#OR YOUR SCHOOL COMP SCI TEACHER

[cheers-to-you-th]

100 Ways to Lose Your Love

Pairing: Joshua x Reader Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional slow burn Warnings: Emotionally stunted reader, a bit of dysfunctional family sprinkled in there, brief misuse of power/workplace harassment (not from Joshua) Word count: 26.8k Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. Part of Yuki's 100 milestone collab @supi-wupi my beloved thank you for beta reading on such short notice always ilysm ft. @kyeomofhearts and @bella-feed cameos

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want ever since I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you along with a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, and from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this, but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal about his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you’d talked to a few times over the semester in stats class—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in. He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there. It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked with purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”

You nodded, and that was the first time you smiled at him like you meant it. 

The two of you headed back inside not long after, the others either passed out drunk on the couch (cough cough Soonyoung) or asleep in their rooms. You took the opportunity to sit in the corner and pull out your laptop, fingers clicking on the keys as you wrote. Joshua sat himself on the couch, strumming away on his guitar calmly, humming a soft tune. It felt oddly peaceful, like time had stopped for everyone except the two of you. He didn’t ask what you were doing, didn’t comment on what or why you were typing, just sat and played the gentle melody.

He kept his distance—respectfully, carefully—like he understood that some people live with their nerves just beneath the skin. And maybe he did. Maybe he’d seen it in the way your hands hovered above the keyboard before diving in, or the way your shoulders only ever seemed to relax when your fingers were flying across the keyboard. Or maybe it was just Joshua being Joshua.

At one point, your laptop froze. Not crashed—just one of those irritating pauses where everything stops responding except the rising tension in your spine. You sighed, leaning back with your head thunking gently against the wall.

“Writer’s block?” he asked softly, still not looking directly at you.

“No,” you replied, eyes still on the frozen screen. “Computer’s just being dramatic.”

He chuckled under his breath, fingers picking at a new chord progression. “Must be catching. Pretty sure Jeonghan tried to argue with a wine bottle earlier.”

You glanced over, smiling despite yourself. “Did he win?”

“Hard to say. He’s asleep, so technically the bottle lasted longer.”

You snorted. The screen flickered back to life, but you didn’t turn to it right away. Instead, you watched his hands. Watched how they slowly plucked a tune, as they seemingly breathed the music to life. He played like he was thinking with his fingers, letting them speak for him while his mouth stayed quiet.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, before you had time to second-guess it.

Joshua hummed in acknowledgment.

“Why do you play?”

He slowed, but didn’t stop. “It calms me down.”

The simplicity of it sank into your bones.

You looked at your laptop screen again, words half-typed and blinking. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I get that.”

He finally glanced over then, something open in his expression. Not asking anything of you—just offering that soft space again. You weren’t used to that. People always wanted more. They wanted you to speak, to react, to fill the silence with something worth holding onto.

Joshua just played. Eventually, you returned to your writing, fingers slower this time. He kept playing. Neither of you said goodnight. When you closed your laptop and headed upstairs, you felt softer, like someone had reached into the storm and reminded you it didn’t have to rage all the time.

~

The next morning started slow.

You woke to the scent of toast burning and Soonyoung’s voice rising in dramatic protest from the kitchen—something about someone not flipping the pancake when the bubbles showed up.

Minji was already up, stretching on her side of the room and humming some pop song off-key. You groaned into your pillow, rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, letting the sounds of the house drift in—laughter, someone banging a cupboard shut, Jun yelling “I’m not eating that!” like his life depended on it. It felt like summer in the kind of way you had only ever heard of when you were young talking to friends at the start of a school year—loud, lazy, full of sun and the kind of messy joy that didn’t need organizing.

By the time you wandered into the kitchen, Joshua was already there, hair still damp from a shower, sleeves pushed up, sipping coffee like he’d been awake for hours. He caught your eye briefly, smiling into his mug. You looked away first.

Soonyoung offered you a questionably golden pancake with a flourish and a bow. “Made with love and very little skill.”

You took it. “The perfect combination.”

The group migrated out to the deck after breakfast, sprawled across old lawn chairs and half-broken loungers. Jihoon had a speaker playing something vaguely acoustic, and Jeonghan was making a truly pathetic attempt at organizing a card game that dissolved into chaos the moment Seungcheol showed up with sunglasses and a smoothie like he was at Coachella.

Joshua settled a few feet from you, pulling out his notebook—one of those worn leather-bound ones with creased pages and dog-eared corners. You watched him jot something down in it before your eyes flicked away again. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to him, it was just that you… kind of did, which made it harder.

You buried yourself in your own notebook instead, knees drawn up to make a table. You weren’t writing anything in particular—just phrases, pieces of things, observations you’d maybe use later. You scribbled down a description of the way Jun and Soonyoung were fighting over the last bag of chips like it was a war treaty. You described the faint mark on Jeonghan’s neck from falling asleep weird on the couch. You noted the way Joshua’s thumb tapped against his knee while he thought.

Around noon, the group decided to head to the beach. You went with them, not because you wanted to swim, but because the idea of staying behind felt heavier than the idea of being around people. You waded into the shallows, ankles sinking into wet sand, the breeze curling around your body.

Joshua found you again, eventually, like he’d developed a radar for when you needed someone nearby without being on top of you. He walked up with two lemon popsicles and handed you one wordlessly. You took it without question.

“Everyone’s trying to see who can stay in the water longest,” he said, watching Soonyoung and Seungcheol yell nonsense from waist-deep in the waves. “The winner gets nothing, but apparently pride is enough.”

You licked the popsicle. “Tell that to Jihoon, looks like he’s two seconds from punching someone.”

Joshua smiled. “That is Jihoon’s version of a good time.”

You watched the others for a while, the popsicle dripping down your fingers, the sky so blue it hurt a little. Joshua didn’t fill the space with questions or commentary. He just stood beside you, eating his own at a steady pace, like there was no urgency to anything.

“You’re quiet,” you said after a while, not sure why.

He shrugged. “You are too.”

“Yeah, but I’m quiet because I’m overthinking everything.”

Joshua turned his head toward you slightly. “And I’m quiet because I’m not.”

You huffed a laugh at that. “Must be nice.”

He hadn’t answered, but his smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, and for a split second you let yourself look at him properly. His eyelashes were longer than they had any right to be, his nose slightly pink from the sun. His expression was open, steady, warm in a way you weren’t sure how to hold.

Being reckless was never allowed when I grew up. I always strived for perfection, at least my parents’ view of it, never giving myself any room to breathe. I worked hard, did what I needed to do, and never slacked off. I remember looking down on the kids that would have fun during recess instead of studying, wondering how they ever thought they’d succeed in life with that attitude. Now I know it was just jealousy, they were allowed to have fun. For years I kept that mindset, never sneaking out, never getting into trouble.

You were my breath of fresh air, in a way. 

Eventually, the others managed to drag you deeper into the water, jumping over waves and splashing each other happily. You let yourself live in the moment for a little, shoulders soaked, laughter catching in your throat like it had been waiting there for years. The ocean tugged at your legs and you let it pull some of the weight off your chest, let it rinse the fear out of your bones. Someone had brought a beach ball and a poor game of keep-away broke out—chaotic and uncoordinated, but it didn’t matter. You were smiling.

You hadn’t realized Joshua was watching you until you stumbled backward, tripping slightly in the sand, and he was there—steadying you with one hand to your arm, his touch light but grounding.

“Got you,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal and didn’t make your heart stutter in your chest.

You glanced at him, trying to catch your breath and not let him see it. “Thanks.”

His hand lingered just a second longer than it needed to, then dropped away. “You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was,” you admitted, and it felt like saying something bigger than it sounded.

The sun dipped lower, the group beginning to scatter—some heading back toward the house, others flopping on the sand to dry off. You and Joshua walked together again, this time slower, your feet leaving long, crooked trails behind you. He carried both your towels. You didn’t ask him to, he just did.

Back at the house, the rest of the evening passed in that golden-tinted blur summer seems to have a monopoly on—music drifting out the windows, the scent of grilled corn and sunscreen in the air, a card game on the porch that nobody really remembered the rules to. You sat on the armrest of Joshua’s chair, one foot tucked beneath you, laughing quietly at Jeonghan’s commentary and Soonyoung’s increasingly wild bluffing strategy. Someone suggested starting a fire pit, like in all the coming-of-age films, so you all gathered around the fire pit in the backyard as Seungcheol started it.

At one point, someone asked for a song. Without hesitation, Joshua picked up his guitar.

“What should I play?” he asked the group.

“Something soft!” Minji called, already leaning back in her seat like she was ready to fall asleep to it.

“Something sad,” Jun added, “so I can pretend I’m in a breakup montage.”

Joshua had laughed, the sound light and beautiful, music in and of itself. He looked down at his guitar, fingers adjusting on the strings. He started to play—something slow, easy, and melancholy. You didn’t recognize the song, but you didn’t need to. It said enough. You watched him through the golden firelight, head tilted just enough to see the focus in his face. His voice, when he sang, was soft but steady, the kind of sound that wrapped around a room rather than cutting through it.

And when he looked up in the middle of a verse, eyes meeting yours for the briefest second—You forgot how to breathe. The flicker of the fire reflected in the warmth of his eyes, painting him in its yellows and oranges, the light curling around each strand of his hair and dancing across his face.

Later that night, after the fire pit had burned down and everyone had either gone to bed or passed out inside, you stood on the back deck alone, hoodie zipped up against the breeze, looking out at the stars.

Joshua came up beside you without a word, arms folded on the railing.

“I always forget how many stars you can see outside the city,” he murmured.

“Me too.”

The silence between you felt full, not empty. Comfortable. Safe.

“I’m glad you came,” he said after a moment, voice low.

You swallowed, heart bumping into your ribs. “I almost didn’t.”

“Why not?”

You thought of your parents. The pressure. The version of yourself you left behind every time you smiled too easily or sat too still. “Didn’t think I’d fit in.”

