dreaming about this since I was a kid, when I was still playing with LEGO.”

The crowd lulled at him. 

"This moment wouldn’t be possible without the support of my family, my friends, and everyone who believed in me. I’m especially grateful to my parents, who have always been my foundation, and to my friends- Jay, Jake, and everyone who’s been by my side through thick and thin."

He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as it landed on Y/N. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"And to Y/N, my wonderful girlfriend who never stopped believing in me- for fifteen years, you’ve always been patient and supporting me. In your own, quiet ways." The room was quiet, everyone’s attention rapt, as Sunghoon continued. "This building- this achievement- it's as much as all of yours as it is mine. So, thank you, all of you, for helping me get here."

The crowd erupted in applause. 

He raised his glass slightly. "Here’s to many more moments like this."

The crowd cheered, and the applause filled the room, but Sunghoon’s eyes stayed on Y/N, his heart full.

The applause still echoed in the room, but Sunghoon barely noticed. His heart was pounding, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as his feet moved instinctively toward her. His eyes locked on Y/N, standing at the edge of the room, her smile brighter than he’d ever seen it before.

He could feel the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him- the pride of the night, the weight of the years of work, and the absolute certainty that in this moment, in this life, all that mattered was her. Everything else- every achievement, every challenge- had led to this.

Without thinking, he jogged towards her, ignored everyone that reached towards him, the excitement in his chest pushing him forward. He took her hands in his, the warmth of her touch grounding him in a way nothing else could. The world felt distant, muted, as if the room had shrunk down to just the two of them, standing in a bubble of their own.

Y/N’s wide, surprised eyes met his, her lips curling into a smile as she looked up at him, unsure of what was coming. Sunghoon didn’t let the moment slip.

"Marry me," he said, his voice low but certain, no hesitation, no ring, no preparation. Just the raw sincerity of what he felt.

Y/N stared at him, stunned, the question hanging between them like a breath neither of them could take. For a second, the whole room seemed to still- the lights, the music, the people- all blurring into the background. All that was left was him, and her, and the weight of everything they had built without ever daring to name it.

"Sunghoon?" Her voice was soft, unsure, like she couldn’t quite believe what he was asking.

"Marry me, Y/N," he repeated, the words tumbling out with all the confidence he had in her, in them, in the life they’d built together. "Make me yours. Marry me,” he looked at her like she’d written his life, like she hung the stars that his building touched. His hair fell on his forehead, eyes sparkling under the white light of the room, his pointy teeth peeking under his lips.

The room continued to buzz around them, but all he could hear was the beating of his heart and the way her hands tightened in his. It was as if everything had led to this point- every smile they’d shared, every quiet moment, every fight, every laugh. It was all right here, and in that one moment, all of it felt like it was finally falling into place.

Y/N’s eyes were searching his face, taking in the rawness of his plea, her breath catching in her throat as her heart caught up with what he was saying. For a beat, it felt like the world had paused. The future, their future, stretched out ahead of them, and for the first time, it didn’t seem so uncertain.

“Yes,” she whispered, fighting the smile that inevitably spread across her face, her eyes beaming. “I’ll marry you, yes.”

That night, their apartment was filled with the kind of laughter that wrapped around the walls and stuck there, soaked into the wood and the floorboards and the worn fabric of the couch. Jay and Jake’s families crowded into the small living room, balancing wine glasses and plates of leftovers, their kids weaving between legs and couch cushions, building forts out of pillows and throwing giggling fits that made even the neighbors downstairs stomp once on their ceiling in protest.

The celebration wasn’t just for the building- although Jake made a big, showy toast about Sunghoon “finally putting something other than Legos together.” It wasn’t just for the engagement, either- although Jay yelled loud enough for the entire floor to hear when Y/N showed off the temporary ring Sunghoon had bought from a street vendor just to make it official. It was for everything- for the survival, the endurance, the blind faith it had taken to get here.

The whiskey Jake had brought from Korea was uncorked, its rich, smoky scent curling through the apartment, mixing with the smells of cheap takeout and someone's abandoned lavender hand lotion. They drank too much and laughed too hard and retold old stories, the ones that had been dragged out a hundred times before but still hit just as hard. They toasted to love, to family, to new beginnings that had been a long time coming.

At the center of it all was Y/N and Sunghoon, pressed into each other on the couch, still a little dazed, still blinking like they couldn’t quite believe their luck. Sunghoon leaned into her, his forehead bumping against hers, their hands tangled loosely in the space between them. Y/N laughed at something Jay said across the room, the sound spilling over Sunghoon’s shoulder like warm water. He looked at her the way you look at something you know you’re going to spend the rest of your life memorizing.

The next morning arrived heavy and slow. The hall smelt of whiskey and cold takeout with sunlight slanting lazily across the messy apartment floor. Jay and Jake groaned their way out of the guest room, looking like they'd aged a decade overnight. The kids and the wives were still sleeping, Y/N still locked in the room with her head buried in pillows. While Sunghoon, somehow, had the audacity to be chipper, already showered and dressed, pacing the living room with a cup of coffee in hand.

"Let’s go," he said brightly, nudging Jake with his foot where he slumped on the couch.

"Go where?" Jake grunted, rubbing his face.

Sunghoon just grinned and said, "You’ll see."

Half an hour later, they were standing in front of a jewelry store in downtown Shanghai, still half-hungover, blinking against the polished glass and diamond shine like they’d stumbled into a parallel universe. Jake muttered something about needing sunglasses. Jay just stood there with his hands in his pockets, squinting at the window displays like they personally offended him.

When they went inside, it didn’t take long for chaos to start.

"I’m telling you, oval cut is the way to go," Jake said, leaning dramatically over the glass counter, pointing at a delicate, glittering ring.

Jay scoffed. "Oval is boring. Get her a princess cut. Classic. Clean. Also sounds badass- princess cut."

Jake rolled his eyes. "You're a lawyer, not a jeweler. Stay in your lane."

"And you’re a surgeon, not a stylist. What do you know about jewelry?"

“I know more about cuts than you!”

They kept going, arguing louder and louder, drawing a few raised eyebrows from the staff, while Sunghoon- unnoticed- had already chosen. The moment he saw it, he knew. Simple and elegant, a solitaire diamond, set low in a slender band of platinum. Not too flashy, not too plain.

Exactly Y/N- exactly her in every way that mattered.

Without saying a word, Sunghoon pulled out his card, signed the receipt, and slipped the velvet box into his jacket pocket. By the time Jake and Jay turned around, still bickering over cushion cuts versus marquise cuts, Sunghoon was already walking out the door.

"Wait- did you pick one?" Jay called after him, confused.

Sunghoon didn’t even slow down. He just tossed a grin over his shoulder and said, "Already done. Keep arguing if you want, though. Maybe you can pick your own next time."

“Excuse me, next time?”Jake looked at Jay, comical confusion on his face. But they ignored him and dragged him to a restaurant for lunch.

iii. When The Lights Start to Flicker

They'd been married a little over a year now, still living in the same apartment. The place had become a reflection of them- a small, sunlit sanctuary amid the constant rush of Shanghai. Sunghoon had started designing a house for them to build one day, a place they could call their own. He envisioned a space with wide windows to catch the morning light, a garden with space for their future children to play, and maybe even a little patch of grass where they could set up a swing. The plan was to settle in Shanghai, to raise their family here, to grow old together and, eventually, die here. Shanghai had become their city, their home.

Above their bed hung their only wedding photo- a courthouse wedding they had to have in Hong Kong. They hadn’t had time to plan something big, but the simplicity of it made it feel real in a way nothing else could. Their faces were flushed from laughter, hair messily styled from the winds on the ferry, clothes wrinkled and etched, eyes bright and full of hope- a stark contrast to the quiet mornings that followed.

The jade vase Jay had gifted them for their wedding day now sat on their balcony, a tiny lemon tree growing from it, its leaves stubborn and green despite the occasional gusts of wind. It was one of those small symbols of their life together- not perfect, not always flourishing, but resilient. Framed pictures dotted the apartment- photos from holidays with their families, snapshots from trips they’d taken with Jake and Jay’s families, and spontaneous polaroids of the two of them in various places, their smiles as wide and unguarded as the moments in which they were taken. 

Jay and Emma were divorced now, but they still kept in touch, if only for the sake of the kids. Jake’s children were growing fast, entering middle school now, a milestone Sunghoon couldn’t quite wrap his head around, hearing them yell “Samchon Sunghoon” over the phone all the time. Sometimes, they’d talk about their plans for the future- whether it was dinners at the new restaurant in Shanghai or weekend trips to the coast- always something to look forward to, always an excuse to keep moving forward, to keep adding to the timeline of their life.

Life seemed good. No- life was good. Better than Sunghoon had ever dared hope for. In the mornings, Y/N would make coffee while he sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his sketches for the house, and they’d talk about their day- trivial things at first: what they’d have for dinner, what he should wear to the meeting later. Then, there were the deeper conversations, the ones where they talked about their future, the one they were building together, like they were planting seeds for something that would last a lifetime.

Evenings were quiet. After dinner, they’d curl up on the couch, wrapped in soft blankets, watching old movies or the latest series they had gotten hooked on. Y/N liked to talk about their plans as if they were already there- as if the house was already standing, the kids already laughing in the garden. It felt like a dream Sunghoon was terrified to wake up from. There were nights he lay awake beside her, her steady breathing grounding him, his mind racing with the fear that it could all be taken away with a single misstep, a wrong decision. He felt too lucky, too undeserving of all of this. He couldn’t help but wonder, sometimes, if this was just a dream, one that he would wake up from at any moment- a dream that, apparently, was their life.

There were small moments, too- the way Y/N would smile when he’d finish a long day at work, the way she hummed a quiet tune while tending to the plants in their living room, the soft rustling of pages as she read before bed. Little things, but they were the rhythm of their life, the foundation of something they had both worked for and built from scratch.

Yeah. Life was great.

Until the night he came home and found her sobbing on the couch.

The sound cracked through the apartment like a whip, stopping him in his tracks. His bag slid forgotten from his shoulder as he rushed to her side, crouching in front of her, reaching out without even knowing what he would say. Y/N was folded into herself, shaking, the kind of sobs that came from somewhere deeper than just grief. It took long, fumbling minutes to piece the story together through her broken words.

“Do you remember my uncle John?” Y/N asked between sobs. “The one who…”

Killed himself?

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nodded, his hand gripping hers and holding her against her chest. 

“His daughter,” she sobbed. “His daughter hung herself.”

Her cousin- the eldest daughter of her late uncle- was gone. A suicide, barely days away from earning her PhD. She had flown home under the pretense of rest and family- and instead had left a note explaining she had come to say goodbye.

Sunghoon’s arms wrapped around her instantly, pulling her against him, shielding her from the world with nothing but his own helpless warmth. He listened as she cried out memories, old guilt, new grief, her voice cracking apart in ways he didn’t know how to fix. He stayed with her through the night, through the tremors of her heart breaking open again, whispering comfort into her hair even though he knew it couldn’t patch the hole now yawning wide inside her.

The days that followed blurred together. Y/N couldn’t sleep. She wandered the apartment like a ghost, curling into Sunghoon at odd hours, talking in tangled loops about death, about missing signs, about how unfair it all was. Sunghoon held her through it, steady as he could be, biting down his own helplessness because what else was there to do?

And then, one night, it shifted into something worse.

She sat on the couch again, curled up in her favorite worn sweatshirt, the fabric soaked with tears. But this time, when she spoke, the names were wrong. The story was wrong. She wasn’t talking about her cousin anymore- she was talking about her uncle. About the bathtub, the blood, the knife slipping from his hand. Events that had happened years ago, long before they met. Like all of that was happening now.

Sunghoon’s heart stopped cold.

He knelt in front of her, his hands cupping her tear-streaked face, his voice shaking as he tried to pull her back. “Y/N,” he said softly, urgently, "that was... years ago. Not now. Not this time. It's your cousin, remember?"

For a long moment, she just stared at him like she didn’t know where she was, like he was speaking a language she couldn’t quite catch. And then, slowly, she blinked, wiped her face with trembling fingers, and whispered, “Sunghoon? Right. Right… years ago.”

Sunghoon didn’t think much of it- he chalked it up to exhaustion. In all the time she spent crying and juggling work and keeping herself alive, it could easily have been her brain trying to keep up. The stress of grief, the late nights spent tossing and turning, and the constant pressure to appear okay- it all had to take its toll somewhere. He convinced himself it was just a phase, something temporary that would eventually pass. But deep down, there was a quiet, nagging feeling he couldn't quite shake.

Because one day, when she woke up beside him, Sunghoon felt it in the air before she even opened her eyes. She stared at him like she had never seen him before, like a stranger had slipped into their bed overnight. The seconds stretched and cracked, her gaze flickering with confusion, then panic. And in a heartbeat, she was scrambling out of bed, shouting “Bloody Mary!” like some kind of primal instinct had taken hold of her.

“Who are you?” She demanded, voice breaking, hands shaking, frantic. “How did you get in here?”

Sunghoon’s heart sank, raw and painful, as he sat frozen for a moment, the silence between them suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. He slowly got out of bed, each step toward her feeling like a weight around his chest, every word that left his mouth laced with fear.

“Y/N, it’s just me. It’s me- Sunghoon,” he whispered, his voice shaking, as if trying to pull her back from some invisible abyss. She froze, eyes wide, unblinking, but she wasn’t seeing him. Not really.

It took minutes- long, painful minutes- before her eyes cleared, and she blinked slowly, the pieces clicking back into place. She looked at him as if waking from a nightmare, and the moment she realized it, she crumpled into him, sobbing uncontrollably.

He didn’t leave her side that day. She didn’t go to work. She didn’t even get out of bed. Her body seemed to collapse in on itself, the weight of her confusion pressing down on her, and he held her tighter, as if that might make the pieces fit again.

There were other days, too, small moments that cut through him like a knife. She’d stand in front of the fridge, staring at it like she had no idea what it was for, no idea what she was looking for. He'd ask if she needed anything, and she’d shake her head with a small, distant smile, as if she were trying to remember the question.

And then there was the train.

The train ride that had started it all- the one that had sparked their first conversation, the first connection, the first laughter. Sunghoon would bring it up from time to time, a simple, warm memory to anchor them both. But Y/N would look at him, eyes soft and unfocused, and tilt her head.

“Train?” she’d ask, brow furrowing. “What train?”

He would try again, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Y/N, our train. Sixteen years ago, when we met. In Europe. You remember? We talked for hours.”

“Europe?” Her voice was small, uncertain, as if the word was a strange, unfamiliar sound in her mouth.

Sunghoon’s heart would crack a little more every time, and he’d blink back tears, trying to hold it together. She wasn’t her in those moments. The woman who had laughed with him for hours, who had stolen his heart on that train ride, seemed to slip farther away with each passing day.

He'd search her face for something- anything- that resembled the woman he knew. But all he’d find was a faint trace of recognition, a distant look in her eyes, as though she was staring at him from the other side of a foggy glass.

“I... I don’t remember, Sunghoon,” she’d say softly, a frown pulling at her lips. “I’m sorry.”

“How did we meet, Y/N? When was the first time we met?”

Y/N broke down in tears again because she, in fact, could not recall.

But then, the memory lapses seemed to fade. As she began to come to terms with her cousin’s death- after the funeral, after the guilt, after the crushing waves of grief- she seemed lighter, steadier. The moments of confusion slipped into the background, infrequent enough to feel like grief-induced fog rather than something concerning. And Sunghoon, so desperate to believe that everything was okay, let himself believe it too. He didn’t tell anyone. Not Jake, not Jay, not even her family. He pushed it away like a bad dream, convinced that maybe it had all just been stress, and that maybe, just maybe, they were fine again.

Until one day, when Y/N was on her way to the metro station for work and called him in full-blown panic. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered into the phone, breath sharp and uneven. “I don’t know where I’m going, Sunghoon. I don’t know why I left.”

He ran out of the apartment, sprinting down the streets near the station, his heart thudding so hard it made his ears ring. When he found her, she was sitting on the sidewalk by the flower vendor, her knees pulled to her chest, hands trembling. And when she looked up at him, her eyes flooded with relief. “Hoon,” she gasped, like she had been holding her breath the whole time. He dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms right there on the pavement. And at least she still remembered him. That was something- that was everything.

But the small incidents began piling up like dominoes. One evening after dinner with friends, she fumbled through her purse for the house keys, her anxiety rising with every second. “They're gone, I can’t find them, I must’ve lost them.” Her voice cracked with panic- until Sunghoon gently took her hand and unfolded her fingers to reveal the keys she’d been clutching all along. Another day, she left the stove on while boiling eggs and stepped out for groceries. The fire alarm screamed through the building, and Sunghoon came home to the smell of scorched metal and neighbors in the hallway, shaken.

Then there were the names- she’d start stories and stall mid-sentence, unable to remember who she was talking about. She began confusing days of the week, missed appointments she’d never forget before, and sometimes called objects by the wrong name- a toothbrush was a “face stick,” a clock was a “time circle.” She started repeating herself too- asking if they had milk three times in ten minutes. Sunghoon would answer each time like it was the first, but the silence that followed hurt worse than anything else.

Eventually, with a shaking hand and dread thick in his throat, Sunghoon called Jake.

“She’s forgetting things, Jake,” he said, voice low and broken. “Not just little things. Big things. She gets scared. She’s getting words wrong, she’s leaving the stove on. She called me from the metro station and didn’t know why she was there. And... it’s happening more and more often.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then Jake’s voice came through, steady but grave. “Sunghoon… She's showing signs of dementia. It sounds like she’s on her way to Alzheimer’s. You need to find out if anyone in her family has a history of it. Now.”

Turns out, after a gentle, seemingly harmless conversation Sunghoon started one afternoon while folding laundry beside her- “Hey, do you know if anyone in your family ever had memory problems?”- he found out that Y/N’s maternal grandmother had died of Alzheimer’s. It happened in a way her family never really talked about it. It had been brushed off as “old age,” but the signs were there, Y/N’s mother admitted later. She had forgotten her children’s names in the final years. She couldn’t even recognize her husband.

And from then on, it was like the truth became impossible to ignore.

Y/N’s memory declined like the last embers of a dying fire- slow at first, barely visible, but then suddenly collapsing inwards. She’d forget what room she was walking into, or why she was holding a spoon in the bathroom. She began writing notes on post-its and sticking them everywhere- Keys are on the hook. Your uncle and cousin are dead. You’re married to Sunghoon. Sometimes, even she couldn't read her own handwriting.

She stopped cooking. She’d forget she had started, then come back hours later to find uncooked rice soaking or wilted vegetables on the counter. Sometimes she’d call Sunghoon in tears because she couldn’t find the phone she was calling from. Her mood began to swing without warning. Sweet one moment, then suddenly furious, accusing Sunghoon of hiding things, or worse- cheating on her.

She’d wake up in the middle of the night and scream because she didn’t recognize their bedroom. There were days she wouldn’t even let him touch her, claiming he was an impersonator. “Where’s my husband?” She’d cry. “Sunghoon would never keep me here.” And then, as if a switch had flipped, she’d melt into his arms and sob.

Eventually, she quit her job and stopped working on her next book. She couldn’t remember her passwords, couldn’t keep up with deadlines, and once left her office because she got scared that the people there were “pretending” to know her. Sunghoon stopped going into the studio too. He asked to work remotely, spending most of his time beside her, trying to anchor her to the present. But she started living almost entirely in the past.

The outbursts became violent. She once threw a mug across the kitchen. She started locking herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. Jake and Y/N’s family began to insist gently- and then firmly- that Sunghoon consider long-term care. That he couldn’t do this alone, that she was slipping away and needed help.

Sunghoon didn’t want to let her go. He couldn’t imagine a day without her- her real, true self, even if she only appeared in flickers now. But after one especially bad night- Y/N screaming and crying, hitting herself, convinced her dead uncle was still alive and had just called her- he brought it up.

“I think maybe…” he whispered, kneeling beside her where she was curled up in the hallway, “maybe we should find a place. Somewhere safe. Somewhere with people who know how to help you.”

Her eyes blazed. “You want to lock me up?” She spat. “You think I’m crazy?”

“No- no, baby, that’s not-”

“Then why are you doing this to me?” she shrieked. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere! You’re not taking me!”

They tried again later. Her mother came, and Jake, and even her old colleague from the university. But each time, Y/N fought like a wild animal. She screamed and sobbed and clung to Sunghoon like a drowning woman. And each time, they had to remind her- again and again- You’re in the future. You have dementia. You don’t remember because your brain is forgetting things. You have Alzheimer’s.

Some mornings, she’d dress up in old college hoodies and ask what time her environmental psychology class was. She’d talk about a boy named Henry- someone she dated when she was 19- and wonder why he hadn’t called. Once, she set the table for dinner and asked if her uncle was coming. Another time, she stood by the window for hours waiting for her cousin to come pick her up.

Worst of all were the moments when her eyes would light up, recognition blooming, and she'd talk to Sunghoon like she remembered everything- only to forget his name halfway through the conversation.

One afternoon, they were walking back from a small bakery, when she wandered toward a street vendor selling baozi. She smiled warmly at the woman and launched into fluent French. The seller blinked, confused, and Sunghoon gently placed a hand on Y/N’s back.

“She thinks she’s in Marseille,” he whispered, forcing a smile.

Y/N turned to him, delighted. “Can you believe this aunty sells baozi in France?”

Sunghoon didn’t correct her. He just nodded, voice tight, “Yeah, baby. That’s wild.”

Because sometimes, lying was the kindest thing he could do.

And then… Y/N wasn’t lucid anymore. Not even for a moment, not even in the in-betweens. The disease had taken everything- her memories, her language, her personality. It stripped her of everything that made her her- and what remained was just a flickering ghost, a body that moved and blinked and sometimes smiled at nothing. A shell. Breathing, yes, but not alive- not really.

Sunghoon wasn’t her husband anymore. He was a kind man who brought her food and gently wiped drool from her chin. A stranger who helped her get dressed when she stared blankly at her hands like they didn’t belong to her. A shadow in her life that didn’t mean anything to her anymore, though to him- God, to him- she was still everything.

He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been truly there with him.

Was it months ago? When they went to that new Chinese film- the one they’d talked about for weeks? He remembered holding her hand in the theatre, feeling the tremble in her fingers, how she laughed at a joke five seconds after everyone else. Or maybe it was more recent- last week, maybe? When he was cooking dinner, she wandered in, looked at him for a long, glassy-eyed second, then slowly wrapped her arms around his waist. She just held him. No words, no explanation- just a small human miracle.

But that was gone now. Completely, utterly gone. 

She stared through windows like she was waiting for someone who would never arrive. She whispered to herself, nonsense words, phrases from decades ago. She forgot how to use the bathroom. Forgot how to chew. She didn’t recognize mirrors, or her own name.

And her eyes- those beautiful, sharp, sparkling eyes- were just fog now. Pale glass. Empty, like a house with all the lights turned off.

Sunghoon sat beside her every night and read the books they used to love. Even though she didn’t respond. Even though she didn’t blink. He combed her hair. He played her favorite music. He held her hand until she pulled away like he was nothing but static.

Jake flew in from China after a call with her doctors, something urgent in his voice. He couldn’t stand the silence on the other end of the updates anymore. Couldn’t stand the breaking in Sunghoon’s voice- the exhaustion, the hollowness. He met with every doctor, every specialist, brought files and reports and records. But they all said the same thing, their eyes filled with pity:

“She’s in the final stage.”

Jake stood in the cold hallway outside Y/N’s room that night, phone to his ear, as he talked to Jay back home. His voice was low, cracked.

“I don’t think Sunghoon can live through this,” Jake said. “Not this time. He loses Y/N, we lose him too.”

Jay didn’t respond for a long time. When he did, his voice was barely a whisper.

“There’s no cure for Alzheimer’s… is there?”

Jake’s silence was answer enough.

There was a long, bitter breath. The kind you let out when there’s nothing else to say.

“He’s dying in pieces,” Jake finally said. “Watching her fade day after day- he’s dying with her. But slower. Crueler.”

And it was true.

Sunghoon hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t been eating right. His eyes were rimmed red all the time, the edges of his mouth permanently turned down like someone grieving something invisible. He sat beside Y/N’s bed for hours, watching her blink at the ceiling or hum some broken tune from childhood. He whispered her name so many times it stopped sounding like a real word.

And sometimes, just sometimes, she would glance his way. Not with recognition. Not with warmth. Just the barest flicker. A look that said: You seem kind. But not: You’re mine. You’re the man I loved. The life I chose.

That had died a long time ago.

“No, no, don’t touch me!” Y/N screamed, thrashing her arms violently, knocking over the bedside lamp.

“Y/N, please- please, it’s me,” Sunghoon pleaded, hands hovering midair, helpless. “It’s me. It’s Sunghoon.”

“Don’t say my name like you know me!” She howled, eyes wide and wild, spit flying from her lips. “Where’s my Uncle?! Where’s my cousin? What did you do to them?!”

“Y/N, they’re not-” He couldn’t even say it. Not dead. Not gone. Not again.

She stumbled back into the dresser, knocking down her perfume bottles. The crash made her scream louder. “You kidnapped me! You sick bastard, get away from me!”

His legs gave way and he knelt on the floor, arms limp. The weight in his chest felt like drowning, like suffocating underwater and knowing no air was coming.

His Y/N, who once kissed him under the rain in Prague. Who held his hand through every storm. Who made burnt toast every morning and danced barefoot in the kitchen when she thought he wasn’t looking.

That woman was gone. And this… this terrified creature screaming at shadows- was what remained.

He watched her curl into a ball near the window, sobbing into her knees, whispering names of people who hadn’t existed in years. Her cousin. Her uncle. All dead. Yet in her head, they were just in the next room.

His lungs burned. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath.

She’s dying.

Not fast, not clean. But slow and fucking torturous- like a sun going cold over weeks, months, years. He couldn’t even scream. The pain was too heavy for sound.

He crawled toward her, barely able to speak. “You’re safe, Y/N. You’re safe. I would never hurt you.”

She flinched from him like he was a monster.

And it broke him. God, it broke him in a way no words could hold.

He wanted to tear his skin off. Rip out his heart and offer it to her like: Here. Take it. If it means you remember me again for just one minute- take it.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hollow. “Even if you don’t know who I am anymore. Even if this- if this is all that’s left of us.”

She just kept sobbing.

And Sunghoon sat beside her like a ghost in his own home, rocking slightly, eyes glazed with tears that would never stop falling.

He was losing her. Just like before.

But this time… this time, it wasn’t death that took her.

It was forgetting.

And that was worse.

Because now, he had to wake up every single day… to watch the woman he loved disappear right in front of him.

Over and over again.

Until there was nothing left.

iv. The Bath Water Was Cold

Y/N was lucid.

For the first time in weeks- maybe months- her mind was still. No fog, no missing names, no confusion. Just unbearable, crystalline clarity.

She sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, trembling, knowing that something was wrong. The moonlight streaked across the wooden floors like ghostlight, pale and haunting. The house was quiet. Too quiet, like it was already mourning her. Sunghoon was asleep beside her, his face serene like the past few years weren’t filled with the torture Y/N had brought upon him- she’d become a burden, she knew it.

The walls no longer combined into a collage of framed pictures, Sunghoon’s sketches and movie posters anymore- they were sticky notes, all small reminders of Y/N’s life and what it really was- the real version, not the jumbled memory version. The house was messy with ripped pillows, strewn blankets, a shattered mug in the corner of the kitchen, a broken window- she didn’t know what happened to cause it. But she knew it was probably because of her.

In the mirror, she saw herself.

Not the version Sunghoon kept insisting still existed- the brave, curious woman who once dove off boats and kissed him under stars. Not the woman who used to teach English, who quoted Greek philosophy, who went on a spontaneous Europe trip alone. No. This version was frail, hollowed, yes sunken, lips pale, skin dull. She looked like someone halfway to the other side already.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the sink, nails digging into the ceramic. She thought of her cousin, of her uncle, of the smell of her old childhood home, of France, of baozi, of the train ride with Sunghoon, of the moment she fell in love with him, of the night he asked her to marry him. But she couldn’t remember what had been happening for the past couple of years- she didn’t remember how Sunghoon was killing himself to take care of her, she didn’t remember the pain her condition brought upon her family- she just knew, like it was some sort of gut feeling.

She thought of what would happen tomorrow when she woke up. The blank stares, the panic, the shaking, the way Sunghoon’s voice cracked every time he had to explain who he was again. Like carving a wound into his chest, again and again, daily.

She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t be a monster in his story and he couldn't be the martyr to her story. She wouldn’t allow it.

So she ran a bath. Not hot. Not warm. Cold- the kind of cold where you hissed at the contact of water. And she wanted to feel it- wanted it to shock her back into herself, wanted the bite of it to remind her that she was alive- right now.

She stepped in slowly, like stepping into a grave. The porcelain shivered beneath her as she slid down, letting her head rest back.

And then, she slipped under.

No gasping. No flailing. Just… silence.

The last thought that crossed her mind was of Sunghoon’s face when she first kissed him. How his eyes fluttered shut, how gentle he was, how scared he was to fall in love. And how he did it anyway.

I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.

And just like that, Y/N was alone- ceasing to exist. The shadow she thought she’d gotten rid of had returned in a form much more permanent, much more numbing.

Sunghoon woke up to cold sheets.

That was the first sign. Y/N was always up early, but she always tucked herself back in, wrapped herself around him like ivy. The second sign was the silence. No kitchen clatter, no soft footsteps, no humming of French lullabies. The third sign was the open bathroom door.

“Y/N?” he called softly, walking barefoot across the wood.

Nothing.

He stepped into the bathroom and saw her.

At first, he didn’t understand. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was looking at. Then it hit him like a train. Her body, limp in the tub. Water still, blue, like glass around her. Her face turned slightly to the side, lips pale, eyes closed. So still, too still.

“No,” he breathed, and the world cracked.

He fell to his knees, the sound that escaped him not even human. It was raw, unhinged, guttural. He plunged his arms into the water, ice biting his skin, and pulled her out with all the strength he had left. Her body was heavier than he remembered. Deadweight. Dead. Dead. He screamed her name, pressed his ear to her chest, shook her, slapped her face gently, kissed her cold lips, sobbed into her skin.

“Come on,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, wake up, Y/N. Please. Baby. Just one more time.”

He tried CPR. He screamed until his throat bled. He called the ambulance. He called the police. He called Jake. He called her mother. Called his mother. He called anyone and everyone. But she was already gone- had been for hours.

He lay on the bathroom floor with her cradled against him, soaking wet, rocking back and forth like a man possessed. When the paramedics arrived, they had to pry her from his arms. He fought them. He kicked and screamed. He cursed God. He cursed the mirror. He cursed himself for not waking up earlier. For not sleeping with one eye open. For not knowing.

Jake arrived just as they were wheeling her body out. He caught sight of Sunghoon- barefoot, drenched, shaking like a leaf, bloodshot eyes, face a ruin of grief.

“I should’ve known,” Sunghoon rasped, collapsing into Jake’s arms.

Jake couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Just held him as Sunghoon shattered.

In the days that followed, Sunghoon stopped eating. Not out of protest, not out of some conscious decision to spiral- but because food simply didn’t make sense anymore. The smell of it nauseated him. His stomach didn’t growl; his body didn’t ask. It was like it too had given up, echoing his refusal to accept the world without her in it. He didn't move from their bedroom, except to use the bathroom or stare blankly out of the balcony where the lemon tree still stood tall in the jade vase Jay had gifted them, now with one yellowing leaf curling at its edge. The rest of the apartment felt like an unfamiliar museum of their life together- every framed photo now a relic, every memory preserved in glass. He sat curled up on her side of the bed for hours at a time, her old scarf clutched between his hands, threadbare and faded but still faintly warm with her scent. He would press it to his face, over and over, inhaling until his chest hurt- like if he could just breathe deep enough, she’d come back to him. But with each passing hour, the scent faded, and so did his hope.