Joshua looked at you then, really looked. “You do.”

And it wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said it. Like a fact. Like he meant it. Like you could believe it, just for a little while.

That night, as you lay in bed beside a softly snoring Minji, your fingers itched to write again. You pulled out your laptop, the screen glowing softly as you wrote of a boy who glowed brighter than any star.

~

The rest of the week passed with the same ease, full of laughter and bad jokes, and before you knew it, you were once again in the backseat of Seungcheol’s SUV, Minji and Joshua beside you still. This time on the ride back, you were all singing together, much to Jihoon’s dismay, loud, semi-off-key, and blissful. You sang louder than you meant to, too tired to care, the kind of tired that came from sunburns and saltwater and smiling too much. Minji clapped off-beat, leaning against your shoulder this time, and Joshua’s thigh pressed warm against yours as he tried and failed to harmonize. The windows were cracked, the wind rushing in, and every now and then someone would shout the wrong lyric just to make Jeonghan groan. At some point, Jihoon gave up entirely and buried his face in a hoodie, headphones cranked up as loud as they’d go. The rest of you kept going, undeterred. Every voice melded into the next, creating something less like music and more like memory.

And Joshua—God, Joshua—he looked over at you during one of the slower songs. Not a love song, not really, but something nostalgic, full of yearning and soft crescendos. His gaze was steady, soft, like it had been since the moment he sat beside you on the porch steps days ago. You didn’t look away that time. You held it, let it settle in your chest.

You didn’t say anything when he passed you his phone later, the screen opened on the contacts page with a new one open for you to put your number in. He didn’t ask if he could text you. He didn’t need to.

You saved the contact as Joshua 🎸, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a second too long before you put the phone down and let your head fall back against the seat.

You didn’t text him.

Not that week, not the week after. You told yourself it was because life had picked up again. That the weight of being who you had to be came crashing down the second you got home—internship applications, catching up on summer coursework, sitting across from your parents at dinner and pretending that you weren’t always bracing for disappointment.

But the truth was this: you didn’t text him because you didn’t trust yourself to. Because there was something about the way he looked at you—like you were already unraveling and he didn’t mind—that made you want to run straight into him and never look back. And you weren’t ready for that.

Not back then.

So you tucked the summer into the back of your mind like a pressed flower in an old journal. Left untouched, but never forgotten. You went back to your life, your structure, your goals. And the next time you saw him again… it wasn’t a beach, or a fire pit, or under the stars.

It was a classroom.

Fall semester. Culture Studies. Second row, left side.

He sat next to you like no time had passed at all.

Smiled, eyes crinkling, voice soft:

“Hey. I was wondering when I’d see you again.”

And just like that—

A breath caught in your chest.

I think I’ve always been careful with my heart—not out of wisdom, but fear. I learned early on that wanting too much was dangerous, that letting someone in meant giving them the tools to undo you. So I stayed guarded, measured. I convinced myself that I was better off alone, that solitude was strength. And then you came along—not loud, not forceful, just present. You didn’t try to pull the walls down. You just stood outside them long enough that I started to wonder what it would be like to open the door. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to be seen and being terrified of it at the same time. I keep catching myself watching you when you’re not looking, wondering what you see when you look back at me.

I don’t know how to let someone in without losing myself, even though now I’m trying.

You and Joshua formed a small study group with Minghao, one of the new freshmen who was in the class as well. Your days were spent at cafés and libraries, sneaking glances and laughing as if you’d known each other for years. Minghao integrated himself into the friend group quickly, and soon enough the little study group became weekly hangouts with everyone. 

Minji made a friend in her figure drawing class, Luv, who brought her Communications major boyfriend, Seokmin, who dragged his friend Mingyu from Architecture. Just like that your group of nine became twelve, but still managed to feel seamless and tight-knit. Still, it would get slightly overwhelming sometimes, and although you thought you hid it well, Joshua started inviting you to the cafés alone, saying he couldn’t focus around everyone. The look in his eyes gave it away though, that he was really doing it for you.

Eventually, it became a ritual—every Tuesday and Thursday, like clockwork, even if the whole group was hanging out later, he’d still find time for the two of you. Some days you talked more than you studied. Some days you didn’t talk at all. And on the days when your thoughts felt too loud, when you couldn’t stop spiraling about grades and expectations and whether or not you were living the life you actually wanted—he didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there, steady and reliable.

And maybe that was what got to you most of all.

He didn’t ask questions you couldn’t answer.

He just kept showing up.

On a Tuesday after all your classes had ended, the kind that blurred into a quiet hum—gray skies, too many assignments, not enough sleep. The kind of day that wrapped itself around your shoulders like a weighted blanket and refused to let go.

You’d holed up in the library with Joshua, as usual. Your table in the corner had become something of an unofficial claim—charger cords and scribbled notes, half empty coffee cups and stolen glances. The rain had started sometime around four, soft and steady against the tall windows, and hadn’t let up since.

The overhead lights were warm and low, the world outside already swallowed by night, as you’d long since stopped paying attention to the time. Your eyes burned from staring at your screen, fingers twitching as you backspaced the same sentence for the fifth time. Across from you, Joshua stretched in his seat, shirt riding up slightly as he yawned behind one hand. 

“I think my brain is broken,” he said, voice rough with sleepiness. “Like, permanently. I don’t even know what I’ve been reading for the past ten minutes.”

You snorted. “Same. I’m pretty sure I just tried to cite Wikipedia in APA format.”

He grimaced. “We’ve hit rock bottom.”

You smiled tiredly, closing your laptop with a soft click. “We should probably go before they lock us in here overnight.”

Joshua glanced toward the windows. The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, it had picked up, water streaming steadily down the glass in long rivulets.

You frowned. “Is it still pouring?”

He checked his phone, winced. “Yeah. You didn’t bring an umbrella?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t even bring a jacket. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

Joshua made a thoughtful noise, then stood and reached behind his chair to grab his hoodie. It was oversized, worn-in, a faded navy blue with a small embroidered patch near the cuff.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

You blinked. “What?”

He smiled, eyes soft but unassuming. “It’s warm. You’ll freeze on the walk back.”

You hesitated. “What about you?”

Joshua shrugged. “I’ll survive.”

You didn’t reach for it right away. There was something about the gesture—so simple, so unspoken—that made your throat go tight. Not just because it was thoughtful, not just because he noticed, but because he always noticed. Without fanfare, without asking for anything in return.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing just barely.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He gave a small smile, one hand raking through his hair. “No problem.”

You didn’t put it on until you were outside, beneath the awning. The rain was heavier than it looked from inside, cold and relentless. You pulled the hoodie over your head and let it swallow you whole. It smelled like him—like laundry detergent and cinnamon and something else you couldn’t name. You walked side by side under the streetlights, sneakers splashing in shallow puddles. He didn’t try to talk. Just kept pace with you, close enough that your arms brushed occasionally, and you let them. By the time you got back to your dorm, your legs were damp, your socks wet, but you didn’t care.

You tugged the hoodie tighter around you. “I’ll wash it before I give it back.”

Joshua looked at you, his hair damp from the rain, the light catching in his eyes in a way that made your heart trip over itself.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said easily. “It looks good on you.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but nothing came out. So instead, you nodded.

“Night, Joshua.”

“Night,” he said, smiling like it wasn’t just another goodbye.

You closed the door behind you and stood there for a long moment, water dripping from your sleeves onto the floor. The hoodie clung to your skin like something you shouldn’t get used to.

And still—you didn’t take it off.

I’ve always been the observant one. The quiet one who watched more than I spoke, who picked up on the shift in tone before anyone else even noticed a change. I think it started with my parents—how their voices would get tight over dinner, how silence wasn’t really silence but a warning. I learned early on how to read the room like a second language: when to disappear, when to smile, when not to ask questions. It’s strange, how survival skills turn into personality traits. Now, even in rooms that are safe, I’m still scanning for tension like it’s my job. Still listening for the quiet before the storm.

You didn’t mean to start memorizing the way he smiled, but you did.

The way one corner of his mouth lifted first. The way his eyes crinkled when he was amused, but not surprised. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was listening to something you hadn’t said yet. You caught yourself writing about it later, in the margins of your notes. A small character sketch here. A description tucked into a pretend dialogue. At first, you told yourself it was just how your brain worked—you’d always been too observant for your own good, but deep down, you knew better. He was becoming a habit. A comfortable one that curled around the edges of your day and lingered long after he was gone.

That winter came faster than expected. Midterms blurred into Thanksgiving, and before you knew it, snow had started to fall. Not heavily, delicate soft flakes swirling down through streetlights like something out of a movie. You’d been walking home from another group study session, hands jammed in your coat pockets, brain fried from too much caffeine and too little sleep, when you felt someone nudge your arm with theirs.

Joshua.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just fell into step beside you, his scarf pulled up around his mouth, eyes crinkled with quiet warmth.

“It’s snowing,” he said, as if you couldn’t already tell. “First snow of the year.”

You looked up, letting a flake land on your cheek. “Feels like we skipped fall.”

Joshua glanced at you, his breath fogging the air. “It went by too fast, huh?”

That stopped you.

Because it had.

The semester was rushing by. You were rushing by. And somewhere in all of it, this—whatever this was with him—had gone from tentative to familiar. Tuesdays and Thursdays turned into Fridays too, and sometimes Saturdays. Group dinners, one-on-one coffees, passing notes during class even when you knew you’d see each other later. The way he’d easily slipped into your life scared you, so you just nodded in response.

The night before winter break, you and the group gathered at Seokmin’s apartment for what had been dubbed “Midterms Are Over, We Deserve to Be Dumb” night. Mingyu showed up with four boxes of takeout and zero utensils, Soonyoung brought cheap champagne, Jeonghan brought a speaker and declared himself DJ for the night, which lasted until someone dared Jun to change the playlist and chaos ensued.