The funeral happened without him. He couldn’t bear it- the thought of standing before a coffin and admitting aloud that it contained her. That the girl who once ran barefoot through summer rain with him, who cried watching terrible documentaries, who held his face and told him she would love him forever- was now a cold, still body in a box. He didn’t want the last time he saw her to be like that. He wanted to remember her in motion- laughing, crying, living. So when her parents and Jake pleaded with him to come, when Jay sent messages begging him to say goodbye properly, all he could do was shake his head and whisper, “I already did.”

People came and went- friends from university, colleagues from work. Emma and Minji came by with a bouquet and left it in silence. Jake and Jay stayed. They cooked, cleaned, and took calls when Sunghoon couldn’t answer them. They spoke in hushed tones with her family, organized papers, and cleared out her drawer of medications. Once, Jake heard Sunghoon crying softly in the kitchen, trying not to be heard, and for a split second, he wanted to go to him, to lean on someone. But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Because the only person he had ever learned to lean on was gone. And in her place was just this howling emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole.

He whispered into the silence at night, curling into himself on the cold mattress. “I love you. Come back.” He said it like a prayer, like a mantra, like a spell. Over and over. Sometimes it was a whisper, sometimes it was a scream into the hollow dark. But she never did. There was no sign. No dream, no flicker in the corner of the room that maybe, just maybe, she was still around. The scarf didn’t smell like her anymore. The lemon tree began to wilt. And one afternoon, he caught a glimpse of their wedding photo, and it felt like looking at strangers- a man and a woman in love, two people he no longer recognized. Because who was he now? What was left of her, other than ashes in an urn and silence in the house they were supposed to grow old in?

The bathwater was cold. He remembered the moment he found her like it was still unfolding in slow motion- the door ajar, the silence unnatural, the steam long gone, and her body submerged- pale, still, floating like she belonged to another world. He remembered the sound of his own scream. The way he’d collapsed to his knees and tried to lift her out- how heavy she was, like her spirit had left her behind, leaving only a shell. He remembered slipping in the water and choking on sobs, calling her name, begging, pleading, wailing until the neighbors banged on the door and Jake had to pry him away from her lifeless body.

She was gone. No coma. No miracle. No bargaining with God. No gentle goodbye. Just gone. And he had no one but himself to blame. 

And now all he had was this echoing ache, a grief too big to fit inside his ribs. He wished she had left a note. Something-  anything- to make sense of why she chose to leave like that. But maybe she didn’t need to explain. Maybe knowing her mind was unraveling was enough explanation. Maybe she didn’t want him to have to see her forget again. Maybe she thought she was saving him.

How ironic- how utterly, grotesquely hilarious- that the universe seemed to have written his life as a tragedy with no intermission. He had lost his first wife in the kind of grief that rots you quietly, only to stumble into Y/N’s love like it was salvation. But now she was gone too, and in her place was nothing. No redemption, no closure- just silence and rot. He had lost his first wife to find Y/N. He had lost Y/N to lose himself. It was as if love had only ever existed to teach him the shape of absence; as if love was nothing but a punishment wearing a beautiful face.

v. Epilogue: The Lightswitch 

When Sunghoon told people that he’d been married twice- that had been widowed twice, people looked at him with disbelief. As if someone with such an attractive face and impeccable talent as an architect could not possibly receive such punishment from the universe. And usually, it was the young women that reacted this way, the ones who had daddy issues and looked at him like he could fix them for the night. And to these girls, his loss and grief and brooding past was more attractive.

Sunghoon was old now. In another world, he would have been a grandfather by now- if life went according to his plan, if no one had passed away and if no one walked away like idiots and luck was on his side. And with age- since a young age, actually- Sunghoon had attended a plethora of funerals. He knew funerals the way he knew an old friend- always there in the back of his mind, stored with random information, but not knowing where to let that information go.

The first funeral he attended was when he was a kid. It was his grandfather’s funeral. And after his, more of his grandparents passed away and his life circled around grieving parents, white flowers hung around framed pictures of the deceased and rituals that he didn't understand the need for performance but since his parents dragged him to it, he had no choice. The funeral he attended as an adult- the first true loss he faced- was of his first wife’s. He was the one that organized her funeral- through tears and pain and weight he couldn’t carry himself but did anyway. Because as a husband, he was responsible for it. And because he respected her too much and loved her too much.

And the funeral after that? It was of his second wife’s- Y/N’s. And he didn’t exactly attend the funeral, nor did he play a part in organizing it. His friends and Y/N’s parents had taken full responsibility, letting Sunghoon grieve over the love of his life- because she truly was, Y/N. The girl he met on a train, the girl he reunited with in a random coffee shop in a random city and the girl who let him rediscover himself. And she was gone too fast, too soon. Sometimes he'd wonder how many good years they had together- four years? Maybe five? Before her cousin had passed away- he still remembered the date.

There was a piece of her in everything he did- his building in Shanghai, the rest of the buildings he’d ever design, the clothes he bought for himself now (he’d only buy clothes in colors Y/N liked) and the food he cooked for himself. Usually it was her spaghetti recipe or her mala tofu recipe. And everytime he cooked one of Y/N’s recipes, he’d cry while eating the food. 

Sunghoon even wrote a book, in the memory of Y/N. He’d dedicated it to her and also his first wife, his friends, and his family. The book was a collection of short stories that revolved around two characters- two characters who met in a train and chose to adventure through life together, who explored themes of love, grief and all the other complicated emotions Sunghoon never got to confront until writing that book. And when publishing it (with the help of Jay’s connections), he’d included his favourite picture of Y/N in the back page- it was of her standing in front of the skeleton of his Shanghai building wearing a bright yellow hard hat and ridiculously large reflective vest. He even had that picture framed on his desk.

The funerals that would follow felt more natural that the previous two. His parents passed away with old age, his dog (who he adopted a few months after Y/N’s death) passed away due to cancer and more older people he knew- Jake’s parents, Jay’s parents, Y/N’s parents… one by one, they all passed away. But Sunghoon wondered why he was still alive. He wondered why the universe had taken away everyone from him but refused to take him instead. 

Sometime after Y/N’s passing, he moved back to Korea. And he lived with Jay for the time being- both bachelors (but Jay had his kids over a lot), both focusing on their careers and both holding onto each other for support. Some nights, they went to Jake’s house where they would play with his kids and eat the dinner Minji cooked. And other nights, they would both be buried in their work, not a word exchanged between them. 

He didn’t intend on visiting Shanghai, not even to see his building. He was too afraid, too weak to look at the building and not remember the glow on Y/N’s face when he asked her to marry him. It was too personal, too obvious. Sometimes, a picture of his building would show up on the paper or on social media would bring an ache to his chest. And he tried moving on, to replace the memories, but somehow, everything that was his had also been hers. 

Eventually, living in Korea felt like a burden, too. And so he relocated to Paris, where he got a job with double the pay and where his company provided him with accommodation in a fancy apartment. He went to France because it was the country Y/N spoke about the most during her last few days- always recalling the Eiffel tower, always spewing in the little French she knew and always calling baozi baguettes. When he reminisced, Sunghoon was able to chuckle at those moments now.

Her death still defined him- it still defined how he lived his life and the choices he made, like he was running again. But it wasn’t negative anymore. Sunghoon was able to live on and he was able to do it contently. When asked if he was happy, he didn’t really know what to say. Or, to be precise, he never understood the question. Because during moments where he was watching some of his and Y/N’s favourite shows, when he was reading one of her favourite books, when he was working and designing buildings and houses that he knew were going to be used and when he found himself laughing in certain fleeting moments, he thought he was happy. There would be a spark, a heat, in his chest that came from the brief thawing of his heart.

But then, there were the nights Sunghoon would stare at one of herold pictures and feel his chest clench- like, physically feel his heart contract. There were the nights when he would look at himself in the mirror, old now with a slight stubble and a permanent weight in his brows, and wonder where his life was leading to, what he was planning on doing next. There were nights where he would come home to an empty house and realise that he was… empty. Truly, empty.

To his friends, Jake and Jay, he was hanging onto life. He was living his life, day by day, working and eating French food and going to operas and plays with his colleagues and drinking expensive French wine. And it wasn’t a bad life, not at all. Most people would dream to have his life. But Sunghoon dreamed of sharing this life with Y/N. Because, somehow, he knew she was the only person who could appreciate it like he did- he knew only she could brighten his days filled with wine and food and art.

He wouldn’t call himself suicidal, but Sunghoon had thought about it a few times- during lonely nights where the cold wrapped him and he wished it was water instead, or during days he had to cook meals for himself and he wished the knife was slicing through his wrists instead of fresh tomatoes. They were intrusive thoughts, really- thoughts that emerged when he was tired and exhausted. 

To save himself from his thoughts, Sunghoon adopted a bunny. A grey, fluffy thing that hopped around his apartment and followed his feet, batted her ears and nibbled on carrots when he gave them to her. She also liked napping near his jade vase that stood in his balcony- the one that Jay gifted them all those years ago- which now potted a mint tree instead of a lemon tree. She was quiet, gave him company and made him smile with how dumb she was sometimes- knocking over pencils, jumping on counters to reach him and wiggling her tail to get his attention. In many ways, the bunny reminded him of Y/N- that she was quiet but always around him, always filling his space when he didn’t know he needed it. 

Y/N did used to say she wanted a bunny- especially during the first few years of their marriage. She wanted all sorts of animals- cats, dogs, bunnies, hamsters, birds, fish. Sunghoon had always refused- not because he hated animals but because he feared he had no time to care for one. He’d already gotten a dog, one that eventually died due to cancer. So the next best thing was this bunny, who he named after Y/N’s favourite color- Red.

She used to say red was her favourite color because Sunghoon’s favourite sweater was red in color. And also because the train they had met in, the one in Europe, was also painted in red. She used to tell him that a lot- well, until her dementia kicked in and she forgot she even had a favourite color. 

It was Sunghoon and his pet bunny against the world. It was odd, telling his colleagues and friends that he adopted one- a man so old who should have been worried more about taxes and acquiring property was more concerned over pets. But Sunghoon didn’t mind it. He liked that a pet was all he had to worry about- a pet that reminded him of her. And he’d send folders and folders of pictures of Red to Jake and Jay and they’d always make fun of him, but eventually admitted that they loved the bunny too.

Jake and his family even took a trip to Paris once and the kids got to play with Red. They loved feeding her and by the time they left, Red was a bit chubby and overweight for her size. 

When Jay finally visited him in Paris, they had spent a weekend exploring parts of the town Sunghoon didn’t have the heart to go alone. He finally got to eat at restaurants and cafes that seemed too posh to dine alone in and he finally went to museums that were the hotspot for tourists. 

And sometimes, during times like this when he was reminded that he had a support system who were willing to travel across borders to come see him, he didn’t feel as lonely anymore. He didn’t feel the need to feel sad, to feed into his depressive cycle, to wonder what would happen next. Because Sunghoon had lived- he’d lived enough to make himself proud, to make Y/N proud. And he’d lived enough to honour his first marriage- the fact that he didn’t give up then. 

Sunghoon, until his last breath, lived for the girl who gave him a second chance, in remembrance of the girl who taught him how to hope again. Because it wasn’t the end of the world- not yet. And it wouldn’t be for a long time. And he realised that even though Y/N might have been the lightswitch, Sunghoon had been his own bulb the whole time.

END CREDITS

It was one of those slow, golden evenings in Shanghai, the kind that curled into your bones and made you believe that maybe- just maybe- life could stay gentle forever. The sky blushed a deep rose, and the warm autumn breeze carried the scent of sweet osmanthus from the trees below. On the balcony of their little third-floor apartment, Y/N and Sunghoon sat cross-legged, sharing ice cream mooncakes from an artisan cafe, laughing at each other’s messy eating habits.

Y/N had a smear of ice cream sauce on her cheek, and when Sunghoon pointed it out, she’d stuck her tongue out at him in defiance. He leaned over to kiss it away instead of wiping it, and she’d giggled like she was twenty and in love for the first time.

Inside, the record player spun something old and scratchy- an Ella Fitzgerald vinyl she insisted she didn’t buy just for the aesthetic. The music floated around them like a lullaby, soft and warm. They hummed along, pretending to know the lyrics, pretending the world wasn’t hurling toward something unknowable.

But outside, the real magic was happening.

It was the Mid-Autumn Festival. Lanterns, thousands of them, were drifting up into the night sky, glowing softly like heartbeats in the dark. From their rooftop, they had a perfect view. Lights rising like dreams, weightless, fearless. The entire city felt like it had collectively exhaled.

Y/N, eyes wide and glittering, rummaged under the deck chair and pulled out a little paper lantern of their own. It was handmade- clumsily folded, leaning slightly to the left, the soft red tissue already creased from too many attempts. She held it out to him with both hands like it was sacred.

“Write something,” she said, handing him a pen.

Sunghoon quirked an eyebrow. “What are we, teenagers?”

“Obviously,” she replied, grinning. “But it has to be a secret. Fold it up, tuck it inside the lantern, and then we’ll let it go.”

He hesitated- but the look in her eyes disarmed him. That look always did.

So they wrote.

Y/N sat quietly for a long time, chewing her lip, as if she were trying to write something that might change the trajectory of the universe. When she was done, she folded the paper twice, kissed it once, and slid it into the lantern.

Sunghoon finished his in half the time but held onto the paper longer, staring down at the ink as if the words might disappear if he blinked too long. Then he, too, folded it gently and tucked it inside.

They lit the flame together. And as the lantern began to rise, fragile and glowing, Y/N turned to him, her voice softer than the wind. “Let’s promise each other something.”

He looked at her, not the lantern. Always her.

“What?”

“Let’s promise to grow old together. Really old. Wrinkled and annoying. Still dancing in the kitchen at 80, still calling each other stupid names. I want to be the weird couple yelling at pigeons in the park. You and me, always.”

He chuckled, a sound from deep in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, hand finding hers. “Promise.”

She leaned into him, her head on his shoulder like she’d done a thousand times before. “Even if I forget everything one day,” she whispered, almost too softly, “promise you’ll remind me.”

His heart ached without knowing why. He tucked his fingers into her hair, breathed her in.

“Every day,” he murmured. “I’ll remind you every damn day.”

The lantern floated higher, a red star against the indigo sky.

Later- too much later- he would find the tiny notes tucked inside the lantern box. Burnt at the edges from the heat of the flame but still legible.

Y/N’s said: “I hope I never forget how it feels to love you. But if I do- please love me loud enough that I remember.”

Sunghoon’s said: “Please let this last forever. Let time be kind to us. Let her be happy.”

They stood on the balcony long after the lantern disappeared from view, hands entwined, the city alive around them. Time, for once, pausing just long enough to let them exist in peace. And in that single, suspended moment, it felt like nothing could ever touch them. That their love, reckless and tender, would outrun everything. 

Even memory. Even death.

[poptheweasel]

Turkish Delight

——————————————

Cory quickly realised he’d made a mistake.

He just couldn’t help it. Cory was enjoying an evening coffee at one of those small classic neighbourhood coffeehouses in Istanbul, the kind frequented mostly by aged locals, not young tourists like him. He felt and looked out of place, sure, but it was fine. Sitting at a far corner of the cosy establishment, no one bothered him and he bothered no one. It took him a little while, but Cory was just starting to feel at ease.

And then he entered. Clearly a regular, judging by the way he swaggered in and interacted with the owner and other customers. But he stood out among the others in that he wasn’t old like the rest of them; in fact, he and Cory seemed to be the only men under 40. He sat at a table at the other end of the place, placing him on Cory’s line of sight.

Cory was immediately captivated by this stranger, not fully understanding why. Maybe it was because the guy contrasted so strongly with himself. Not that Cory wasn’t attractive — of course he was — but something about the man transfixed him. “Fuck, he’s hot,” Cory thought. Maybe it was the gleaming light brown eyes to Cory’s own icy blue, or the meticulously-groomed heavy stubble the guy sported that accentuated his sharp jawline; maybe it was his athletic physique, his well-defined body betrayed by a shirt that was clearly a size too small, or maybe it was how hairy he was, the dark hair very conspicuously thickly covering his sturdy legs and arms offering a stark contrast to Cory’s blond hairs barely visible from a distance… Whatever the case, Cory just couldn’t take his eyes off that Turkish guy. He wanted him, to feel him, to taste him, and imagined all sorts of scenarios.

That’s when Cory realised: he was shamelessly ogling the man. Snapping out of his reverie, he noticed the hairy hunk staring right back at him, completely emotionless. Shit. Flushed and embarrassed, Cory hurriedly paid for his coffee and left, all the while the man continuously and intently observed his every move. Just as he exited, the guy whom he mentally violated also got up to follow him.

His cheeks still ruddy and warm from the unfortunate encounter a while ago, Cory briskly made his way through the labyrinthine streets of the hilly city, desperate to return to his accommodation. The Turkish guy wasn’t too far behind him; Cory meanwhile sensed he was being pursued so he quickened his pace. In an attempt to throw him off the trail, Cory turned a corner into a quiet narrow alleyway flanked by an empty lot and vacant buildings.

Right then, a deep voice called out from behind Cory.

“Hey, you.”

Cory froze, his face drained of the redness. He stood in silence, not knowing whether to respond or run away. He was terrified and felt faint. Only the fresh cool evening maritime breeze kept him on his wobbly knees as he shuddered, half because of the chill, half because he feared what would happen next. Ultimately, after a tense while which felt like an eternity, Cory turned around to see the man approaching him. Although Cory still was scared, he weirdly felt an emergent sense of excitement as well.

Soon, Cory stood facing the Turk. A dimly-lit streetlight was the only source of illumination through which Cory could better appreciate the figure before him. He noticed how the guy was even more hirsute than he realised, with chest hair spilling over his too-tight shirt. Cory’s cock twitched.

“I saw you look earlier,” the guy drily said, maintaining intense eye contact with Cory.

“Ye… No! I mean, yeah, I was…” Cory stammered sheepishly. Fuck, why was he getting turned on all of a sudden?

“Like what you see?”

Cory gulped and nodded. His knees were about to give in when the hunk suddenly grabbed Cory by the shoulders with his hairy meaty hands and yanked him close to give him a forceful yet passionate sloppy kiss. Cory was taken aback and screamed internally, but at the same time, he liked what was happening. Wasn’t this what he wanted in the first place? He didn’t resist the surprising advances; he simply couldn’t resist. He reciprocated, their tongues roaming each other’s mouths. As the Turk continued to shove his tongue in him, Cory felt like putty — he’d let the guy do anything to him, he’d be happy to be used by this gorgeous hairy man in whatever way.

The man’s stubble scratched and tickled Cory’s soft skin around his lips moistened by the wet kisses. Cory felt strong itching sensations in the same area. He normally kept himself clean-shaven, mainly because he could only manage to grow some wispy hairs on his face. As the Turkish guy momentarily pulled away from the kiss though, the area around Cory’s mouth was substantially darker than it was just a minute ago, the beard growth process being accelerated. Cory ignored the itch and continued making out.

After a while of spit-heavy lip-locking, the Turk pulled down his shorts and grabbed Cory by the shoulders, pushing him down to his knees. Cory, at eye level with the guy’s cut 8-inch cock, was completely mesmerised by the sight and especially the scent; the pubes were so dense, they trapped and collected all the musky sweat and oozing precum. The smell was rather pungent but Cory didn’t mind at all. If anything, the odour had a simultaneously captivating and relaxing effect on him and he felt compelled to inhale it more.

Cory piggishly sniffed the ridiculously hairy crotch, even licking the beads of moisture off individual strands of pubes. While doing so, the hair on his temple grazed the guy’s leaking member, some of the precum sticking onto his blond hair. His hair absorbed the pre almost instantly and began to darken, the change in colour spreading from where the precum had been smeared. The hair on Cory’s scalp lost its sandy hue but retained its sheen, turning browner and darker as the pigmentation spread from the roots to the tips. His face still buried in the thick pubes, Cory felt the man jerk himself, squeezing out more pre from his throbbing cock. “Suck,” he commanded. Cory swiftly obliged.

Cory was dazed; the public setting, the man’s body and scent, his own eagerness… all that was happening was wilder than anything he’d ever dreamt of. After admiring the juicy rod bobbing up and down in front of him, Cory closed his eyes and got to work, savouring the taste of the musky cock with a faint taste of piss. He took the whole length in his mouth and down his throat, blowing to the best of his abilities. He eagerly lapped up the copious amounts of pre from the Turk’s slick pulsating member, coating his tongue.

The more he sucked and swallowed, the more hairs grew on his face. The itch intensified above and below Cory’s lips, little needle-like black hairs pushing out from his smooth skin and multiplying below his nose and on his chin. The beginnings of a luscious beard then steadily migrated outwards, short pointed hairs breaking out all over Cory’s cheeks and linking with his tapered sideburns. By now, Cory had grown a remarkable designer stubble which grew in thicker by the minute and slowly crept down his chin. At the same time, his face took on a slight tan, darkening independently of the hair growth that took over the whole lower half of his face. Cory’s jaw looked more rugged too, becoming more square and masculine.

Cory carried on blowing his new acquaintance, completely oblivious to the changes affecting him. “You like?” asked the man. “Mmhrrrgggmm,” Cory could only nod and let out a gurgled hum of approval to affirm. The Turkish guy then forcefully rammed his cock down Cory’s throat, making him gag. Just as he did, Cory’s Adam’s apple jutted out more prominently. He opened his wet eyes to look up at the hunk; as he blinked away the tears, his blue eyes lost their iciness as the colour shifted from a cold blue to a warmer mixture of green and brown with flecks of gold. With his new hazel eyes, Cory saw the guy with a smirk on his face for the first time.

Cory’s body continued to change. He felt bulkier, the clothes he wore starting to strain against the muscles growing on his formerly slim frame. He also felt so much warmer despite the breeze; he felt heat radiating all throughout his body from the pit of his stomach and was sweating profusely as a result. He also felt his whole body itching uncomfortably by now. Watching the Turk strip and bare his gloriously hairy body, Cory did the same — he certainly wasn’t as hairy as the guy. Yet. The hair growing on Cory’s face continued to travel down, prickly hairs sprouting on his neck, past his collarbones and on his chest. Cory initially only had a faint patch of barely-visible hair right at the centre of his chest, but as the hairs darkened and thickened, they fanned out towards his pits, forming whirling patterns around his nipples and covering his whole chest with stubbly black hair, like a freshly-mowed lawn. The prickly sensation migrated south to his midriff, a trail of nascent coarse hairs sprouting from his chest down to his navel and then his crotch. From there, the newly-formed treasure trail widened and began to spread outwards in all directions, hairs multiplying rapidly until Cory’s whole torso was blanketed in a field of short hair which connected his stubble and still-sparse pubes.

After a few minutes of Cory sucking, slurping and gagging on the fat Turkish cock, the guy made him stop. Cory reluctantly agreed. The guy then grabbed Cory by his wavy, shiny black hair and got him up back on his feet. Cory was in a state of utter bliss, drunk on pre and musk, drooling uncontrollably. The Turk lifted his arm, exposing his smelly pit completely covered in tangled wiry hairs. The dark hairs were so incredibly dense and tightly-spaced that Cory thought he was staring into the void. “Sniff and lick,” he told Cory. Who was Cory to say no? He stumbled forward, faceplanting right in the sweaty jungle of pit hairs. The pit musk was surely at least ten times as potent as the musk from crotch! The pungent scent was overwhelming; it burned Cory’s nostrils, and yet his cock throbbed even harder, dripping pre all over. What would have been torture felt more like heaven to Cory. He grunted as he took a deep whiff of the rank musk and licked the matted hairy mess soaking wet with sweat. It was absolutely acrid, and the sharp sourness also scalded his throat, making him cough. Cory was immobilised though, his head held in place in the Turk’s reeking hirsute pit; he let out muffled moans, struggling to breathe. Inhaling the musk and gulping down obscene quantities of rancid sweat accelerated Cory’s changes.

Cory’s body ached all over as he increased in size, growing a few inches and gaining muscle mass. His muscles pulsated and expanded; it really looked as if someone was blowing air into him. His chicken legs inflated to become sturdy trunks, with hard thighs and bulging calves. His arms too grew larger, the veins protruding, his forearms thickening along with his biceps and triceps which doubled in size. Cory’s shoulders and chest broadened, providing him with a more robust, rugged physique. His abs also became prominent, the tight muscles emerging with several popping sounds. Cory was granted a temporary reprieve from piggishly eating out the Turk’s pit, leaving him to gasp for fresh air. The guy then tugged sharply on Cory’s nipples, making him let out a simultaneous yelp and low moan. As if some mechanism had been activated, Cory’s pecs ballooned and jutted out forward, his nipples looking thicker, longer and juicier than the goose-pimple ones he had before. Along with his pecs, his ass also expanded; what was once fairly flat and sad-looking was now globular, the firm cheeks jiggling with every move.

Cory’s puppeteer shoved Cory back into his other, equally hairy and musky pit. With his face buried in the nasty armpit, Cory panted and grunted as the intoxicating scent continued to work its magic. Cory’s brows became wider and bushier. The stubble on his face grew darker and thicker, the hairs coarsening and lengthening as well as multiplying in greater numbers. Starting from under his nose, more hairs poked out to give him a moustache which covered his whole upper lip. The hairs on his chin grew out in all directions, growing unruly and tangling up as Cory rubbed his face in the Turk’s manly pit. His cheeks underwent the same treatment, thick beard hairs pushing out from the follicles and cascading down, following Cory’s rugged jawline and covering the entire area of his face below his nose, the new bushy growth connecting with the moustache and the hairs below his lips. The growth continued to give Cory an incredibly thick medium-length beard that he’d only ever dreamt of having, now coated with a layer of musky sweat and Cory’s own saliva owing to his ravenous worshipping of the Turkish man’s pits. The man held Cory firmly in place, as if to cure the scent onto him.

This second explosion of hair travelled down Cory’s heaving body. Where the first wave of hair growth resulted in hairs which looked trimmed, the wiry, curly growth this time gave him a natural look, the hirsuteness of a man who had never shaved in his life, possibly unable to, due to how densely and much the hair grew. Coarse hairs burrowed their way out of Cory’s shoulders, leaving a forest of curly fur surrounding his neck, and flowed down his swollen upper arms and to his forearms, forming whirls and wave-like patterns, the wild, dense growth of black hair obscuring the view of the skin underneath — his arms looked as if they were wrapped in steel wool. Cory’s hands cracked and popped as they grew meatier and burlier, his fingers rough and calloused and speckled with thick hairs, giving him an almost beastly appearance.

The rapid growth of hair continued unabated, Cory feeling an intense itch under his arms. Soon, dark pinpricks appeared in his shaven pits, increasing exponentially. From those black dots, long wiry hairs shot out, growing thicker and longer, seemingly watered and fed by the sweat that had accumulated in his pits all this time. Radiating from the centre of the pits, the hairs blanketed a larger area, connecting with the hairs on Cory’s chest. Much like the Turk’s pits, Cory’s pit hair grew unwieldy and matted, the strands twisted and twirled from both the growth and the dampness. The moisture trapped under the massive tufts of pit hair emanated a smell. Indeed, accompanying the growing hairs was a stink, the same kind of rank smell that Cory had been inhaling for some time now, which grew increasingly more powerful as the fur grew in. Cory’s chest hair also began to lengthen at the same time, the hairs coiling out and curling and bunching up. Any remaining empty space was filled with thick wiry hair springing out in rapid succession. The amount of hair was grotesque; the eruption of wiry black hairs created a rug of fur on Cory’s toned body, completely enveloping his torso such that his pecs and abs were hardly visible at all, only his engorged nipples barely poking out from the dense field of hair.

Together with the massive hair growth and coupled with the increased pigmentation in his hairs, the light tan which had developed on his face also migrated down. Cory’s pale complexion on his face was already completely replaced by a natural tan, a light sun-kissed brown. The colour seeped down his neck, his back, his shoulders, like someone had dumped a bucket of oil on Cory. The dim orange streetlight made his tan appear darker, what little bits of skin peeking out through the dense hair glistening with the light reflecting off the sweat. Soon, all of Cory’s skin was a luscious earthy tone, not that much of it was visible under all the fur carpeting his whole body.

Cory’s raunchy pit sweat guzzling was interrupted when the Turk made him turn around and stand facing the wall of the vacant building. “Ass out,” the guy ordered. Cory immediately obeyed, panting like a dog that’s had too much sun. He was excited by the prospect of getting railed by this hot Turkish hunk, not having realised all the changes that affected him. Beads of precum dribbled out of Cory’s aching cock, which in the meantime had also darkened to match the rest of his complexion. His balls, larger than before, also churned. Cory felt the Turk holding him from behind, grinding his wet slick cock against Cory’s ass crack filling with hair. “Ready?” asked the man. “Fuck yes,” Cory responded. The guy spat right onto Cory’s tight puckering hole. Wiry black hairs blossomed around the pink ring, spreading out alongside the hairs growing on his crack. The light dusting of hair on his bouncy glutes was swiftly overtaken by curly dark hairs.

The Turk slowly inserted his cock lubed up with Cory’s saliva and his own precum into Cory’s inviting hairy hole, making Cory emit low moans and animalistic grunts sounding deeper than the previous ones. The man thrust in and out of Cory in a rhythmic fashion, Cory’s hole wrapping around his cock, basically milking him of his pre. With every thrust and pound and depositing of the Turkish guy’s precum in him, Cory changed further. His furry mounds ballooned even more. Pound. Fuzz grew in from the area of his coccyx and crept up the entire length of his spine, connecting with the thick curly hairs on his shoulders. Pound. The same fuzz then fanned out from the backbone, coating the lower back and colonising the previously hairless area of the shoulder blades. Pound. The wispy hairs on his whole back turned darker, growing longer and thicker, thousands of individual strands unfurling as they burrowed out of Cory’s smooth skin with great strength, leaving him with an impenetrable pelt of fur on his back. Pound. The wiry hairs erupted in greater quantities on his legs and snaked down, growing all over and wrapping around his thighs and calves and shins. Pound. The midnight black hairs on Cory’s legs thickened considerably that they were now visible from a distance, in stark contrast to before when he still had barely-visible light hairs against his pale white skin.

The pounding increased in speed, the Turk’s hairy low-hanging golf ball-sized balls slamming and smacking sonorously against Cory’s voluptuous hairy ass, also making his balls increase in size to those of tennis balls. Each frenzied slap caused Cory’s bush to fill in and spread beyond its confines at the base of his penis. He had previously kept his crotch trimmed, but that was history now; his pubes more closely resembled black fur due to how dense and tightly-packed it was. It was impossible to see the skin underneath the bush which had basically spread to the navel and also around Cory’s hips, even having crawled a little bit up his shaft. The wild, unkempt matted fur on his groin, much like the coarse tufts of hair under his arms, collected both musk and moisture, rendering it damp and especially pungent. It was only this time that Cory realised how much he reeked, with his arms outstretched to prop himself against the wall as he was fucked by his dream man. He didn’t care that he stunk; no, it turned him on, even. His dick responded accordingly, pulsating painfully — as the Turkish guy continued to thrust rigorously, Cory’s leaking cock grew larger incrementally, as did his balls which were engulfed in wiry hairs, and Cory produced more and more pre which trickled down his shaft and onto his extremely tangled mess of a bush, stinking it up even more.