You wore Joshua’s hoodie—not because you’d forgotten to give it back, but because you hadn’t. He didn’t say anything when he saw you in it, just offered that same soft, steady smile that always seemed to pull the floor out from under you. Later, after the food had been eaten and the lights dimmed and someone had turned on a movie nobody was really watching, you found yourselves in the kitchen together. You were refilling your drink, he was leaning against the counter, nursing a soda. You stood beside him, shoulder to shoulder, quiet for a moment as the voices from the living room faded into background noise.

“You heading home for break?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just for a bit.”

Joshua took a slow sip. “You okay about it?”

You hesitated. “I’ll manage.”

He looked at you—really looked—and it felt like the kind of look that saw more than it was supposed to.

“Call me if it gets bad,” he said simply. Not dramatic, not demanding, just there.

You smiled, tired and grateful. “You’ll actually pick up?”

He laughed. “I’ll always pick up.”

It wasn’t until you were lying in your own bed later that night, watching snow swirl past your dorm window, that those words echoed back to you.

I’ll always pick up.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought of coming back next semester felt like something to look forward to.

You didn’t text more than a few times—mostly updates about weird holiday food and “you won’t believe what my cousin just said” messages. You kept it light and safe, but he stayed in your thoughts anyway, like a song you kept humming without realizing it.

When you returned to campus in January, your heart did that stupid stutter again when you spotted him across the quad, half-buried in his coat, grinning like you’d never left, and this time, you let yourself run to catch up. You let yourself believe in the small, quiet way he was waiting for you. 

Just like that, your study sessions were back on—just the two of you in your favorite corner of the usual café—but Tuesdays and Thursdays became almost every day, and you found yourself not minding.

~

It was late afternoon, just after four, and your laptop had long since stopped being useful. The café’s windows were fogged slightly at the edges, and the warm hum of conversation around you was starting to fade into background static. Joshua sat across from you, pen in hand, lazily doodling something in the corner of his notes. You weren’t paying attention to your own, instead pretending to read an article while sneaking glances at him as he pretended not to notice.

Eventually, he closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair a little, arms crossed loosely. “Hey.”

You didn’t look up right away. “If this is you trying to tell me that I've been staring at the same sentence for the past twenty minutes, don’t.”

He smiled, chuckling. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

You glanced up then, one brow raised. “Oh? Gonna insult my coffee order again?”

He shook his head, still smiling. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to get dinner sometime.”

You blinked. “We literally just had coffee.”

“I meant like a real dinner,” he said, easy and unbothered. “Not here. Not after a study session. Just you and me.”

You stared at him, heart skipping once—but your mouth moved faster.

“Wow. Bold move.”

Joshua shrugged, unfazed. “You’ve been wearing my hoodie for two months, I figured the line between bold and obvious had already been crossed.”

You flushed, but hid it behind your cup. “That’s because it’s comfortable.”

He gave you a long look, head tilted. “Right. Of course. You steal my hoodie, hoard my playlists, hijack my fries, but no romantic interest whatsoever.”

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. “I’m a very complicated person.”

“I know,” he said, like it wasn’t a problem. “That’s part of the reason I like you.”

You paused. Something about the way he said it—so casual, like it didn’t cost him anything to just like you as you were—made your throat go tight.

You looked back down at your screen, scrolling without reading. “If this is your way of trying to guilt me into a pity dinner, it’s not working.”

Joshua smiled, soft and steady. “It’s not pity, it’s an invitation.”

Your fingers tapped your keyboard aimlessly before you quit “Where?”

He blinked, seemingly surprised you were actually entertaining it. “Tiny Korean place, downtown. Family-run, kinda loud, food’s amazing. You’ll pretend to hate it, but you’ll love it.”

You scoffed. “Excuse you, I have excellent taste.”

“That’s why I’m asking.”

You shot him a look. “You’re really not going to stop until I say yes, huh?”

“I’ll stop if you say no,” he replied simply.

The silence between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“…Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your drink again. “But only because I’m hungry and my fridge is pathetic.”

Joshua’s eyes crinkled as he tried—and failed—to suppress a grin. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you said, standing and stuffing your things into your bag, avoiding eye contact. “It’s not a date. It’s food.”

“Sure,” he said easily. “Food. Saturday?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder. “Whatever.”

But as you turned to go, hoodie sleeves tugged down to cover your hands, he caught your eye one last time and said it with a kind of warmth that made your stomach flip:

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You didn’t reply. You just walked out the door with your face burning and your heart beating too loud.

Saturday came faster than you expected.

You spent way too long picking out an outfit, then told yourself you didn’t care. Spent another ten minutes trying to calm your hair, then gave up entirely. It wasn’t a date, after all. Except it was, and you knew it. And—judging by the stupid way your heart picked up when you spotted Joshua waiting by the curb, leaning casually against his car like he hadn’t been checking the time every five minutes—he knew it too.

He opened the passenger door for you, because of course he did. “Hey.”

You raised a brow. “This whole picking-me-up thing feels dangerously date-adjacent.”

Joshua just smiled. “Guess we’re halfway there already.”

You rolled your eyes, but you got in anyway. His car smelled like his cologne and cinnamon, the aux cord was already connected. Your name was still on the screen from last time you’d hijacked it. The drive was easy, filled with soft music and snarky commentary about other drivers. You liked that about him—he didn’t fill silence with filler. He just let you be.

The plan was dinner. A real one. The restaurant was supposed to be cozy, tucked downtown, hole-in-the-wall enough to feel cool without trying too hard.

The reality?

A handwritten CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT sign taped to the restaurant door and Joshua sheepishly biting back a laugh while you stared at it in betrayal.

“You had one job,” you said, arms crossed.

“I swear it didn’t say anything online,” he replied, trying not to smile. “I even checked the reviews.”

“Did they mention getting stood up in the parking lot, or is that just me?”

Joshua put a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Wow. Cold.”

You sighed, already tugging your seatbelt back on. “You owe me fries. Like, good fries, not soggy disappointment sticks.”

He grinned, already putting the car in gear. “Deal.”

Fifteen minutes later, you were parked beneath the soft orange glow of a streetlamp, a brown paper bag between you, fog slowly blooming across the car windows. The food was hot and messy and way too salty, and everything felt perfect. He handed you your burger and opened his own box with all the grace of someone who had fully embraced the situation. You were still shuffling through a playlist when he reached over and popped open the glove compartment.

Napkins. Dozens of them, all collected from various cafés and takeout orders, some still with logos printed in fading ink.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have a whole ecosystem of napkins in there?”

He looked smug. “Emergency preparedness.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a hero.”

You shook your head and reached for one anyway. “Alright,” he said, picking through the fries, “first bite rule. You have to rate it on a scale of one to tragic.”

You took a dramatic bite of your burger, chewed with exaggerated thoughtfulness, then pointedly held up six fingers.

“Six?” he scoffed. “You’re a tough crowd.”

“You promised good fries. These are aggressively mediocre.”

“You are aggressively ungrateful.”

“Mm, but charming.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Scarily self-aware for someone eating like a raccoon.”

You threw a napkin at him. He caught it one-handed and used it to wipe a smudge off your cheek without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like you'd done this before. Like this wasn’t your first date. 

You both paused. 

Not awkwardly—just… softly, like time hiccupped.

So you made a napkin glove (it was an automatic defense mechanism that popped into your head, okay?). Kind of. Mostly it was just a lot of crumpled paper shoved around your fingers, but you held it up with pride and wiggled it in his face.

“Look,” you said, completely serious. “Art.”

Joshua grinned. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Never been done before.”

“It’s the future of fashion.”

“Can I hire you to do my album cover?”

You looked at him over the rim of your drink. “Only if I get royalties.”

He smiled again—so full, so real, like it lit up his whole face. You felt it in your chest, like a match being struck. The heater hummed softly, your knees brushed. He was close, not just physically, but in the way that made you want to lean in more, to stay longer. The night blurred at the edges, and the city felt quieter than it usually did.

“This was kind of perfect,” you admitted, quietly, when the conversation slowed.

Joshua glanced over. “Yeah?”

You nodded, staring down at the empty fry box in your lap. “Low bar, maybe. But yeah.”

He nudged your foot with his. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

He smiled, the kind that crept in slowly—corner of his mouth first, then the rest of his face catching up. Outside, the windows had fogged completely, the world beyond the windshield soft and blurred. You were wrapped in warmth and salt and too many napkins. When he walked you to your door, the quiet followed you.

He stood in front of you, hands deep in his jacket pockets, his hair mussed from the car ride. “Thanks for tonight.”

You raised a brow. “Why are you thanking me? I didn’t do anything.”

Joshua laughed, low and warm. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said. And you did. You always knew when he was.

There was a pause—not quite silence, but the space before something.

Joshua tilted his head a little. “So… do I get to do this again sometime?”

You tried to keep your voice light. “Only if you promise no more closed restaurants.”

“I can promise to try.”

You huffed a laugh and looked down at your shoes. His hand brushed yours, not quite holding—just a nudge. A question. 

And before you could overthink it, you stepped closer. He looked down, eyes meeting yours, the same softness as always—but this time, there was something else behind it. A held breath. An invitation.

You kissed him.

Not planned, not polished—just a moment folding in on itself, your hand curling in the fabric of his jacket, his mouth warm and careful against yours. He didn’t rush it, didn’t pull away either. His hand found the small of your back like it belonged there. When you broke apart, it wasn’t dramatic. Just a breath. Just him looking at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best possible way. You stepped back, heartbeat thudding like it hadn’t caught up yet.

Joshua blinked. “So…”

You smirked, brushing past him toward your door. “Don’t let that go to your head either.”

He laughed, breathless.

“Night, napkin hoarder,” you called over your shoulder.

“Night,” he replied, still standing there, stunned and glowing.

And as you stepped inside, hoodie still zipped to your chin and your hands tucked in the pockets, you realized something strange.

You already felt like you missed him.