Very little of Cory as he once was at the coffeehouse remained. At this point, he resembled an extremely hairy, beefy Turkish man, handsome and masculine, oozing testosterone out of every pore, blessed with the perfect manly genes such that luscious fur carpeted his body front and back, head to toe. After a few more thrusts and plunging and poking, the Turk erupted with one drawn-out growl and heavy panting and flooded Cory’s insides with his hot, sticky seed, depositing load after load in him. On Cory’s part, he too was close to cumming. As his cock reached a fully erect length of at least 9 inches, his foreskin retracted down his pulsing shaft and vanished altogether, leaving him with a newly-cut slab of meat. Cory blasted — hands-free — at the same time as the other Turk, leaving a puddle of splooge on the ground and painting a fair bit of the wall he propped himself up against. As he came, so came out the last vestiges of his former whiteness, his balls now filling and churning with Turkish cum.

The guy pulled out of Cory with a shlorp, cum dribbling out of Cory’s manhandled hairy hole and clinging onto the thick curly hairs on Cory’s ass and legs. Both men were breathing heavily, completely spent. They momentarily stood in silence punctuated by the sounds of buzzing insects and the occasional evening breeze. The other Turkish man, now slightly smaller in build than Cory, pulled Cory close for a kiss, gently and tenderly this time, not minding the pre and drool that had stuck and dried onto Cory’s majestic bushy beard.

“What’s your name?” the guy asked, thumbing Cory’s still-hard protruding nipples. Cory opened his mouth to respond but he hesitated. He suddenly realised he didn’t remember his name — what was his name? What a strange thing to forget! He knew it started with a C… no! It wasn’t a C, silly him. It started with a K, of course, and there was an R in there. K… Kor…? Ker…

“Kerem,” he finally answered. Yes, Kerem; that was his name, the name that he’d obviously had all his life. He’d always lived in Istanbul, hadn’t he? He liked the sea and the hills, his native culture, and the men, especially the men — those hirsute and masculine like him, of course — how happy is he who calls himself a Turk!

“I’m Semih,” said the other man who had followed Kerem all the way from the coffeehouse in the hopes of having fun with him. He certainly did get lucky, even out in public like this. “Evimde bir kez daha?”

“Peki, kanka.” Kerem was so ready for round two with Semih.

—————————————————

Hi all, decided to upload something original for a change. Kudos to @hairyjocktf for the encouragement!

[clinicse]

DCİDENTALCLİNİC - DEVASA+ (2)

When it comes to achieving a radiant smile, dental crowns in Turkey are becoming an increasingly popular choice for patients seeking exceptional dental care at competitive prices. With advanced techniques and skilled professionals, Turkey has emerged as a hub for dental tourism, drawing individuals from around the globe. This blog post will explore the diverse options available for dental crowns, alongside essential treatments like endodontics in Antalya and other parts of Turkey. 

Dental crowns turkey

When it comes to restoring damaged teeth, dental crowns Turkey have become increasingly popular among both locals and tourists. These crowns not only enhance the appearance of your smile but also provide essential support to weakened teeth. By choosing Turkey for your dental needs, you may find high-quality treatments at a fraction of the cost compared to other countries.

One of the primary reasons many opt for dental crowns in Turkey is the availability of advanced technology and experienced dentists. Many clinics in popular cities like Istanbul and Antalya use the latest techniques and materials to ensure patient safety and satisfaction. This combination of affordability and quality has positioned Turkey as a leading destination for dental tourism.

Moreover, the dental crown procedures typically involve a seamless experience: from initial consultations to the final placements. Most clinics offer tailored packages that include not just the crowns but also accommodation and transportation, making the entire process convenient for overseas patients. This makes Turkey an attractive choice for those seeking effective dental solutions.

Endodontics antalya

Endodontics is a specialized branch of dentistry that focuses on the diagnosis, treatment, and management of dental pulp and the surrounding tissues. In Antalya, numerous dental clinics offer advanced endodontic procedures to address various dental issues, ensuring that patients achieve optimal oral health.

Choosing an endodontist  Antalya provides you with access to innovative techniques and technologies. These professionals are well-trained in procedures such as root canal therapy, which can help save a tooth that is severely infected or damaged. Patients can expect a comfortable experience with modern anesthesia methods and post-treatment care.

Many dental practices in Antalya also emphasize the importance of preventative care in endodontics. Regular check-ups and timely interventions can prevent more serious issues down the line, promoting long-lasting dental health. Whether you require a routine examination or a complex procedure, Antalya offers a wealth of options to meet your endodontic needs.

Endodontics turkey

Endodontics Turkey is a rapidly growing field, where advanced techniques and technologies are used to treat dental conditions affecting the tooth pulp. Patients seeking quality care often turn to Turkey because of its affordable prices and high standards of dental services.

In Turkey, endodontic treatments are performed by skilled professionals who utilize state-of-the-art equipment. This includes digital imaging and modern sterilization techniques, ensuring safety and efficacy during procedures such as root canals.

Choosing endodontics in Turkey not only provides access to expert dental care but also offers an opportunity to explore the beautiful country while getting treatment. Many dental clinics in Turkey cater to international patients, providing personalized treatment pl

Teeth whitining antalya

When it comes to achieving a radiant smile, teeth whitening Antalya has become increasingly popular. Many people seek this cosmetic treatment to enhance their overall appearance and boost their confidence. The beautiful resort city of Antalya offers a variety of dental clinics that specialize in effective teeth whitening procedures.

Apart from the professional services available, patients can expect to find a blend of modern techniques and advanced technology devoted to teeth whitening. Options include in-office treatments that provide quick results and at-home kits that allow for gradual whitening. Both methods can be customized to fit individual needs and preferences.

In addition to aesthetic benefits, teeth whitening can also contribute to better oral hygiene. A brighter smile often encourages patients to maintain their dental care routine, as they become more conscious of their overall appearance. With the picturesque backdrop of Antalya, many find this dental journey to be a rewarding experience.

[bcacstuff]

Sunrise somewhere near the east coast of Brazil.

I’m not sure what time it is, or really where I am. Somewhere near the coast of Brazil, I know that; sometime during my birthday - I know that, too. I've flown past the Hindu Kush Himalaya, Pamirs, Caucasus, and Atlas Mountains, and will soon cross the Andes. I'm headed to Chile to meet my family after a long time away. A blessing, to be sure, and made even more sweet coming as it is on the heels of an incredible adventure in Nepal.

I’ve spent much of the 12 hours since Istanbul sorting through photos, visual portals into experience far away yet close at hand, pixel-born reminders of a trip, a trail, impact and experience and immersion.

I’m never quite sure how to share tales of any adventure, less so one with such meaning (to me at least) as this past one. The standard travelogue seems too mundane, too pedantic, to capture it all. Some deep and philosophical tome equally missing the mark.

So, perhaps neither, maybe some of both, a hope of struck balance, or at minimum translation of time and place and experience and people. And not all at once: Like any expedition, these things must be savored, a bit at a time, building and percolating and settling and expanding yet again. So, first, the beginning…

Me on the Kongma La back in 1993, wondering about remote valleys less-trodden than Khumbu.

I guess it was about 31 years ago - December 1993 - that Stuart Sloat and I bashed our way across the lower Khumbu Glacier from Lobuche and, laden with heavy packs, made our way to the Kongma La. We had no map, just a vague point from locals and the knowledge that there was a lake up there somewhere. We found only a puddle and a frigid night, but awoke to a splendid sunrise and the Star Wars zaps of sun-warmed ice cracking, alerting us to the real lake on the east side of the pass (as opposed to our mud wallow on the west). Glorious views, backlit Lhotse and Nuptse and countless more unknowns behind, peak on peak and valley on valley leading who knows where. I knew someday, maybe, I’d get into those valleys, wander the paths away from it all.

Thirty years later, I sat in a teahouse in Chheskam, the northern triumvirate of Mahakulung, with Jhanak Karki and Harka Kulung Rai, talking about opportunity over a steaming mug of tongba. We had just trekked parts of the Mundum Trail from Phedi over Silicho to Mahakulung visiting dZi Foundation work and communities; and then we went up above, following the Hunku Khola just enough to get a taste, an idea of what may lay above. The townspeople and government were excited as we were, having had the same idea for years: create a trail up the Hunku, connecting Chheskam to Kongme Dingma and the quite-popular Mera Peak trek.

It was all possible, all doable, but like the proverbial tree falling silently in the woods, this new trail would be all for naught if no word got out about it. But, I had an idea, and it seemed possible.

Two months before, I shared coffee in a small cafe in Glasgow with Sam Heughan. We’d “met” months earlier on Zoom calls for an ill-fated film project, and then I stalked him down in Scotland; he was, as is his manner, kind enough to indulge me rather than call the cops. I mentioned this idea, going to Everest Basecamp, but doing it the back way, the hard way, the way no one would know or understand or really care about, but the way that would be far deeper, more profound, more meaningful and purposeful and fun. He was game, but I needed to see some of it, understand it more, before committing to guiding anyone up there.

Tongba steaming and heads spinning, Jhanak, Harka, and I knew now it was doable. A route possible, something that promised to bring meaningful tourism and tourist dollars to this long-forgotten part of Nepal, so close to Khumbu and yet utterly left out of the economic boon of the Everest economy. Now I just had to convince Sam.

Trekking to Basecamp is not for the faint of heart, even doing it the standard way from Lukla up the Khumbu Valley. There’s long days, cold nights, high altitudes and dry air and new foods and more. It kicks people’s butts with glee. But this route? It promised much more: camping rather than lodges; an unknown trail through unknown country (How steep would it be? How long each day? Would we find water where we needed it, flat ground?); a 19,000-foot, semi-technical pass to cross into Khumbu; and more.

As I thought and hoped, though, Sam took little convincing. An adventurous soul with a heart of gold, he was excited immediately about it all and was on board. And, to be honest, my little coffeeshop meeting was both to suss out his interest and let him meet me (and judge me) in person, but also, more importantly, to feel him out. Guiding for me is not simply an economic thing, transactional, but about time and people and experience. I’ve done too many “off-the-shelf” trips in the past to have zero tolerance for sharing the mountains with people whose goals and values are misaligned with mine. It took but minutes with Sam to know our worlds, while vastly different, were built upon similar ideas and ideals and approaches.

And so, on December 3, we met in Kathmandu, a year’s planning finally coming together.

Unfortunately for Sam, I don’t really believe in the sugar-coated version of Nepal; fancy hotels and windowed views of life are little more than television with smell. I want people to see the real Nepal, wander the back streets, immerse in the smoky incense of dawn on cobbled streets, bells chiming and dogs barking, ambling through the visceral reality that is Pashupatinath, taking in the respite of Bodhanath, embracing the comforting chaos of alleys and backways of Lalitpur.

Sam rose to it all, never flustered or bothered, always interested and engaged and inquisitive. We had but 24 hours in the Valley, but Sam saw and did and digested a lot.

And then we were off, an Altitude Air B-3 piloted expertly by Moreno whipping us up and out of Kathmandu, through the clenching smog of the city to sprawling views of the Himalaya: the Ganesh and Langtang ranges, on to Dorje Lhakpa and Gauri Shankar as we fluttered high over Kavre Palanchok. Then the jumbled jags of Rolwaling and behind, finally, the Everest range, giants piercing the morning sky, Cho Oyu, Nuptse, Lhotse, Everest. Makalu behind, hiding a bit, masked by multitudes, a distant Kangchenjunga almost a mirage eastward.

Before long, some 40 minutes, the show was over, the reality about to begin. We dropped down, our mark Chheskam, a small village clutching the flat ground hundreds of meters above the Hunku Khola, a river raging and carving down from above. Moreno, Swiss to the core, politely but abruptly ushered us out with our duffels and, counting fuel minutes, was off in a jiffy.

We were here, and town was ready.

Going into this trip, I knew Chheskam was excited. A new trail represents economic possibility for the village, the chance to not just be small pawns in the bigger Khumbu trekking economy, but rather to capture some of that themselves, to control it, to reap the benefits and build it out in a way that fits and flourishes.

I guess, though, I didn’t know how excited: We were met at the chopper by many, locals and officials, all adorning us with kathas and warm welcomes. We then walked around the village, Sam getting to see firsthand the impact of dZi Foundation’s work here, projects like one house-one tap, one house-one toilet, kitchen gardens, and more resulting in a very self-sufficient, healthy, clean, place with relative prosperity. Thanks to Jhanak’s connections, we met the oldest man in town as he demonstrated traditional weaving of nettle fabric, sipped raksi in our friend Prashanta’s house, and briefly sat with wedding guests tipsy from revelry. And then we were summoned to the local school for a bigger gathering.

Our team ready to leave Chheskam for the Hunku Khola valley and the new Muddhi-Kongme Dingma trail.

It was huge, much of the town was gathered, hundred of school children, the local government officials, and more, all in the school grounds. We were run through the welcome gauntlet of ceremonial recognition, our necks strung with dozens of kathas and marigold garlands before being treated to local cultural dances and speeches of excitement and gratitude and welcome. Gratitude and ceremony are big in Nepal, and it was strong enough in Chheskam to feel a bit awkward: after all, Sam and I and our team were here just to walk up the valley. We had no guarantees of success - for us or for the future trail. But, the point I think was far bigger than either of us, any of us; the celebration on that day was one of excitement for the future, of possibility, of potential signified by the two of us being willing, caring enough, to come and do this and see where it leads, literally and figuratively.

Thirty-one years before I stared off into these valleys, selfishly hoping that one day I’d wander them, filling my personal cup with some adventure. It took a long time, and was beyond gratifying to finally be here, but doing so with great people, a great team, and a goal beyond anything personal.

[mammonscheeks]

demon brothers + dateables as destinations in the human world

✎ a/n: these are my opinions! i'm south and west asian, so i am most knowlegeable about those countries, please correct me if i've said anything incorrect!

LUCIFER

new york city, usa. he likes the cold, industrial corporate feel of nyc. it helps him avoid his feelings.

anywhere in germany. he likes their no-nonsense culture and unspoken social rules.

MAMMON

las vegas, nevada, usa. he always begs mc to take him there. the flashy lights and casinos are right up his alley.

dubai, uae. he loves the luxurious feel of it, and how its the center of celebrity gatherings, vacations, and parties.

LEVIATHAN

tokyo, japan (especially the akihabara/electronic district). he's always updated on pop culture and the newest technology/games.

seychelles island, africa. he likes swimming, but not socializing on the beach. that's why he likes isolated islands.

SATAN

london, england. he's interested in their medival history and seeing the places that inspired novels like harry potter and the sherlock holmes franchise.

cat island in japan, or any mediterranean country where cats freely roam.

ASMODEUS

paris, france. he'd love paris fashion week. he also just seems french to me, idk.

seoul, south korea. he'd adore seoul's culture, everything from the modern sappy kdramas to traditional dresses, like hanbok. he would bring an empty suitcase to stuff it with beauty products.

BEELZEBUB

mumbai, india. this metropolitan city in india offers so many different kinds of food. he would love to eat his way through the city, if not the entire country.

every city in mexico. he'd try the regional cuisine, but also hang out at the beach with his brothers and mc (so cute).

BELPHEGOR

cairo, egypt. he was once fascinated with humans, and often watched them build civilizations from heaven when he was an angel. he would enjoy the historical wonders of egypt.

reykjavic, iceland. idk why he just gives me iceland vibes. life there can be slow and cold, and it often gets less light than other countries.

DIAVOLO

transylvania, romania. he loves its breathtaking castles and culture, and is intrigued with all the pop culture references of vampires.

petra, jordan. this is a significant place in abrahamic religions, known for being haunted by demons, or jinn. diavolo would be fascinated by this history, whether its actually haunted or not. i know he'd eat up those scary ghost tours (insert fic about that here) and even probably try and scare a few tourist groups, despite barbatos advising him against it.

BARBATOS

istanbul, turkiye. istanbul has well-maintained structures from the byzantine empire, the ottoman empire, and even "newer and hip" neighborhoods. barbatos, being able to see the past and future, would appreciate the blend of it all here, like he's walking through time.

kathmandu, nepal. he'd enjoy the peace of monasteries and mountains, which are as old as the earth itself.

SIMEON

tuscany, italy. he'd enjoy the vast fields, heavenly sunsets, small towns and historic churches. he would find tuscany a peaceful place to write, but appreciates the community feel of small italian towns. would definitely be so friendly he'd get invited to eat dinner at a random family's house.

thessaloniki, greece. he would absolutely love seeing all the greek orthodox churches there, with their blue and white colors and dome roofs. he is just amused to see the religious structures humans have created. he'd also probably be interested in greek mythology, even though he's an angel.

LUKE

cape town, south africa. he would be so excited to see penguins at the beach and would enjoy the burst of color south africa offers. he'd also enjoy the modern bakeries and desserts in south africa.

lyon, france. the country is known for desserts. luke would probably take a baking class there to learn how to bake more things.

SOLOMON

salem, or just any small town in massachusetts. as a sorcerer, he's intrigued with their history of "witch hunting" and the paranormal.

lalibela, ethiopia. being old, he's intrigued with how ancient cities like lalibela have changed since biblical times. he also probably enjoys learning about different cultural practices and what they have in common with his sorcery. he also wants to learn how to cook more dishes from different countries, but fails miserably

[annabthesolitarywriter]

Hello! In the spirit of returning from vacation, I wanted to send an ask about Enna. What countries in our world would she like to visit for a vacation and what landmarks/sights would she most like to see?

Hope you're well!

Hi and thank you for the ask!

Given a scenario in which Enna isn't constantly sick and/or pregnant, she definitely would love to travel. She is obsessed with books from an early age (especially history books), so I think she would love to visit any historical site on the planet, basically. She'd love Europe and would probably spend hours visiting museums. I know she'd love the British Museum and I think she'd fall in love with cities such as Florence and Rome.

This is actually funny because I was thinking about writing a short modern AU/Medici-related Elenwë art museum encounter thing where they they meet and start talking about history and Eönwë fills her in on topics she might not know about. Who knows when/if I'll end up writing it eventually.

Anyway, I feel like she would definitely love Florence and any other historical cities around the world. Paris, Rome, Madrid...she'd love learning about other countries. She'd probably read all sorts of books before her trip and I have no doubt she'd be more informed about monuments and places than touristic guides. She'd probably—very politely—correct them too. She'd love visiting castles and would probably try and take lots of aesthetic pictures. She'd love to visit palaces like Versailles or the Loire Castles, but I also feel like she'd love places like Istanbul or other cities in Turkey. Give her monuments, palaces and tombs and you will make her happy. I think she'd also be into Celtic and Mayan/Aztec culture. She's an extremely religious and spiritual person so I feel like she might go around villages in Mexico or other places in Central/South America to interview people and collect data. She would definitely want to visit Africa and Japan at least once in her lifetime. I feel like she'd find their culture extremely interesting as well. Oh, she'd also most likely try to learn the language of the places she visits. She would study hard to make a good impression, that's for sure.

I think that's about it!

Thank you again for the ask!

[news-for-muslims]

28/04/2025

📰 Recent news highlights:

🇮🇳

In a surprise attack that shook the once peaceful valley of Pahalgam in Indian administered Kashmir, 4 terrorists, allegedly backed by Pakistan made an incursion and shot 28, mostly civilians and tourists who were killed after being asked their religion. The incident has shook the state as well as the country with India cancelling almost all Pakistani Visas and repatriating all visiting pakistanis with Pakistan doing likewise.

India has accused Pakistan of orchestrating these attacks by a little known Islamist group known as TRF or The Resistance Front. Pakistan has accused India of creating a false flag event. The two have been engaged in gun fights at the border on a near daily basis, while communal violence and hate crimes in India seem to rise.

🇹🇷

An earthquake in Türkiye's Istanbul of 6.2 magnitude struck, damaging several buildings but no casualties were reported.

🇪🇨

A similar earthquake of 6.3 magnitude struck the coastal city of Esmeraldas in Ecuador with damages appearing in infrastructures and no casualties.

🇮🇷

The port city of Bandar Abbas in Iran suffered a massive explosion which have been pointed by authorities as improper handling of chemical storage units. At least 40 are reported dead and 1,000 injured. This comes in the backdrop of Iran-US nuclear talks and is being investigated further. Iranian allies poured words of support and Russia lended a hand in extinguishing of the fire.

🇨🇩

DRC has come close to a ceasefire with the M23 rebel group in Qatar mediated talks. Rwanda has been accused of helping the M23 insurgency in DRC and attempting to topple the government. So far, the ceasefire talks appear to be going positively.

🇺🇲

United States military has appeared to make a breakthrough in the hypersonic missile tech as it nicknamed the newest test missile as "Dark Eagle".

Hypersonic missiles have been the most coveted weapon by many of the world's militaries but few have come close to even inventing it. Travelling at more than 5 times the speed of sound (Mach 5+), China and Russia are usually known for having these missiles, although several other countries claim to possess this sophisticated technology.

🇪🇺

NATO "kill switch" paranoia in Europe:

Rumours spread across NATO allied countries across Europe about the procurement of the advanced F-35 fighter jets from US, which critics said had a hidden embedded code which can be remotely used by the US to switch off offensive, if not all capabilities of the F-35 fighter jets manufactured in US; if it were to be used not in the way or liking of US policymakers.

This rumour, whether true or not, set alarm bells ringing throughout European members of NATO, with Denmark saying it regrets the purchase. France and other European countries urged Europe to be independent from the US military industrial complex, which is the largest in the world, and pursue their own military development. France also made its pitch for selling its Rafale jets to the continent.

United States and its manufacturer have completely denied the accusations and rumours.

🇪🇸

Massive power outage across Spain and Portugal:

Spain and Portugal suffered a massive power outage with traffic lights, electricity, and hospital equipment out of service. A cyberattack has not yet been ruled out.

🇨🇦

A car ramming attack in a filipino festival in Vancouver, Canada has killed at least 11. Vancouver police chief has said this was committed by a lone perpetuator and therefore not a terrorist incident.

🇸🇩

In the city of Omdurman, close to the capital of Sudan's Khartoum, which was recently liberated by the Sudanese army, the RSF paramilitary forces committed a massacre of at least 31 people, among them, women and children.

🇾🇪

Yemen was recently bombed by the United States Airforce, killing 68 at a migrant detention centre. This comes amid the intensified and escalating force against Iran's "Axis of resistance" as Israel has stepped up its attacks on Lebanon and breaking the ceasefire. This strategy of simultaneous action against the Yemen's Houthis, Lebanon's Hezbollah and occupation of Southern Syria which is disrupting the supply chain of Iranian militias is creating a chokehold against any resistance against Israel.

🇵🇸

Gaza's population is said to be in a looming famine as Israel's blockade of incoming aid is crippling the needs of the Palestinian population. Meanwhile, it's bombardment is also not leaving Palestinians with any respite.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Come join our welcoming Discord community open for all:

[missameliep]

Title: Once Upon a Summer - Part 2

Book: Desire & Decorum AU Pairing: Prince Hamid x Elizabeth Foredale (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~5.2k

Summary: Once upon a summertime, eleven-year-old Elizabeth befriended a boy at a beach. Returning to England in a rush, she didn't even say goodbye to her friend Hamid, and had little hope to ever see him again. What would happen if fate brought them together four years later? This is how their story goes...

A/N: No warnings. Just fluff. Turkish words are translated in the notes in the end.

August, 2001. 

From the airplane, Elizabeth’s eyes contemplated the lands bellow but fixed at the sight of the turquoise blue ocean. Her heart soared. Even in the company of her stepmother Henrietta, it seemed impossible to be unhappy in a dreamlike place like this. 

Her father had once more kept the promise, and the 11-year-old girl was beyond excited. 

Trying to reconcile work and vacation, it was Vincent's idea the family spent time at a resort at the Turkish Riviera while he attended business meetings at Istanbul, and later would join them at the weekend. Hopefully everything will go as planned. In his absence, there are plenty of activities to keep Elizabeth entertained and her stepmother off her back. 

Despite planning to spend most of her time at the beach – which would be a lot, considering the expected daily 12 hours of sunlight –, she made sure to research about the history, touristic attractions, and culinary to have the best experience ever with her father and the boys. Her eagerness to share those details were met with similar enthusiasm only by her father. They bought a Travel guide and a Turkish phrase book for tourists and she read them during the flight, memorising the most helpful ones, like “thank you” and “please”, even though her stepmother insisted it was pointless since everybody at the resort must speak at least rudimentary English.  

“It’d be rude if they didn’t,” she remarked at last, and huffed an exasperated breath when Elizabeth didn’t put the book away. 

Fanning herself on the short walk to the car, but refusing to take off her white blazer, Henrietta exclaimed to Elizabeth’s and Harry’s amusement, “Of all places, Vincent sent us straight to this furnace... How can anyone survive in such a horrible place!” 

On the drive from the airport to the resort, tired of the woman’s complains about the hot weather, Harry’s annoyance with the long hours travelled and Edmund’s sulking for some undisclosed reason she suspects might be a girl, Elizabeth put on the headphone and turned on the music on the mp3 player. Nely Furtado’s I’m like a bird starts playing and she smiles. 

Rolling down the window, Elizabeth inhaled the sea salty breeze and closed her eyes for a moment.  

The sea has always been Elizabeth’s happy place.  

Her earliest childhood memories are from walking at Ipanema’s finest sand and building sandcastles by the water with her mother. Once or twice her father was in the picture, and her mother would be smiling at him. Growing up near the ocean turned it into a reference and going to the beach her favourite pastime. Whenever her feet touched the warm sand and her skin submerged into the cold Atlantic waters, life was good. At the beach it was easier to forget the burden of being a spare daughter of an Earl who lived across the world from her or feeling out of place, not British enough but not entirely Brazilian either. 

When she was 9 years old, her mother announced they would move to England to be closer to her father, and she cried for two days until her eyelids were puffy and there were no more tears to shed. One could imagine her sadness was because she didn’t love her father nor wanted to be near him and her half-brother, but that was not the case; what truly saddened her was the fact the nearest beach was hours away of the county by car and the family didn’t fancy the sea like she did.  

“My little mermaid”, her father called her then, understanding her concerns, and promised at least for a few weeks every summer they would travel to be close to the sea. And so far, he kept this promise.  

Even if he could not keep the other promises made, or say no to his wife. 

This year, Henrietta threatened to forbid the boys to come along if Elizabeth’s mother accompanied her, which everybody knew would mean cancelling the trip. 

“Elizabeth is old enough to take care of herself, and you’re her father! Why is that woman even coming? Unless it’s for your enjoyment!” the woman shouted in her father's study at Edgewater, and he eventually yielded; Elizabeth wished he didn’t.  

Being away from her mother in a foreign country, even for a few weeks, would be hard. 

After the first days of glorious sun, the weekend came, but her father didn’t.  

A week after their arrival and the second time he rescheduled his flight, Elizabeth was too tired of avoiding fights with Henrietta and the malicious remarks about her appearance and manners. If her presence was so unwelcome, why would the countess deny her any opportunity to enjoy herself getting to know the region outside the limits of the resort and its private beach?    

“It’s your father’s duty, not mine,” the words were uttered with the intention to hurt her one morning during breakfast. “If he ever comes, he can take you wherever you want...” 

Without a responsible adult, she couldn’t join most of the external activities; however, this minor detail wouldn’t stop her, like Briar remarked when they were chatting online that evening. Out of spite, she decided to venture on her own and visit some of the places she was eager to see, risking a punishment later.

Early in the morning, knowing Henrietta would spend the day at the hotel’s spa, she left a note at the desk saying she would be at the beach.

Backpack stuffed with her books, two water bottles, an apple and a few dates, Turkish bread and cheese collected from the breakfast table, the Mp3 player, she sneaked out of the resort to visit the city of Fethiye and the Lycian rock tombs. It would be an adventure. 

It was a long walk to get to the city, but it was lovely seeing the beach and tourists outside the resort. At a small shop, she bought herself a pistachio ice-cream, then walked up hill to reach one of the famous tombs.  

Reaching the top, the visitors were rewarded with an amazing view of the city. When she picked up the camera, for a moment, she wished Harry or Edmund had tagged along, but both hated waking up early and hot weather. Not to mention the risk of Harry ratting on her, even if unintentionally. She took a few pictures to show them later and drank the remaining water in one of the bottles, rushing to get away from the monument as soon as a few adults started questioning if she was alone.

The sun was high in the sky on the way down, and her stomach started growling. Reaching the main promenade, while looking for a place to sit down and eat, she was startled by a screeching sound right behind her. 

Whirling around, she caught a glimpse of a young boy with a bright blue t-shirt riding a bicycle on the pavement right before he swerved to the right, almost running straight into her. Failing to redirect the bike, he collapsed a few metres ahead, right on the street. The traffic could not be called heavy, but wasn’t insignificant either, and it wouldn’t take long for a vehicle to get to him.   

Her hand covered her mouth, muffling a panicked scream; and she ran to help him back on the pavement. 

When she reached him, the boy, who was about her age, touched his knee, hissed and mumbled words in Turkish she couldn’t understand. There were no visible bruises in his face or arms, and it eased her a little. Her first instinct was to just grab him by the shoulders and pull him back, but she probably shouldn’t, even if she had the strenght to do it. 

Heart hammering in her chest, the only words in Turkish she remembered from the pocketbook inside her backpack were “merhaba”[1] and “Türkçe bilmiyorum”[2], neither helpful in this situation. 

Instead, she waved her hands. The first car swerved to avoid them, but the second coming in their direction managed to stop and halt the traffic in that lane.

“Get up before a car hit you,” she cried, and judging by his wide-eyed expression, he didn’t comprehend a word.  

Regardless of the lack of understanding in his part, she kneeled and asked for permission to help him, slowly speaking in English everything she was doing, like picking up his bike to move it to the pavement, to give him time to get up on his own. When he remained frozen on the asphalt, with those big dark eyes staring at her like a deer before being hit by a car, she offered a hand. “Come on.” 

By the time he got up by himself, a few passersby had rushed to check on him.

First, he thanked her in English. After he did, a smile curled his lips and dimpled his warm brown cheeks. It was bizarre to say the least that he’d smile after falling from the bike. 

“You were so fast,” she cried, unable to control the volume of her voice or the pace of her heart. “Are you hurt? I was so scared a car would hit you!”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry,” he said, and motioned to the persons around them, indicating he was alright and they soon walked away, and the traffic resumed in the previously obstructed lane.

Turning around to face her, he spoke with accented but perfectly understandable English, “I got distracted for a second by the new ice-cream shop there. I love ice-cream.” He pointed at a store at the other side of the street. “Sorry for almost running you over. Are you hurt?” 

“I’m okay. Just a little… startled.” 

“I can see that. If I had money now, I would buy you an ice-cream. It always makes me feel better. I think it’s because babam1 always bought me one when I got hurt,” he sighed and leaned against the bike. “Do you like ice-cream? Because if you do, you’ll love bici bici[3]. Have you tried?” He spoke quickly, a melodic monologue, and she had no idea what bici bici was, and it somehow seemed a safer answer to simply shook her head.  

Smiling at her, he offered a hand. “My name is Hamid.” 

“Lizzy,” she told him the nickname her friends use, finding it more appropriate than the name she came to associate with etiquette and the Queen, and her smile vanished when she noticed his scrapped palms. “You’re hurt.” 

He touched his hand with a thumb and clicked his tongue. “It’s just a scratch.” 