I used to think the goal was to be good at life. To do things the right way, the smart way, the way that made people nod approvingly and say, “She’s doing well.” So I did all the things I was supposed to. Got good grades, smiled politely, made myself agreeable. Learned how to be impressive without being intimidating, kind without being soft, competent without drawing too much attention. And for a while, I thought that meant I was doing it right.

But lately, I’ve started to wonder what I gave up in the process.

It’s a strange feeling, realizing you’re not quite sure who you are outside of your usefulness. That most of your accomplishments feel more like proof of compliance than passion. I used to love staying up late to write, to draw, to imagine other lives, other versions of myself that weren’t so afraid to want things. Now I stay up late answering emails and scrolling through job listings I don’t even want.

You always made it look easy—wanting things. You’d talk about your dreams like they were already real, like you were just on your way to meet them. I used to envy that, quietly. I used to think I’d catch up eventually, once things settled. But they never really did. They just kept moving, and I kept following, waiting for some internal switch to flip and make everything feel meaningful.

You started dating not long after that night. There wasn’t some dramatic confession or big ask—just a shared look, a shift in the air between you, and then a string of days that slowly folded into something you both already knew. He asked, technically—half-laughing, eyes soft, the words “So are we…?” hanging between you like a question with an obvious answer, and of course you said yes. From there, it was easy—easier than you expected—like you’d already been in the rhythm of it before either of you dared to call it love.

He knew what coffee to bring you when you were stressed, you knew when to remind him to eat lunch between classes. He’d send you photos of cats he saw on the way to the bus, you left notes in his hoodie pockets, half-sarcastic, half-sincere. You never had a honeymoon phase. Or maybe you did, and it just felt like a continuation of whatever had already been building since that first beach walk. It wasn’t intense. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was just… comfortable. Like slipping into the version of your life where you didn’t have to explain yourself all the time. Where he just got it. Each day was another with him by your side, making even the most boring chores seem brighter.

The grocery store was colder than it needed to be. You stood in front of the deli section like the wrong choice would change the rest of your night, squinting at plastic trays of pasta and overpromising risotto, all of it under the hum of the flickering light that never got fixed.

Joshua held up a tray of lasagna—beige, sagging, uncertain. “This one looks like it gave up halfway through becoming food.”

You didn’t even flinch. “So basically, it’s us, in edible form.”

He laughed, not the loud kind, but the kind that slipped into the space between you like it belonged there. “Speak for yourself. I still have ambition.”

“Yeah, to eat garbage and call it gourmet.”

Still, you didn’t walk away. He didn’t either. You stayed there, arms brushing every few seconds, letting the refrigerated air chill the part of your brain that had been too warm all day. Eventually, you grabbed the lasagna from him and tossed it into the cart like a surrender. He beamed. You rolled your eyes, but your chest felt a little lighter.

“Dessert?” he asked, already heading for the candy aisle.

“Obviously.”

You bickered about snacks like it was life or death—he swore by Tootsie Roll Pops, you swore by Airheads. He made a passionate argument about the flavors being more emotionally dynamic and lasting longer, you accused him of over-identifying with candy. He bought both, of course. He always did. At checkout, he insisted on scanning every item, pretending the barcode scanner was a lightsaber and making increasingly dramatic ‘pew-pew’ noises. The teenage cashier didn’t blink. You laughed anyway. He looked proud of that. 

You’ve thought about that moment more times than you care to admit—how unremarkable it all was. How perfect.

He opened your door for you without thinking. You clicked your seatbelt while he arranged the bags like you were moving cross-country, not three blocks. His playlist came on automatically—lo-fi beats and a song you’d been obsessed with for three weeks and would pretend not to like in two.

Back at your apartment, you didn’t bother with plates. Just tossed a blanket on the couch and dug in with plastic forks, arguing over who got the corner piece like it mattered. He gave it to you. You gave it back. He took it, grinned, and said, “We’re getting better at compromise.”

You told him he was delusional.

You don’t remember what movie you put on, only that it had subtitles and a lot of pauses. You watched him more than the screen. He watched you too, probably more than you realized at the time. At one point, he leaned against your shoulder, head tilted just enough to make your heartbeat shift, and whispered, “I hope you never get tired of this.”

You’d blinked. “Of lasagna that tastes like regret?”

He smiled like you’d said something profound. “Of us. Like this.”

You didn’t answer. Not really. You just elbowed him gently and reached for another Airhead.

He didn’t say “I love you” that night. But you think he almost did. You think you might’ve heard it in the way he stayed too long after the credits rolled, in the way he carried the trash out without being asked, in the way he paused by the door, looking like he didn’t want to leave.

“Wanna stay?” you’d asked, voice too casual to be casual.

He nodded. “If you don’t mind the world’s worst blanket thief.”

You tossed him a pillow and called him dramatic. He called you soft. Neither of you denied it.

That night, he slept on the couch and you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way his feet stuck out from the end of the blanket, how he always curled toward the cushions like he was trying to take up less space than he deserved. You didn’t write about it that night. Not right away. But later—when things were less clear, when the quiet between you stopped being comfortable—you opened a blank document and wrote about two people deciding between frozen meals like it mattered. You wrote about gummy worms and borrowed playlists, about a boy who didn’t say he loved you but meant it anyway.

You never finished that piece.

You still open it sometimes, reread the lines, move a sentence around and tell yourself it’s editing. You never change the ending. Maybe because it never really had one. Or maybe because it had one and you just didn’t write it down. Sometimes, you wonder if that’s what writing really is—holding onto a version of a moment that felt whole, even if you weren’t. Even if he wasn’t.

You still avoid the frozen food aisle when you’re alone. Not because it hurts. Just because it makes you remember. And you’re not always sure which is worse.

There’s a part of me that will always wonder: if I had been more focused on us instead of not messing us up, maybe things would be different. If I’d told you how much you meant to me, that you were my world and that it scared me to be so attached, I might be able to run into your arms the way I always wanted to. There’s no point in wondering now, but I still find myself writing stories where we end up happy in the end, where I remind you how much I love you every day. Sure, the characters have different names, live in different places, but they’re still always us, or at least what I wished for us.

You didn’t even realize it was your six-month anniversary until Minji reminded you, halfway through a bite of cafeteria pasta.

“Wait—today’s the twenty-third, right?” she asked, frowning at her phone. “You and Joshua started dating on the twenty-third, didn’t you?”

You blinked. “...Did we?”

Luv gave you a look over her pasta. “Don’t you remember your own relationship?”

You shrugged, but you were smiling. “I guess I didn’t really think about it, since we just kind of slipped into everything.”

“Yeah, into disgustingly domestic bliss,” Minji muttered. “What are you guys doing tonight?”

You checked your calendar out of instinct. “Uh, he said something about dinner. Wouldn’t tell me where.”

Luv narrowed her eyes. “He planned something.”

You laughed. “Relax. It’s Joshua. It’s probably dinner and a walk.”

“You say that like it’s not the dream.”

You were wrong, for the record. It wasn’t just dinner. He picked you up with flowers. Tiny yellow petals in a paper-wrapped bundle, already drooping a little from being carried around campus all afternoon.

“They’re a little sad-looking,” he admitted. “But they reminded me of you.”

You squinted. “Um. Thank you?”

“Hopeful. Beautiful. A little chaotic.” He held them out with a sheepish grin. “I meant it nicely.”

You rolled your eyes but took them anyway, hiding your smile in the petals.

You knew it was sweet. You knew most people would melt over it—and you did—but it also made your chest tighten, just a little. Because the more perfect it felt, the more aware you were of the quiet voice in the back of your head whispering: don’t mess this up.

He took you to a cozy Italian restaurant—the one he’d been planning on taking you on that first date. The food was good, the conversation was easy, and you made each other laugh in the same rhythm you always did—like there was no room for awkwardness anymore. Yet still, somewhere beneath all that warmth, a flicker of unease curled in your stomach.

How long could this really last?

You didn’t know where the thought came from. It just appeared, uninvited. Maybe because it felt too good, like something you weren’t sure you were allowed to keep. You’d always been better at preparing for the fall than trusting the height.

After dinner, he didn’t take you straight home. Instead, he pulled into a quiet overlook by the river. The kind of place that would’ve felt cliché with anyone else, but just felt right with him. He passed you a napkin from the glove compartment when your ice cream dripped down your wrist.

You teased him about it, he teased you back. The breeze was cool, the sky was fading into pinks and purples as night fell.

And somewhere in the middle of it, he turned to you, voice soft but sure.

“You’re my favorite person.”

You froze. Not outwardly—but something in your ribs pulled tight.

“That’s dangerous,” you responded.

He smiled, open and unguarded. “What, being honest?”

“No,” you said, quieter. “Making me want to say it back.”

You did anyway. Not in words—you couldn’t—but you leaned across the console and kissed him, soft and steady, like a promise you weren’t sure you could keep but wanted to make anyway. For a moment, it was all so warm, so close, so real.

Later, on the drive home, you watched his fingers on the wheel, the way he tapped to the beat of the music. You could feel it again—that fear pressing up against the edges of your chest, cold where everything else was soft.

He looked at you like you were everything, but you knew, deep down, you didn’t believe you could be. You held his hand anyway and told yourself that was enough, but some part of you was already bracing. Just in case.

~

The first time Joshua told you he loved you, it had been a normal day. You’d been dating for seven or eight months at that point, and he had been over at your house, laying on your couch and watching TV as you typed away on your computer, doing a report on The Myth of Daedalus and Icarus for your Ancient Greek Lit class. You remember the way his eyes were focused on you, not whatever show played on the screen, because you called him out on it.

“What?” You’d asked, glancing up to meet his gaze, thrown off by how soft it was.

He’d blinked like he’d been caught doing something he didn’t mean to, but didn’t look away. “Nothing,” he responded, then added, after a pause, “You’re just really beautiful when you’re focused.”

You’d snorted, typing another line without missing a beat. “Cheesy.”

Joshua laughed, the quiet kind, like he knew you were deflecting but didn’t mind. “Yeah,” he agreed, “but true.”