“It’s bleeding.” Kneeling, she put her backpack down and took the remaining water bottle. “Sorry, I only have water,” she said and asked for one of his hands. She poured the water, letting it remove the dirty of the street. 

While she focused on the task, Hamid kept looking at her, with an unabashed smile. 

“Where are you from?” he asked, while she poured the water on his other hand. 

“England.”

“No offense, but you don’t sound British” 

She looked up and refrained from laughing. 

“And how do they sound like?” 

“Like this stuffy teacher I had in school,” he replied, and started speaking random words with a heavy accent like he were a Bond villain, and she supposed he was mimicking said teacher. “You’re lucky you don’t sound like that!” 

“Not all Brits speak the same way, there are different dialects, you know…” 

“I didn’t know that!” he admitted while looking at his palms. “Which dialect do you speak?” 

She laughed. “Do you always ask so many questions?”

“I can’t help it, I’m very curious, and I love making new friends.”  

The word friend was misused in her opinion, considering the fact he is a local boy and she is a tourist due to stay another 12 days, and they would never see each other again. But his expression was so welcoming, and the idea of having a friend – even if on a temporary arrangement – to go to the beach with and walk around the city sounded somehow appealing due to her current loneliness. And a much easier deal to a shy girl like herself since he was offering. 

Hanging her backpack on one shoulder, she shoved her hands inside the pockets of her shorts and contemplated the idea of having a picnic.  

“So, Hamid, before you attempted to trample me, I was going to have a snack,” she said softly, “if you’re not doing anything, I can share with you. It’s not much… but…”  

“Sure!” Holding the handlebars of his blue bike without touching his palms, he started walking and called over his shoulder. “Come on, Lizzy, I know the perfect place.” 

The boy was lively and cheerful, just a few inches taller than her. His skin was a tanned warm brown, much lighter than her mother’s, and his hair straight and black, with longer locks in the front that almost covered his dark expressive eyebrows. His eyes were also of a very dark shade of brown, almost black as his pupils. Like the pearls of her grandmother’s necklace, his teeth were perfectly lined and shiny, and whenever he smiled, two dimples formed on the sides of his face; Elizabeth thought that was a lovely thing. 

Following him down a secondary street, she noticed several scratches in the bicycle’s painting, a scab in his elbow and a few healed scars on his knees, not to mention the thorn on the side of his black and white shorts. Perhaps, falling off his bike was not an unusual occurrence, and something kids in Türkiye and England have in common.  

Hamid did most of the talking and asked several questions without barely giving her time to answer; most of them amused her, while she diverted every single one concerning her family or lodging details, obeying the security protocols taught ever since she came to England. 

“How old are you, Liz?” 

“11.” 

“I’m 11 too! I’ll be twelve on December. When is your birthday?” 

“July.” 

“We’re here.” He vaguely gesticulated, and walked through lines of tables and chairs towards the entrance of colourful restaurants and a fish market.  

Hamid was greeted by some of the waiters and men on their way.  

“Do you like fish?” he asked her, and she nodded.

Then he sprinted towards an older man with grey hair and thick black eyebrows, who effusively greeted him. The boy kissed the man’s hand and touched it to his forehead, in what she assumed was a sign of respect to the elderly. Smiling, they talked for a while, and the man nodded towards her, huffled his hair and they gesticulated, calling another man inside the restaurant. When both men disappeared inside, Hamid leaned his bike against the wall of the restaurant and ran back to where she was watching the scene with curiosity. 

Walking ahead, he guided her to one of the tables.  

“We can have what you brought, and something that I’ll bring.”  

“I thought you didn’t have any money.” 

“I don’t.”  

She smiled and nodded to the direction the man had been standing a moment before. “Is that your father?” 

“No, babam is at Istanbul. Working. Annem is there with him. That one over there is Cemal Bey, he’s a good friend of Dedem and his wife is the best cook in the country... Please don’t tell Hala Fatma I said that,” he said in a conspiratorial tone. 

“And people will just give you food?” 

“Sometimes, if I ask them nicely. And I told my English friend wanted to try the best Turkish food in the country… few people resist being complimented like that.” 

“Clever.” 

The tip of his tongue peeked between his teeth when he smiled at her. “But I admit Cemal Bey being a good friend of Dedem and knowing me since I was a baby helped.” 

She chuckled and took the snacks from her backpack, under Hamid’s attentive supervision.  

“I was expecting something like crisps and Doritos...” 

“Disappointed?” 

“A little,” he replied with a frown. “If you have any candy, I beg you share with me. Halam won’t let me eat anything that isn’t healthy!” 

Elizabeth chuckled and offered him a date. “This is the sweetest thing I’ve got with me...” 

Sighing, he accepted it with a sorrowful look, and she smiled. 

“Dedem and Fatma, who are they?” 

“Dedem is grandfather,” he said gnawing on a date. “Hala Fatma is babam’s younger sister, my aunt. I’m staying with her and my cousins this month.” 

They shared the bread and cheese; and despite her initial protest, Hamid poured some olive oil on a piece of bread and made her try it. When she did, she hummed in delight and asked some more cheese. “That’s too good! I could eat my weight in this cheese...” 

While she took another bite of the bread, Hamid’s expression turned serious. 

“I need to ask: are you a runaway girl?” 

“Excuse me?” she asked, almost chocking on the bread. “Why would you think that?” 

“I just watched X-Men, and you being here alone in a city you’ve never been before with a backpack gives me major Rogue vibes…” 

“I’m just sightseeing,” she shrugged his concern, “not escaping my mutant powers or anything really.” 

“You never mentioned your family…” He lowered his voice, so only she could hear him, “If you’re in trouble, there are good people here who can help.” 

���I’m fine. Really. Dad is at Istanbul working. Like yours. And mum couldn’t come to this trip…” she paused and refrained from sharing with a strange boy the dramas of her family. “So, I’m staying at a hotel with my stepmother and my brothers.” 

“Hmmm… I see… evil stepmother!” 

“I never said that!” 

“You didn’t deny it either,” he pointed out with a mischievous grin. "What about the brothers? Are they as jealous as Cinderella’s sisters?” 

“Harry can be jealous at times,” she laughed covering her mouth with a hand, and looked away. “They’re okay. We get along well, but they don’t fancy going to the beach as much as I do… or being outside when it’s hot. Edmund got sunburned on our second day here.” 

“What a bummer...” 

“He’s better now, but refuses to leave his room... And with the pretence of keeping him company, Harry stays with Edmund... So, they play videogames day and night!” 

“You don’t like videogames?” 

“I like videogames; what I don’t get it is why would anyone prefer any game over this?” She waved both hands in a circle around them. “It’s such a perfect day for an adventure! I love the salty sea breeze! Just this morning I walked around the city, and not only had the best pistachio ice-cream ever but was taught about some place called Antep and the story of this man’s family and pistachio. Okay, I didn’t understand most of what he was saying but it was amazing anyway. And when I said Teşekkür ederim[3] he explained that was too formal and taught me Sağ olun[4]. Did I say it correctly?” 

“Yes, perfectly. I can teach you words too.”  

“Then I went uphill, saw these ruins and –” 

“What about meeting me?” with a mocking pout, he asked.

“Usually near accidents are not my favourite parts of any trip.” 

“Near is better than actual accidents.” 

“You’re right,” she laughed. 

“And what’s still missing on your perfect day list?” 

She hummed in consideration and her eyes flicked in the direction of the marina, even though they couldn’t see the boats from where they were seated. 

“I wanted to go in one of those boats and spend the day at the sea, visiting the islands, but Henrietta gets seasick – or so she says it. And Edmund keeps saying we should wait for dad, or something terrible might happen because we’re kids, the world is a terrible place, and we’ll probably be stranded at sea…or drown. Basically, something horrible will happen.”  

“Wow! That’s –” Hamid paused, searching for a word and settled with “disturbing...” 

Cemal bey called Hamid, who sprinted to get a plate with breaded fish, chips, garlic sauce and the biggest olives she’s ever seen. They ate in silence, and Hamid kept gazing at her for some reason. An ear-to-ear grin on his face. 

“Do I have something on my face?” He shook his head, but she kept wiping her mouth and chin with a napkin, just in case.  

Hamid picked the chips with his fingers and tucked into his mouth, and she did the same.

If her grandmother saw her eating this much in public and using her hands, there would be a lot of chiding. For a moment, she hesitated, her hand hovered over the fork, but then she considered how far from home she is and the advantages of being unknown here. Grinning, she used her hands again. The chips tasted even better while disregarding etiquette. 

After the meal, Hamid offered to take her back to the hotel, which she decline since she having so much fun with him; since he didn’t need to go home before sunset, they decided to walk around some more.

Sitting on his bike, he patted the tube and offered a lift and to carry her backpack, even though it was much lighter without the water and food. Putting her backpack on his back, she took the offered seat. 

Chatting all the while, they rode for several minutes until arriving at the marina, where he locked his bike to a lamp pole at the entrance.  

“Race you there,” Hamid shouted from over his shoulder, already sprinting at full speed. 

“That’s unfair,” she cried back, running after him, “I don’t even know where we’re going!” 

She caught up to him, or maybe he let her get closer and they ran side by side until the middle of the marina, to a point where sailboats and yachts were on either side of them. It wasn’t bustling as earlier hours of the days, and few people were working on boats, cleaning them or just walking around.

Hamid indicated an empty spot, and they sat down, letting their feet dangle from the edge and above the water. She looked around with a wide smile, following with her eyes the seagulls flying close to one of the boats, trying to steal someone's lunch.

“I’d love to spend time at the sea, to travel for many days and see many ports... How exciting it must be! Imagine all one could learn. The languages. And the food. I could get something from each place, a treasure, to remind me later from all I’ve seen...” 

“Like a pirate?” 

“No, not like a pirate!” 

“Why not? They have cool clothes and songs.” 

“I couldn’t be a criminal!” she laughed.  

“We could be pirates together!”  

He jumped to his feet with a roar, twirled and climbed into a boat. “Ahoy! Pull the anchor!” he said with his best pirate impression, one eye closed and a hand cutting the air in rapid movements. “Let’s trouble the water. Avast ye! And sail against the tides!” 

Elizabeth laughed and he extended his hand, inviting her to climb it too. 

“Hamid, we can’t do that...” She looked around for anybody who could be watching them. “We could get in trouble...” 

“Don’t worry. It’s Dedem’s boat.” 

He offered a hand and helped her get into the boat. They walked to the bow pretending to be on a pirate ship. The deck gentle swaying beneath their feet as they staged a mock sword fight. 

“Dedem always took me and my cousins with him to the sea,” Hamid said later, when they sat down by the railings to watch the seagulls fighting over food, “and he taught us to sail and fish. Babam and Amca Ozan would join us too, if they were not working...” 

They watched the boats returning to the marina, spoke about movies and Hamid shared many stories of his family and his five sisters.  

“Five sisters?” she asked, “For real?” 

“Is it really the strangest thing?” 

“That was rude. Sorry.” 

“You apologise a lot,” he remarked, “Why’s that?” 

She pondered at the question for a moment, not knowing what to say, and just shrugged. 

Hamid didn’t ask anything else about it, and the conversation shifted to other topics. Whenever he asked about the hotel her family was staying, she diverted and talked about something else. The last thing she needed was Henrietta coming to spoil their fun. 

Leaning against the railing, Hamid pointed at all his favourite places, even if it was impossible to see some of them from the boat.   

“Let’s go,” he said and pulled her by the hand.  

A moment later they were back on the bike. Speeding up, the breeze blew their hair, and she laughed; when they reached the beach, Hamid plopped down the sand, breathless and with beads of sweat between his brows, tip of his nose and over his lips. 

“Hey! I bet I can beat you to that rock,” she dared. 

He used one hand to shield his eyes from the sun and look at her, “Can’t you see? I’m dead.” 

“Afraid of losing?” 

“You pedal next time then,” he muttered. 

“Deal.” 

Disrobing to her bathing suit, she sprinted to the water, skipping waves; Hamid removed only his t-shirt to follow her and cursed when the salty seawater caused his bruises to sting, and she couldn’t stifle a laugh.  

She got to the rock first and helped him climb it to sit beside her.  

When the sun started its descent to the sea, the sky turned pink like her favourite roses at Edgewater’s garden, and the clouds looming over the horizon were painted in gold. It was beautiful sight, but also a reminder she lost track of time. She must return to the hotel before it gets too dark. 

“I should go.”  

Elizabeth hopped to the shore and put on the shorts and t-shirt, and picked up the backpack. 

“Liz,” he called behind her, shortening her nickname, and wiped the water from his eyes. “Can we meet tomorrow? I can bring Faiza’s bike, and we ride together.” 

She nodded and they agreed to meet at 9 o’clock sharp at that same place. Putting on the sneakers, she ran towards the pavement, but spared a last look over her shoulder. Hamid waved at her, a wide smile curling his lips while his gaze followed her.  

In the end, meeting Hamid turned out to be her favourite part of the day. 

September, 2005. 

Loud as flocks of parakeets at sunset, the buzz of students going out of the sports court dimmed down the closer she got to the library.

Away from the noise and prying eyes, Elizabeth fished the mobile from the backpack, and almost dropped it to the ground, only then realizing her hands were shaking. Her heart was not doing any better, beating as fast as if she’d been running. She sat on the ground, under an old tree and leaned her back against the rough trunk. The crown of the tree shadowed that part of the grass and the breeze was cool, soothing the redness of her face.

When she managed to make the call, Briar barely said “hi” and Elizabeth started ranting. 

“Can you believe this? He thinks I’m cute but doesn’t remember me! At all!” she repeated, and Briar squealed.  

“Briar!” Elizabeth cried.  

“Wait! He thinks you’re cute? How do you know? Who told you?” 

“He did when he came to talk to me after the game. He called me gorgeous or something... I wasn’t paying attention –” 

Briar let an even higher-pitched squeal, and Elizabeth moved the mobile away from her ear. 

“He came to you and said that? I’m dying! That’s even better!” 

“How’s that better?” 

“I don’t know. Did you tell him who you are?” 

“I – No! I freaked out!” Elizabeth rubbed her eyes with her free hand. “I assumed he knew. Like why else would he be looking at me during the game or come to talk to me?” 

“Because he thinks you’re gorgeous, silly!” she said in a sing-song voice. 

“I’m mortified. I was super casual with him... How could he not know? I look the same!” 

“You certainly do not. Your hair looks amazing now without any of those stripy pink highlights --” 

“It was red.” 

“It was so not!” Briar snorted with laughter, “I'm grateful now my mother forbade me to dye my hair when I asked!” 

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the remark. Her hair is definitely styled better now, and the rainbow coloured highlights from those days remained only in the pictures.

“It's been 4 years, innit? You lost quite a few pounds, you can fill a bikini top now in case you haven’t noticed. And you two met in a total different country! Don’t forget that, Lizzy.”  

Elizabeth’s eagerness to rebuke died down a little. It’s has been a long time. Her chin tilted up to look at a bird chirping at the bough of the tree and she sighed.  

“I just thought that friendship was special to both of us. I had zero trouble reconizing him.”  

“In his defense, you’ve been secretly crushing on him for 4 years –” 

“I was not crushing!” 

“Are we lying to each other now? I know you keep pictures of him on your drawer –” 

“Those are souvenirs from the trip! And I’m on some of those pictures too. And so are Ed and Harry.” 

“I'm just saying it isn’t that weird he didn't reconize you...” 

“I suppose...” she replied, her tone too despondent.

“You can still be sad or disappointed...” 

“But I should be happy, right? He's here.” 

“I would, if I were you.” Elizabeth could picture Briar's genuine smile even without seeing her face. “Even more so if the boy I was crushing thought I was gorgeous!”

“Stop it,” Elizabeth pleaded, covering a warm cheek with a hand.

Briar laughed loudly, then whispered on the phone, “You can finally see if this idealised version of a boy you met years ago stands the test of time…” 

“What do you mean?”

“You never consider dating anyone because boys can't compete with him, now you have him so you can either date him or move on.” 