He’d gone quiet after that, letting the room fill again with the sounds of the sitcom on the TV and your fingers tapping at the keys. He stayed like that for a long time—long enough that you forgot he was watching again until he shifted a little closer, until you felt his warmth bleeding into your side.

And then, casual like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was commenting on the weather,

“I love you.”

You’d stopped typing mid-sentence. The cursor blinked against the white of the screen like it was waiting for you to catch up, but your brain was still buffering, caught somewhere between the unexpected softness of his voice and the flutter that had leapt into your chest.

You turned to him slowly, brows drawn together. “What?”

He smiled, the kind of smile that curled at the corners and settled into his eyes. “I love you,” he repeated, this time with a little shrug, like he wasn’t offering you anything to carry, just telling you something true. “Just thought you should know.”

And you had no idea what to say.

You weren’t even sure how you felt about it—not because you didn’t care about him, but because the words felt so big. Too big. You didn’t know if you believed in love, not really, not after all the ways people had made it conditional in your life. But Joshua just said it, like it wasn’t a condition at all. Like it was just there.

You’d blinked at him, unsure, quiet. Then, instead of saying it back, you’d asked, “Aren’t you supposed to say that when we’re, like, having a moment?”

Joshua grinned. “This is a moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling, too. “You’re ridiculous.”

He reached over and poked your cheek gently. “Yeah.”

You had huffed a laugh, rolled your eyes as Joshua leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple before settling back into the couch.

You didn’t say anything else that day—not about the I love you, not about how your heart had soared before sinking to your stomach, sinking to your feet the same way Icarus fell to the ocean. Even so, that night, after he left, you opened a new document and wrote ten pages of a love story you’d never finish.

~

When Joshua told you his mom was coming into town and wanted to meet you, you nearly had an aneurysm. You had been mid-sip of your latte, which immediately went down the wrong pipe, making you cough so hard you almost knocked over your laptop.

“She what?”

He was calm, automatically passing you a napkin while he responded. “She just wants to meet you. She’s been asking since month three, but I told her I’d wait until you were comfortable.”

“And you think I’m comfortable now?”

He tilted his head, sipping his tea like you weren’t spiraling. “Aren’t you?”

You stared at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” he said, without missing a beat.

You remember preparing like it was a job interview. A sweater—not too fancy, not too casual. Clean jeans. A bag packed with emergency gum, hand sanitizer, and half a pack of tissues in case you cried (you wouldn’t, but still). Joshua just laughed when he saw how stiff you were in the mirror.

“She’s going to love you,” he said, adjusting your sleeve gently and rubbing your back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said, eyes warm and certain. “Because you’re you.”

You hated how much that softened you.

His mom met you at a little café downtown, the kind with handmade mugs and mismatched furniture. She stood the second you walked in, arms open like she’d known you forever.

“Oh my gosh—you’re even prettier than in the pictures,” she said, pulling you into a hug before you could stop her.

You stiffened, unsure where to put your arms, how long to hold on, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care. She smelled like jasmine and peppermint, and her laugh came easy.

“Hi,” you managed, awkward and too formal. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hong.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, please, call me Mom.”

Your brain short-circuited. She sat across from you, immediately launching into stories—about Joshua as a kid, about their family dog, about her terrible driving. You didn’t have to say much, she filled every silence like she hated to see space unused, but not in a way that demanded anything from you. It wasn’t pressure, just presence.

At one point, she leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Has he shown you his baby pictures yet? No? Ohhh, you’re in for a treat.”

Joshua groaned. “Mom—”

“She needs to see the bowl cut. I insist.”

You laughed—a real laugh. So real it startled you. When her hand had brushed yours over the table, you didn’t flinch. Just looked down at it and thought about how different it felt—gentle, curious. Not weighing you. Not measuring your worth. You weren’t used to that.

Later, when she left—hugging you again, kissing Joshua on the cheek, making you promise to visit over break—you stood beside him on the sidewalk in stunned silence.

“She hugged me,” you said dumbly.

Joshua nodded. “Twice.” He confirmed.

“She meant it.”

He smiled sideways at you. “Of course she did.”

You didn’t answer—you couldn’t—because what you really wanted to say was that’s not normal for you. You wanted to say, my mom once called me dramatic for crying at my graduation or my dad said love is earned. But you didn’t. 

Instead, you slipped your hand into his, quiet and steady. You didn’t know how to say thank you for things you didn’t know you needed. But you squeezed his fingers, and he squeezed back like he heard it anyway.

Growing up, my parents always told me writing was a useless hobby, and being an author was a fruitless job. Now, as I sit in my apartment, typing yet another page, I wonder if they were wrong.  Of course I’d listened to them, like I always did. Chose the safe path, got the degree, accepted the job offer, and found myself in an office with boring beige walls and a badge to clip on my blazer. I learned to say things like “per my last email” and “looping back”, made spreadsheets, sat through meetings that could’ve been emails and nodded at my boss like I was grateful for the opportunity. They’d always said growing up wasn’t fun, and it's moments like now that make me wonder if they were just doing it wrong. If I am. You never seemed to have that problem, but then again, sometimes I think I never looked hard enough.

It went differently when he met your parents, as expected. The semester had ended, and you weren’t allowed to go on the beach trip like the year prior, instead having to go home and take care of your younger sister, Bella. She’d been “rebelling,” according to your parents, which could have meant anything from refusing to memorize the school’s motto to sneaking out to party. You never got the full story—just a text from your mom with a time and a list of rules, followed by a thinly veiled threat about "setting a good example."

So you went, and Joshua, because he was Joshua, offered to drive you. Just drop you off, he’d said at first, but the closer you got to your hometown, the more the silence thickened, and at one point—fifteen minutes from your street—you’d looked at him and asked, “Do you want to meet them?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

You weren’t sure if you meant it or why you even offered, but it was too late after that.

They were polite.

Your dad opened the door with that measured expression he wore to fundraisers and board meetings—neutral with a pinch of skepticism. Your mom smiled, the tight kind, eyes flicking over Joshua’s outfit, his hands, his posture.

“You didn’t mention he played guitar,” she said after introductions, not as a compliment.

Joshua smiled anyway. “Mostly just for fun.”

They didn’t laugh. Bella waved from the staircase, wearing a hoodie that probably wasn’t hers and chewing gum in a way that made your mother twitch. You wished you could sit with her instead. You wished you could disappear entirely.

Dinner was a slow ache. Joshua tried to help with dishes afterward, but your mother insisted he sit. She asked about his major, his GPA, what his father did for work, and Joshua answered every question with patience, that soft steadiness you adored in him. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly around his water glass. Your dad interrupted him twice.

At one point, your mom said, “It’s good that you’re helping her stay focused. She tends to get… distracted.”

And Joshua said nothing. He didn’t argue, but he looked at you like he knew how hard you were biting the inside of your cheek.

Later, in your childhood bedroom—after everyone had gone to bed, after you’d laid down and stared at your old ceiling fan like it might have answers—you whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Joshua looked over at you from the makeshift bed you’d set up for him on the floor. He smiled softly. “Don’t be.”

“You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’ve been through worse,” he said, like it was a joke. It wasn’t.

You turned your face toward the wall, the soft thrum of the fan masking the rise of your heartbeat. “I thought… I hoped maybe they’d be different this time.”

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it. “They don’t know how to love you.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

But you both knew it was true.

He left in the morning, but you found a folded note in your hoodie pocket. His handwriting, familiar and neat, written on the back of one of Bella’s old homework assignments.

You’re not the person they try to make you be.

You’re more. You always have been.

I’m proud of you for coming home anyway.

I’ll see you when school starts again, don’t forget to call.

Love you

You didn’t cry, but you kept the note. You still have it, actually. Tucked into the back of your journal, under a page with a half-written poem about ceilings and silence. The ink’s smudged a little, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. You reread it sometimes when you feel yourself folding in again. Just to remember what it felt like, to be seen like that. To be chosen.

Even when you couldn't choose yourself.

~

You’d learned pretty quickly what your parents meant by “rebellious” when you caught a boy trying to sneak in through the wrong window. It was just past midnight, you were at your desk, headphones in but not playing anything, too mentally fried from summer class readings to focus but not tired enough to sleep. That’s when you heard it—a faint clink, then the rustle of leaves, and something brushing against the siding outside your window.

You got up and peered through the blinds, heart already preparing for the worst. There he was: a boy, halfway through climbing to the study, balancing awkwardly with a tote bag slung over his shoulder. He was laughing under his breath, the sound muffled by effort.

You opened your window. “You do realize there’s nothing in there, right?”

He nearly slipped off the ledge. “Oh—sorry! I didn’t know anyone was awake. Bella said this was the right one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who are you?”

“Chan,” he whispered, lifting the tote as if that explained everything. “We’re in the same class. I brought her strawberry milk. It’s her favorite.”

You blinked. He looked… harmless. Earnest, even. His socks didn’t match and his hoodie had little stars embroidered on the sleeves.

You sighed, already giving in. “Use the tree and climb into this room, Bella’s in the room next to mine. That’s the study.”

His whole face lit up. “You’re the best. Seriously.”

You didn’t answer—just shook your head as he dropped down to instead scale the tree outside your window and climb in, thanking you again before sneaking into Bella’s room.

When you peeked in later, expecting chaos or whispered schemes, you were met with soft lamplight and the smell of strawberry milk. Bella was curled up in bed, legs tangled in a blanket, flipping through flashcards while Chan sat on the floor with his back to the wall, their pinkies barely touching between them.

“Oh,” Bella said when she noticed you. “You’re still up.”

You stepped into the room. “I am, why are you?”

“We’re studying,” she said. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

Chan nodded, serious. “I quizzed her six times already. She only missed one.”

Bella looked proud. “It was ‘ephemeral.’ I got cocky.”

You tried not to smile. “And sneaking him in was… necessary for vocab retention?”

Bella shrugged, but there was a blush blooming in her cheeks. “He knows I get nervous when I study. It’s easier when he’s here.”

You looked between them—at the books, the snacks, the little pinky touch—and something tugged at your chest. They weren’t doing anything wrong. They were just being. Sweet. Simple. Young.

“You really like him,” you said, not as an accusation.

Bella nodded. “I do.”

It was so certain, so easy.

You glanced at Chan. “You like her too?”

He nodded, just as serious. “I’ve liked her since she gave me her extra glue stick in fourth grade.”

Bella laughed, reaching down to poke his knee. “You always bring that up.”

“Because it was a defining moment in my life.”

You sat at the edge of the bed, folding one leg beneath you. “You’re not rebellious.”

She tilted her head. “I know.”

“Then why do they think you are?”

Bella looked down at her flashcards. “Because I want things.”

You swallowed because that landed much harder than it should have.

She looked up again, softening. “They raised us to be good. I think I just want to be… happy, too.”

You didn’t answer in words, you just leaned forward and pulled her into a hug—awkward and sudden, but needed. She went without resistance.

Chan looked like he was trying very hard not to intrude on the moment. You reached out and ruffled his hair as you pulled back. “You break her heart, I break your kneecaps.”

He nodded solemnly. “Reasonable.”

Bella laughed so hard she snorted, and you found yourself smiling, really smiling, for the first time in days.

That night, when you got back to your room, you sat on your bed in the quiet, phone in your hand, Joshua’s name at the top of your messages. You stared at it for a long time, thumb hovering.

Then you typed:

"My sister's in love. It's kind of gross. Also adorable. Do you still have the playlist from the deli lasagna night?"

He replied before you could even lock your screen:

"Of course. Also, I love how you say 'gross' when you mean 'I’m feeling things and I’m scared.'"

You rolled your eyes and smiled into your pillow.

Maybe being a little rebellious wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

~

When you’d told Joshua you’d never been to an amusement park before, he’d almost passed out from shock before dragging you to one the next weekend. You’d tried to argue, saying it wasn’t that big of a deal, that it was just one of those things you never got around to—but Joshua had looked at you like you’d just confessed a great personal tragedy. He was already pulling up ticket prices before you could finish your excuse.

“No childhood rollercoaster trauma?” he asked, peering at you suspiciously as the page loaded. “No fear of clowns or funnel cake?”

“Not unless you count my mom calling anything fun a waste of time,” you replied, only half-joking. “She said the Ferris wheel was basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua had frowned at that, the kind of frown that tugged at the corners of his mouth and sat deep in his eyes, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to put it. He didn’t press you, though. Just bought the tickets and sent you the confirmation with the caption: you’re about to experience joy, please prepare accordingly. You’d laughed, called him dramatic, and pretended you weren’t nervous.

That Saturday, he’d shown up at your door grinning and holding a giant water bottle and a pack of Advil like you were about to hike the Alps.

“Trust me,” he said, slipping his fingers through yours as you locked your door. “You’re gonna need this after four consecutive loops on the Cyclone.”

The amusement park was crowded and loud and aggressively colorful. You’d felt overwhelmed the moment you stepped through the gates—too many kids screaming, too many smells of fried sugar and sunscreen—but Joshua’s hand was warm and steady in yours, grounding you. He navigated the chaos like he’d grown up in it, dragging you from ride to ride with the giddy confidence of someone showing off a secret hideout.

You hadn’t expected to like it—you told yourself you were just humoring him—but somewhere between the bumper cars and the second round of cotton candy, you’d started laughing—really laughing—the kind that made your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Joshua had this way of making the world feel a little less sharp. Like maybe the point of life wasn’t to be productive, but to scream your lungs out on a ride that made no sense and taste everything twice just in case it was better the second time.

After the sun dipped low and the lights began to flicker on, you found yourselves at the Ferris wheel. It looked taller in person than it had in the pictures, the cars creaking gently as they rotated upward into the purple sky.

You’d hesitated, eyeing the height. “This is basically paying to sit still in the sky.”

Joshua grinned, pulling you gently forward. “Exactly. Your mom would hate it.”

You laughed, breathless, and followed him into the car. At the top, with the wind tugging softly at your hair and the whole park glittering beneath you, Joshua had gone quiet. You glanced over to find him watching you again, that same look in his eyes—the one that made your chest ache a little, like maybe he saw something you didn’t believe was there.

“What?” you’d asked, softer this time.

He shook his head. “Nothing. You just look happy.”

You didn’t respond right away, once again you didn’t know how to. But you’d reached out and laced your fingers with his again, like maybe that could say what you couldn’t.

Later, you wrote about a girl who learns to fly, not because she wants to escape, but because someone teaches her the sky isn’t as scary as it looks. You still haven’t finished that story either.

I’ve always been afraid of big steps. The kind that changes things—the kind you can’t undo once they’re taken. Moving in, saying I love you, letting someone stay. They’ve always felt too heavy in my hands, like I wasn’t built to carry that kind of closeness. I used to imagine those moments with dread, not joy. Like they were cliffs instead of bridges. But with you, somehow, it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like breathing. I’m now realizing that maybe love isn’t about being ready. Maybe it’s about finding the person who makes you forget you were ever afraid. I wonder how different things would be if I’d realized sooner.

You saw Joshua more that summer, he’d come around to see you, was respectful to your parents, and would take you on dates, or “rescue you” as he’d call it. He met Bella, they got along better than you’d ever hoped, and everything felt… nice. Lighter.

On one date, you were halfway through your bowl of spicy noodles when Joshua said, “So, how do you feel about mold?”

You blinked. “Like… as a concept?”

“As a roommate.”

You arched a brow. “Depends. Is it paying rent?”

Joshua shrugged, sipping from his water like he hadn’t just opened with a completely deranged question. “There’s this one place I looked at. Great light, quiet street, shower pressure from God himself. But there’s… a corner. In the kitchen. It’s not technically mold yet, but it’s definitely manifesting.”

You winced. “Yeah, no— I’m not looking to catch the plague before graduation.”

“That’s what I said. The landlord offered to knock fifty bucks off if I ‘wasn’t picky.’”

You laughed, spearing another bite. “He basically said, ‘you might die slightly faster, but you’ll die fifty bucks richer.’”

Joshua grinned. “Exactly.”

There was a pause. The restaurant was mostly empty, a quiet Tuesday night glow settling over everything. His chopsticks tapped the side of his bowl once, idly.

“I saw a studio that looked nice,” you offered, “but it’s like three buses from campus, and I’d have to live above a bar called ‘Moist.’ So…”

Joshua gagged audibly. “You can’t live above something named Moist. That’s how people get haunted.”

“By what? The ghost of poor branding?”

“That—and regret. And spilled beer.”

You shook your head, smiling into your bowl. “Ugh. Why is apartment hunting so exhausting? I haven’t even seen anything in person yet and I already feel emotionally betrayed.”

“Because it’s not really about apartments,” Joshua said, in that quiet way he had when he meant something under the surface. “It’s about deciding how you want to live. Who you want around. What kind of mornings you want to wake up to.”

You glanced at him, caught off-guard by how soft his expression had gone. There was sesame oil on the corner of his mouth. You reached across the table to wipe it off out of habit.

“I just want a place where the fridge works and I don’t get robbed walking home,” you said, voice lighter.

“Fair,” he said, then paused. “What if… what if we lived together?”

You blinked. “What?”

Joshua looked calm. Casual. Like he did every time he sent your brain into a tailspin. “I’m serious. We’re already together most of the time. We like the same coffee, we split grocery bills, you steal my hoodies, and I know you hate overhead lighting.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You make that sound like a romantic résumé.”

He pointed at you with his chopsticks. “Exactly. Look at us—so compatible.”

You laughed, loud and sudden. “Joshua, moving in is a big thing.”

“I know,” he said, unbothered. “But… so is looking for a place in this hellscape of a rental market. And I like you. A lot. I like the idea of waking up and knowing I get to see you. I like that you talk to yourself while you write and pretend you don’t. I like that you keep trying to teach me how to cook and pretend I’m not a lost cause.”

You stared at him. “Are you saying you want to move in with me… because you’re bad at sautéing onions?”

He smirked. “I’m saying maybe we could make a place feel like home together.”

Your stomach flipped in that quiet, terrifying way it always did when Joshua said something sweet like it wasn’t a big deal. Like love wasn’t a heavy word, but something you could tuck into your pocket and carry around without noticing the weight.

You toyed with your chopsticks. “So what would this hypothetical home look like?”

“No overhead lights, a kettle, some shelves for all your books, one of those couches that’s ugly but too comfortable to get rid of, plants you’ll forget to water so I’ll do it, a fridge with sticky notes on it, and a drawer just for your favorite snacks so I don’t eat them when I’m desperate at 2 a.m.”

You swallowed.

“You’ve thought about this,” you said.

“Of course I have,” he said, with no hesitation. “Haven’t you?”

You hadn’t let yourself—didn’t want to hope— but sitting there, watching him sketch a future out of air and sesame noodles and softly spoken intentions felt less like a leap and more like the next step you’d already taken, just hadn’t admitted out loud. You reached over to take a bite from his bowl.

“If you steal my leftovers in the middle of the night,” you said, “I’m changing the Wi-Fi password.”

Joshua leaned back, eyes crinkling with his grin. “So is that a yes?”

You didn’t say it.

You just smiled and said, “Only if the fridge has space for soda.”

And that was enough.

~

Apartment hunting had been anything but easy. There was the place with the ceiling fan that threatened to decapitate anyone over 5'10", the studio that mysteriously smelled like soup despite no visible kitchen appliances, and the duplex where the landlord proudly mentioned a "quirky rat situation" like it was a feature, not a threat. One unit had slanted floors so dramatic that Joshua had to grab the doorframe to avoid falling into the living room. Another had a neighbor with a pet ferret named Vengeance. You tried not to judge, Joshua asked if it was housebroken, and you both ran.