Elizabeth sighed, and it carried all the exhaustion just the persons closest to her knew about.

“I don't think so... You know I have more important matters to focus. I can't get distracted by boys. Not now.”  

“But don't you think you deserve a break from all that crap? Some happiness? I believe you do. And the universe seems to agree with me. Or it wouldn't just throw him back to you, woult it?” 

Elizabeth listened to her friend while observing other students, two girls rushed with hands intertwined, smiling at each other. 

“You’re living at the same country and are old enough to actually fall in love and date. Just enjoy it. Tell him. Don’t tell him. It's your choice. But you should get to know him now, maybe you'll be running away from him after a ten minutes conversation because he's grown-up to become a wanker.” 

“You’re right,” Elizabeth said, her words coated by a chuckle. “And if he's still the same, we can be friends again.” 

“Oh, my god! It just crossed my mind now how perfect this whole story will be to tell in your wedding! –” 

“Wedding?” Elizabeth echoed, but Briar didn’t even acknowledge her words, still rambling about the pictures in her drawer.

“– the pictures! We need copies. Tons of copies. Just in case. Childhood friends. Lovely!” Briar was speaking quickly and incessantly. 

“I’m fifteen!” Elizabeth protested, “We talked once. And I kind of run away...” 

“Next time, you stay, Lizzy.” 

Notes:

[1] merhaba – means “hello”

[2] Türkçe bilmiyorum – translates as “I don’t speak Turkish.”

[3] bici bici – it’s a dessert, typical of southern Turkey and the Mediterranean region, especially consumed in the summer. Bici bici is prepared with crushed ice, starch, and syrup.

[4] Teşekkür ederim – translates as “thank you”

[5] Sağ olun – it’s an informal way of saying “thank you”

[disaster-fruit]

Which country or place would you most like to visit?

Istanbul is my top #1 place to visit. I also really want to go to Morocco one day. Also after I discovered Vietnamese food I NEED to go to Vietnam one day to try the real stuff.

Those are my top places to visit as a tourist, but it life allows me there are places I’d like to go for longer, to spend a few months and travel around with no rush. For that type of visit my number 1 place is Mexico, and then Peru.

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

I’m not sure what time it is, or really where I am. Somewhere near the coast of Brazil, I know that; sometime during my birthday - I know that, too. I've flown past the Hindu Kush Himalaya, Pamirs, Caucasus, and Atlas Mountains, and will soon cross the Andes. I'm headed to Chile to meet my family after a long time away. A blessing, to be sure, and made even more sweet coming as it is on the heels of an incredible adventure in Nepal.

I’ve spent much of the 12 hours since Istanbul sorting through photos, visual portals into experience far away yet close at hand, pixel-born reminders of a trip, a trail, impact and experience and immersion.

I’m never quite sure how to share tales of any adventure, less so one with such meaning (to me at least) as this past one. The standard travelogue seems too mundane, too pedantic, to capture it all. Some deep and philosophical tome equally missing the mark.

So, perhaps neither, maybe some of both, a hope of struck balance, or at minimum translation of time and place and experience and people. And not all at once: Like any expedition, these things must be savored, a bit at a time, building and percolating and settling and expanding yet again. So, first, the beginning…

I guess it was about 31 years ago - December 1993 - that Stuart Sloat and I bashed our way across the lower Khumbu Glacier from Lobuche and, laden with heavy packs, made our way to the Kongma La. We had no map, just a vague point from locals and the knowledge that there was a lake up there somewhere. We found only a puddle and a frigid night, but awoke to a splendid sunrise and the Star Wars zaps of sun-warmed ice cracking, alerting us to the real lake on the east side of the pass (as opposed to our mud wallow on the west). Glorious views, backlit Lhotse and Nuptse and countless more unknowns behind, peak on peak and valley on valley leading who knows where. I knew someday, maybe, I’d get into those valleys, wander the paths away from it all.

Thirty years later, I sat in a teahouse in Chheskam, the northern triumvirate of Mahakulung, with Jhanak Karki and Harka Kulung Rai, talking about opportunity over a steaming mug of tongba. We had just trekked parts of the Mundum Trail from Phedi over Silicho to Mahakulung visiting dZi Foundation work and communities; and then we went up above, following the Hunku Khola just enough to get a taste, an idea of what may lay above. The townspeople and government were excited as we were, having had the same idea for years: create a trail up the Hunku, connecting Chheskam to Kongme Dingma and the quite-popular Mera Peak trek.

It was all possible, all doable, but like the proverbial tree falling silently in the woods, this new trail would be all for naught if no word got out about it. But, I had an idea, and it seemed possible.

Two months before, I shared coffee in a small cafe in Glasgow with Sam Heughan. We’d “met” months earlier on Zoom calls for an ill-fated film project, and then I stalked him down in Scotland; he was, as is his manner, kind enough to indulge me rather than call the cops. I mentioned this idea, going to Everest Basecamp, but doing it the back way, the hard way, the way no one would know or understand or really care about, but the way that would be far deeper, more profound, more meaningful and purposeful and fun. He was game, but I needed to see some of it, understand it more, before committing to guiding anyone up there.

Tongba steaming and heads spinning, Jhanak, Harka, and I knew now it was doable. A route possible, something that promised to bring meaningful tourism and tourist dollars to this long-forgotten part of Nepal, so close to Khumbu and yet utterly left out of the economic boon of the Everest economy. Now I just had to convince Sam.

Trekking to Basecamp is not for the faint of heart, even doing it the standard way from Lukla up the Khumbu Valley. There’s long days, cold nights, high altitudes and dry air and new foods and more. It kicks people’s butts with glee. But this route? It promised much more: camping rather than lodges; an unknown trail through unknown country (How steep would it be? How long each day? Would we find water where we needed it, flat ground?); a 19,000-foot, semi-technical pass to cross into Khumbu; and more.

As I thought and hoped, though, Sam took little convincing. An adventurous soul with a heart of gold, he was excited immediately about it all and was on board. And, to be honest, my little coffeeshop meeting was both to suss out his interest and let him meet me (and judge me) in person, but also, more importantly, to feel him out. Guiding for me is not simply an economic thing, transactional, but about time and people and experience. I’ve done too many “off-the-shelf” trips in the past to have zero tolerance for sharing the mountains with people whose goals and values are misaligned with mine. It took but minutes with Sam to know our worlds, while vastly different, were built upon similar ideas and ideals and approaches.

And so, on December 3, we met in Kathmandu, a year’s planning finally coming together.

Unfortunately for Sam, I don’t really believe in the sugar-coated version of Nepal; fancy hotels and windowed views of life are little more than television with smell. I want people to see the real Nepal, wander the back streets, immerse in the smoky incense of dawn on cobbled streets, bells chiming and dogs barking, ambling through the visceral reality that is Pashupatinath, taking in the respite of Bodhanath, embracing the comforting chaos of alleys and backways of Lalitpur.

Sam rose to it all, never flustered or bothered, always interested and engaged and inquisitive. We had but 24 hours in the Valley, but Sam saw and did and digested a lot.

And then we were off, an Altitude Air B-3 piloted expertly by Moreno whipping us up and out of Kathmandu, through the clenching smog of the city to sprawling views of the Himalaya: the Ganesh and Langtang ranges, on to Dorje Lhakpa and Gauri Shankar as we fluttered high over Kavre Palanchok. Then the jumbled jags of Rolwaling and behind, finally, the Everest range, giants piercing the morning sky, Cho Oyu, Nuptse, Lhotse, Everest. Makalu behind, hiding a bit, masked by multitudes, a distant Kangchenjunga almost a mirage eastward.

Before long, some 40 minutes, the show was over, the reality about to begin. We dropped down, our mark Chheskam, a small village clutching the flat ground hundreds of meters above the Hunku Khola, a river raging and carving down from above. Moreno, Swiss to the core, politely but abruptly ushered us out with our duffels and, counting fuel minutes, was off in a jiffy.

We were here, and town was ready.

Going into this trip, I knew Chheskam was excited. A new trail represents economic possibility for the village, the chance to not just be small pawns in the bigger Khumbu trekking economy, but rather to capture some of that themselves, to control it, to reap the benefits and build it out in a way that fits and flourishes.

I guess, though, I didn’t know how excited: We were met at the chopper by many, locals and officials, all adorning us with kathas and warm welcomes. We then walked around the village, Sam getting to see firsthand the impact of dZi Foundation’s work here, projects like one house-one tap, one house-one toilet, kitchen gardens, and more resulting in a very self-sufficient, healthy, clean, place with relative prosperity. Thanks to Jhanak’s connections, we met the oldest man in town as he demonstrated traditional weaving of nettle fabric, sipped raksi in our friend Prashanta’s house, and briefly sat with wedding guests tipsy from revelry. And then we were summoned to the local school for a bigger gathering.

It was huge, much of the town was gathered, hundred of school children, the local government officials, and more, all in the school grounds. We were run through the welcome gauntlet of ceremonial recognition, our necks strung with dozens of kathas and marigold garlands before being treated to local cultural dances and speeches of excitement and gratitude and welcome. Gratitude and ceremony are big in Nepal, and it was strong enough in Chheskam to feel a bit awkward: after all, Sam and I and our team were here just to walk up the valley. We had no guarantees of success - for us or for the future trail. But, the point I think was far bigger than either of us, any of us; the celebration on that day was one of excitement for the future, of possibility, of potential signified by the two of us being willing, caring enough, to come and do this and see where it leads, literally and figuratively.

Thirty-one years before I stared off into these valleys, selfishly hoping that one day I’d wander them, filling my personal cup with some adventure. It took a long time, and was beyond gratifying to finally be here, but doing so with great people, a great team, and a goal beyond anything personal.

🗻

MOUNTAINS & ADVENTURE

Nepal

[https://jakenorton.com/reflections-on-hunku/]

————————————————————————-

Is it an expensive trip to do and SH paid for this? Yes. Everest is an expensive dream to climb or trek, the days of “doing it on the cheap” are pretty much over. There are costs for team organisers, guides, sherpas, and porters, including, several permits and fees you must pay to the Nepalese government to trek to Everest Base Camp. The experienced guides (and thus expensive) are used by teams on Everest. A trek to Everest Base Camp demands extremely experienced guides for unfamiliar regions on par with the best available. No one ever became a mountain guide to accumulate wealth and JN knows that and Jake helped Sam’s adventure and worked well. But, this is a journey with fundamental lessons of life that should have the opportunity to learn. It will be worth it. But be prepared before you go and don’t be surprised to come back to a different person. It WILL affect you, whether you expect, or even want it to, or not.

I expected SH to come back having learned how small and unimportant we all are. How we are all so very much interconnected. Time in Nepal teaches you that. It makes you see life from a whole new perspective. And the Nepali people teach it to you through their humility. However, after seeing his commercial agenda included during the trek to Everest Base Camp, He couldn’t help showing that nothing changed for him.

So, What lessons did Sam learn during his two weeks around Everest? If he truly understands the significance of this trip, he should prioritise helping the dZi Foundation as his charity partner in 2025 in the rural communities of eastern Nepal instead of focusing solely on his business agenda. This would demonstrate whether his ideas and values align with those of Jake Norton, who served as a guide and mentor during this journey and is ambassador for @dzifoundation. Norton has supported this cause for years, and his wife is the Executive Director of dZi. However, this collaboration remains to be seen.

It's clear if Sam wants to exploit this trip, he won't be able to do it alone. He will need to collaborate and work with Jake Norton, the person who came up with the idea for this trip. Norton is an excellent writer and, above all, He’s expert on Everest. 🗻

Posted 23rd December 2024

@pinkblizzardgladiator He changed the idea. He said this Nepal trekking was just for him, now he'll involve his Peakers for a virtual trek of his adventure. What'll he gain with this?

[minidonia]

I spent a day exploring Istanbul like a tourist, and it was amazing! I visited so many museums, and the highlight of my day was finally seeing The Tortoise Trainer. I’d been wanting to see it for so long, and it definitely lived up to my expectations.

All that exploring made me pretty hungry, so I made sure to stop and treat myself to some great food along the way. It was a nice reminder of how much this city has to offer, no matter how many times you visit.

[vietnameservice]

An Algerian’s Adventure Through Turkey: From Ancient Ruins to Coastal Wonders

Traveling from Algeria to Turkey has never been easier, especially for Algerian citizens eligible for the turkey e visa. For Samir, a 57-year-old Algerian man, the dream of exploring Turkey's ancient ruins, buzzing bazaars, and breathtaking landscapes became a reality with just a few clicks through the visa for turkey online system.

First Impressions: Istanbul’s Historic Heartbeat

He stayed near Sultanahmet, where two landmarks defined the city skyline: Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. As an Algerian Muslim, the experience of walking through these sacred spaces held deep personal meaning. He marveled at Byzantine mosaics and the sound of call to prayer echoing between domes.

Exploring Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, sipping Turkish tea, and cruising the Bosphorus—all these iconic moments were possible thanks to his turkey e visa.

Cappadocia: Earth Sculpted by Time

With his tourist turkey visa, Samir was free to travel beyond Istanbul. He headed to Cappadocia, where surreal rock formations stretched across the horizon. Though hot air balloon rides are popular, he preferred to walk among the fairy chimneys, touching stones shaped by centuries of wind and rain.

He explored underground cities—tunnels and rooms carved beneath the surface where ancient civilizations once hid. For Samir, it was more than sightseeing. It was like tracing history through silence.

Meeting travelers from across the world in a local cave hotel, he learned that many didn’t know Algerians could apply for the turkey e visa so easily. He shared his experience with the visa for turkey online system, emphasizing how convenient it was compared to applying for other international visas.

Pamukkale and Ephesus: Layers of Time

From Cappadocia, Samir traveled to Pamukkale, home to natural hot springs and white travertine terraces. He dipped his feet in the mineral-rich pools and then wandered through Hierapolis, an ancient Roman city built above the terraces.

Not far away was Ephesus, one of the best-preserved Roman cities in the world. Marble streets, grand libraries, and open-air theaters made Samir feel like he had stepped into a lost world. His electronic visa turkey granted access not just to cities, but to civilizations.

Antalya: Coastline Calm and Sunlit Streets

Tired from his historical adventures, Samir moved on to Antalya, where palm-lined streets and Mediterranean waves greeted him. His turkey tourist visa allowed him to explore the coast freely.

He enjoyed fresh seafood by the harbor, chatted with Turkish shopkeepers in Arabic and French, and visited local museums showcasing ancient coins and artifacts. It was a slower, peaceful rhythm—a different side of Turkey from the buzz of Istanbul or the mystery of Cappadocia.

Meeting Algerians in Turkey: A Shared Path

During his journey, Samir was surprised by how many fellow Algerians he met, especially in Istanbul and Bursa. Most of them had also entered with the turkey e visa, sharing similar stories of a smooth online process. Many had come for tourism, while others visited family or joined short-term religious tours.

They exchanged notes on destinations, local dishes like kebab and kunefe, and the ease of using the visa for turkey online system. Despite traveling separately, there was a shared pride in being part of a growing number of Algerian tourists discovering Turkey’s vast beauty.

The evisa turkey wasn’t just a technical formality—it was something that connected them, silently enabling their journeys and shaping new perspectives.

The Simple Start: Applying for the eVisa Turkey

Unlike traditional embassy visits, Samir’s travel preparation began online. Algeria allows eVisa access for citizens over 55, making him eligible for the evisa turkey application. The process was quick: basic information, passport upload, and an online payment. The electronic visa turkey was delivered to his email within 24 hours. He printed it out and kept a digital copy—just in case.

This turkey tourist visa would allow him to explore for up to 30 days on a single entry. That’s all he needed to dive into a country he had admired from afar for years.

As he completed the online application, Samir couldn’t help but think about how this streamlined system had revolutionized the way travelers like him could explore foreign lands. The online application not only saved him time but also reduced the complexities that often come with obtaining visas through embassies.