It was the sixth place of the week—the kind of weekday evening where the sky looked like wet cotton and your energy was hovering somewhere between “barely functioning” and “don’t talk to me unless you have snacks.”

You were already half-preparing your list of things to hate when the door opened. It didn’t look like much from the hallway—just another nondescript beige door with peeling paint and numbers that hung slightly crooked. But the second you stepped in, it felt different. The apartment was small, yes—but clean. Cozy. Lived-in without actually being lived in. Wooden floors, worn in all the right ways. Tall windows that let in light even on a gray day. A built-in bookshelf along the far wall that made your heart skip just a little.

Joshua stepped inside behind you and went quiet. You both walked the space slowly, separate orbits circling the same sun. You trailed your hand along the windowsill. He opened cabinets like he was afraid they’d creak (they didn’t). You peered into the bedroom, which was just big enough for a bed and two people with low expectations. The bathroom had decent water pressure. The kitchen counter had a corner that jutted out awkwardly, but it also had a drawer that rolled out like butter.

You stood in the middle of the living room, turning slowly in a circle, eyes on the ceiling.

“Shua.”

He looked up.

“I think this is it,” you breathed.

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

You sat down on the floor. No furniture yet, but the sunlight hit the floorboards like a promise. Joshua sat beside you without hesitation.

“It’s a little small,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“And we’d have to get rid of, like, half our stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“But I could see us here.”

You looked at him. He was already looking at you.

“You really think we’ll survive living together?” you teased, nudging his shoulder.

He grinned. “I think we’ve been living as if we do for a while now.”

And he was right. You already split groceries half the time, you already argued over movie genres and laundry detergent. He already had a toothbrush in your drawer and his hoodie was still hanging off your desk chair from three days ago.

“You’re going to label your cereal, aren’t you?” you asked, mock-accusing.

“And your hot sauce will be mysteriously on every shelf, I’m sure.”

You smiled. “Compromise.”

“Teamwork,” he said, leaning in just slightly.

It wasn’t a dramatic kiss, just a soft one—sunlight on skin, lips brushing like an answer to a question neither of you had fully asked. Familiar, but new. A beginning, but also a continuation. You kissed him back, eyes closed, and thought: yeah, this is home. When you pulled away, he was already smiling.

“So,” you said, standing and brushing your hands on your jeans, “do we tell the landlord we’ll take it, or do we let them wonder why two weird kids just made out on the floor of an empty unit?”

Joshua laughed, pushing himself up with a mock-serious expression. “I vote we sign before they change their mind.”

~

The key stuck a little in the lock, which Joshua had said was a good sign. “Means it’s old. Lived in. Has character.”

You’d rolled your eyes and said, “It means it’s going to snap off and trap us inside one day.”

He grinned, nudging the door open with his shoulder. “A very poetic way to die, tragic roommates to lovers, found decades later.”

You remember how the apartment had smelled that first night—wood polish, faint lemon cleaner, and the heat of late summer pressing in from the windows. You’d both laughed at how loud your voices echoed in the emptiness. There hadn’t been any furniture yet, just your tote bag dumped in the corner, his carefully balanced pizza box, and a faded blue picnic blanket that didn’t quite cover the floor but felt like enough. Back then, things were simple in the kind of way that didn’t feel simple until much later.

You sat cross-legged across from him, knees bumping his, the two of you too tired to keep your jokes straight but too giddy to stop talking.

Joshua had taken a bite of his second slice, lips shiny with grease, and looked around like the world had cracked open just for the two of you. “We actually did it.”

You leaned back, palms on the floor, stretching out your legs like it would help you take it all in. “I think I was still in denial until we got the keys.”

He offered you his soda—flat, but sweet—and asked, “Still wanna live with me?”

You remember the exact pause, the beat of your heart in your throat before you said, “Jury’s still out. I need to see if you’re the kind of guy who folds his laundry or lives out of the basket like a goblin.”

“Excuse you,” he replied, mock-offended. “I fold it. Badly, but I fold it.”

You laughed like nothing in the world could come between the two of you. The pizza was bad and the fan rattled like it was one loose screw away from falling, but you remember thinking—This is what happiness looks like. You didn’t say it out loud, you barely even admitted it to yourself.

Later, after the food was gone and the city sounds had softened, you curled up on the too-small blanket, his jacket tossed over both of you like a half-hearted attempt at being warm. He’d pulled you close, arm wrapped around your waist, cheek pressed to your temple.

“This is the best night I’ve had in a long time,” you’d whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t speak right away. Just tightened his grip a little, like holding on could make time freeze.

“Me too,” he said eventually, and you remember thinking it didn’t matter that the place was bare, or that your backs would probably hurt in the morning, or that life would get complicated again.

Back then, things were still soft. And even now, years later, you still remember the way he looked at you—like home wasn’t four walls or a bed or a lease, it was you.

I think a part of me always knew I was archiving us in real time. That every late-night grocery run, every offhand comment, every half-finished story wasn’t just a habit—it was documentation. Proof that we were real. That I was real. It’s strange, looking back now, how many versions of us exist only because I wrote them down. And stranger still, how many I didn’t. The ones I kept to myself. The ones that never made it past memory. I wonder if those are the most honest ones, or just the ones I was too afraid to touch. I wonder if things would be different if I hadn’t just written my feelings, if maybe I’d found a way to tell you, pull you closer instead of pushing you away.

By the time the school year started, the two of you had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, like the apartment had always known your footsteps. Mornings were quiet and warm—Joshua humming while he made coffee, you groaning into your hoodie as you hunted for clean socks. He always remembered how you took your coffee and you always made sure his headphones weren’t tangled when he ran out the door late. Sometimes you’d leave sticky notes on the fridge for each other—little drawings, reminders, a “don’t forget your umbrella” with a crooked smiley face. It wasn’t romantic in the obvious ways—it was better. It was easy, thoughtful, and familiar.

You’d study at the kitchen table in parallel silence, laptops open, wires tangled underfoot, your knees brushing beneath the table without either of you moving away. You still teased him for playing the same five lo-fi tracks on repeat, and he still claimed your highlighters were a fire hazard. It was your kind of normal. When classes got overwhelming, you found yourselves curled up on the couch, your feet in his lap while he read through notes with one hand and absentmindedly massaged your ankle with the other. You'd never asked him to do it, he’d just started one day. You never told him to stop.

You remember thinking—if this is what love looks like, maybe I’ve been underestimating it all this time. And yet, sometimes when he was already asleep, curled toward the wall in the bed you shared with a blanket kicked half off his legs, you’d lie there staring at the ceiling, heart too full, too fast, too much. You didn’t know how to hold it all. It scared you, how much space he took up in your thoughts. How much emptier the world felt when he wasn’t around.

You told yourself it was fine, that this was the good part, if you just stayed here, in this moment, you’d never have to figure out what came next. But the problem with comfort is that you get used to it. You stop looking closely. You stop checking for cracks. And even the best rhythms can start to slip when the tempo changes.

~

It started with an email. You were sitting at the kitchen table, legs curled under you, one hand wrapped around a mug that had long gone cold. Joshua was across from you, hunched over his planner, underlining something in blue and humming quietly to himself. The apartment was still, soft with early light, the kind of peace you’d grown used to. Until it wasn’t.

INTERNSHIP OPPORTUNITY – Interview Invitation

You read it once, then again, heart thudding in that quiet, thrilling, terrifying way. It was from a firm downtown. Well-known, high expectations, and a name that would open doors. You’d applied months ago and then forgotten about it entirely—figuring it was a long shot. Now, they wanted to meet with you. Joshua looked up when you went still.

“What’s up?”

You turned the screen toward him. “Got an interview.”

He lit up. “Wait, seriously? Which one?”

You said the name and his eyebrows lifted. “That’s huge.”

You nodded, trying to play it cool, but your chest was already buzzing.

“They want to meet this week,” you added. “It’s part-time through the semester, but, like, serious hours. Four days a week. Real workload.”

Joshua nodded again, slower this time. “That’s… fast.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. “Isn’t that the point?”

“No, totally. It’s great,” he said, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. “Just—didn’t know you were still looking.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked at you, gentle but a little too careful. “I guess I thought you already had enough on your plate.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah, but this is kind of what I’ve been working toward. It’s not forever. Just this semester.”

He nodded again, but the movement was distracted. “I get it. It’s just a lot.”

The way he said a lot made something inside you bristle.

“I can handle it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he said, too quickly.

You sat back, lips pressed together. “I feel like you’re not actually happy for me.”

Joshua frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Then why do you sound like it?”

He set his pen down, quiet for a second. “It’s just—we barely see each other when school starts up. If you’re doing this, too… not to mention you’re already working so hard and I don’t want you to burn out.”

You exhaled slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “So this is about time.”

He didn’t answer right away. You saw the hesitation in his expression—the effort not to say something he couldn’t unsay.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “I don’t know. I guess I thought we found  a rhythm. I didn’t realize it was temporary.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The boy who made you coffee in the mornings, who left you sticky notes, and picked out apartments with you like it was a forever plan. You didn’t know how to explain it—that wanting more didn’t mean wanting less of him. So you said nothing. You just picked up your mug, took a sip of lukewarm coffee, and pretended the bitterness wasn’t from the taste.

It wasn’t a fight, not really. Just a moment that didn’t settle the way it used to.

But you’d remember it—how it made your chest ache a little. How for the first time in a long time, being on the same team didn’t feel like a given. And you didn’t know what to do with that.

I don’t remember when I stopped writing. It was probably around the time of the internship, I was busy and when I wasn’t working I’d be asleep. You noticed, of course you did, and I remember feeling your worry and ignoring it. I told myself that I’d get back to it once things slowed down, and I guess I did, in a way. Since I’m writing again now, after everything.

Things sped up after that, you’d still see him in the morning, but it was in the rush of getting to class or whatever commitment you’d made. Your only savior was the weekends. One night, there was a storm, a slow one—lazy, almost. No thunder yet, just the distant hush of rain threading through the gutters and tapping softly against the window panes. The kind of weather that made the world feel smaller, quieter. Yours. Joshua had shown up late, soaked halfway down his hoodie from the sprint between your car and the door. You’d tossed him a towel and teased him for not checking the weather app. He’d kissed you with rain still in his hair.

Hours later, the living room was dim except for the pool of warm light spilling from the floor lamp, and the two of you were camped out on the rug like kids at a sleepover. The puzzle you’d found on a shelf marked DO NOT OPEN was spread out between you—tiny cardboard fragments of some coastal watercolor landscape neither of you had seen in real life.

Joshua’s hoodie hung loose on his frame, his sleeves pushed up to expose the faint smudge of ink near his thumb from a grocery list he’d jotted down earlier and never washed off. You’d been at it for nearly an hour and were still nowhere near finding the corners.

“This piece is gaslighting me,” you declared, holding up a patch of cloudy blue sky. “It looks like it fits in three different places and it’s lied every time.”

Joshua smirked without looking up. “Maybe the sky wasn’t your area of expertise. Want to trade? I’ve been doing ocean.”

“Excuse me, I am great at ocean. Sky is just playing hard to get.”

You tossed the piece gently onto his section and reached over for a handful of edge pieces, resting your chin in your palm. The floor was unforgiving, but neither of you made any move to relocate. There was something nice about being grounded like that, surrounded by tiny pieces of something you were building together—even if it was just a thrift-store puzzle with a corner missing. Joshua hummed under his breath, squinting at a stretch of puzzle water. You thought he might be singing something, but it was barely there. Just enough for you to recognize the tune.

“You’re not seriously humming Maroon 5 right now.”

He looked up at you, deadpan, “I absolutely am.”

“I knew I got to you.”

“I’ve been gotten,” he sighed, dramatically placing a piece. “And now I can’t get Sunday Morning out of my head.”

You grinned, triumphant. “You love me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I do.”

He said it so easily, so casually, that it caught you off guard for just a second—not because you didn’t believe it, but because of how perfectly it fit in the middle of that moment, like another puzzle piece falling into place. You crawled over to him without warning, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Okay, now you’re just trying to distract me from winning.”

“You’re not winning.”

“I’m close.”

“You’ve done the same cloud four times.”

You fell sideways into his lap, limbs sprawling like you’d given up on the floor altogether. He made a show of trying to shove you off, then sighed in defeat and let you stay, carding lazy fingers through your hair. For a while, there was no talking, just the occasional shuffle of cardboard, the soft patter of rain, the sound of him breathing near your ear. You closed your eyes and let it all wash over you. When you blinked them open again, he was still there, still working—quiet, focused. The tip of his tongue was pressed lightly to the corner of his mouth in concentration, and the way the lamplight hit his profile made his eyelashes look impossibly long.

You wanted to kiss him, so you did. Just a brush of lips, and he smiled into it.

“I love you,” he murmured, without fanfare.

His hand found your back and drew you in tighter. Eventually, you migrated to the couch, where the storm got a little louder and the lights flickered once, then settled. The puzzle remained unfinished, pieces scattered and forgotten on the floor. Joshua tugged a blanket over the both of you and let you tangle your legs with his. The TV was playing something neither of you were really watching. He was warm, slightly damp still from the rain, and he smelled like the bergamot candle you always forgot to blow out. At some point, your head fell against his shoulder and he shifted only to press a kiss to your hairline. You stayed like that for a long time. Now you wish you’d stayed longer.

~

Days were long and hard, leading both of you to dread having to cook. You’d found the restaurant by accident.

It was tucked between a laundromat and a closed-down bookstore, small and quiet and too easy to miss. The first time you walked past it, you were arguing—something about a movie he liked that you swore had no plot. Your hand was in his even as you were rolling your eyes, and when he’d stopped walking, you nearly kept going.

“What?” you’d asked, looking over your shoulder.

Joshua had squinted at the sign above the door, then back at you. “You hungry?”

You weren’t, not really. But it was raining, and his hoodie already had little wet patches near the shoulders from where you’d tugged at the hood to cover both of you. So you’d nodded. “Sure. Why not.”

The inside was dim and warm, smelling like garlic and sesame oil, with faded family photos on the walls and a chalkboard menu that hadn’t been updated in years. A woman behind the counter looked up when you came in, her eyes sharp and assessing. You smiled politely. She didn’t smile back.

But Joshua had, soft and easy. “Hi,” he said, like they were already friends.

She nodded once, still skeptical, and waved you toward a booth by the window. You remember sitting across from him in that cracked red vinyl booth, the rain tapping against the glass, his hands cradling a chipped ceramic cup of tea. You’d teased him about something—maybe the way he pronounced “bulgogi”—and he’d called you insufferable. You’d stuck your tongue out. He’d laughed. The woman brought your food without a word, and it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

“Okay,” you said, pointing a chopstick at him. “I might forgive your movie taste.”

He raised a brow. “So I win?”

“You win one point. Don't get cocky.”

Joshua grinned at that, leaned back, and watched you take another bite. You hadn’t realized he was watching until you looked up, and he wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just—” He paused. “I like watching you fall in love with things.”

You’d pretended to gag. “Gross.”

But your cheeks were warm, and he just laughed. You went back to that place almost every week after that. The woman behind the counter eventually learned your names, though she always greeted Joshua first. She’d bring out extra kimchi for him, and only him, even though you liked it more. He’d slide his bowl across the table toward you when she wasn’t looking. You never said thank you. He never asked for it.

Sometimes, after dinner, you’d stay long after the plates were cleared, talking about nothing and everything while the staff cleaned up around you. He’d ask you about work, about your writing. You’d shrug, try to make a joke out of it. He never let you. Not really.

“I think you’re better than you let yourself believe,” he said once, chin in his hand, voice soft under the hum of fluorescent lights. “At everything.”

You’d stared at him for a second too long, unsure what to do with something that kind. So you changed the subject. You always did. But he stayed anyway, picking the rice off your plate and smiling like he could wait forever for you to catch up.

You wonder if he still sits in that booth, if he ever looks across the table and forgets, just for a second, that you’re not there. Because sometimes, you still see him. Every time you pass that place, every time something tastes like comfort, every time you remember that someone once watched you fall in love with the world and thought it was beautiful.

There’s a quiet kind of panic that comes with realizing you care. Not the cinematic kind, with grand gestures and swelling music—but the kind that lives in your chest, right under your ribs, the one that whispers “this could matter”. I’d spent so long trying to feel nothing that when I started feeling something that real, it felt like standing too close to a fire.

You were halfway through your first class when you remembered the coffee. It hit you all at once—sharp, small, like a pebble in your shoe. You’d made it for him that morning without thinking, the way you always did. Two sugars, just a splash of milk. You even stirred it with the tiny spoon he liked, the one shaped like a cat paw you’d sworn you’d throw out every week but never did. You’d poured it into his travel mug, set it on the counter next to his keys, and then… forgot. You were in such a rush—papers half-stuffed in your bag, earbuds tangled, your jacket barely on—that you hadn’t said goodbye properly, let alone reminded him. Now, in the lull between lectures, you pulled out your phone and texted him.

YOU:

i left your coffee on the counter.

i suck.

can i bribe you with takeout?

No reply yet. You stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. You weren’t even sure why it bothered you so much. It wasn’t the first time something like this had slipped. It wasn’t the first time you’d been distracted. But it was the first time he hadn’t texted you that he missed it.

That evening, you came home first. The coffee mug was still there, untouched. Cold now. You dumped it without thinking, washed the cup, dried it. Put it back in the cabinet like nothing had happened. Joshua came in a little after seven, his hoodie damp from the drizzle outside and his expression unreadable.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. You gave it to him, but it landed slightly off-center.

“I owe you dinner,” you said, turning toward the fridge. “Or emotional reparations. I accept Venmo.”

He laughed—light, automatic—but didn’t say anything else. You made rice and eggs and threw a couple of dumplings in the pan. He offered to help, but didn’t insist. The kitchen was quiet—not cold, but quieter than usual.

At the table, you slid a plate toward him. He smiled at you over his fork. “Thanks. Smells good.”

You picked at your food, and he finished without complaint. It wasn’t a fight. Just a moment. The kind that came and went. The kind you didn’t write down, because it didn’t feel like it mattered. But later, when the space between you felt just a little bit wider, when you looked at him across the couch and couldn’t tell if he was distracted or just tired, you’d remember it. The coffee, the mug, the empty counter and the emptier silence, and you’d wonder if that was where it started—not with anger, but with forgetting. Even later still you’d realize just how much you’d forgotten with him.

~

You were back at your usual grocery store, the same fluorescent lights flickering overhead, the same faded tile underfoot. It was a little colder than necessary, like always, with Joshua walking a few steps ahead pushing the cart with one hand and scrolling through the grocery list on his phone with the other. You followed, arms crossed, brain somewhere between class readings and what to make for dinner. It had been a long week, and you hadn’t quite caught your breath.

“I forgot the coffee,” you said suddenly, stopping short as Joshua turned, eyebrows raised.

“I meant to grab it yesterday. We’re out, right?”

He blinked, then smiled. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I’ll survive one morning.”

You gave him a small look. “You said that last time, and you nearly committed a felony over a broken coffee machine in the student lounge.”

He chuckled, barely. “Manslaughter at most.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a pinch of guilt beneath your teasing. You usually remembered that sort of thing.

“I’ll run back and grab some.”

He reached out, gently touching your sleeve. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it on the way home.”

And just like that, the moment passed—soft, almost nothing, but it stayed with you, lingering like an aftertaste you couldn’t get rid of. The frozen meals all looked the same, like they always did, as you picked through them half-heartedly while Joshua grabbed two cartons of eggs and inspected a bag of spinach like it had personally wronged him.

“I’m still not over the fact that this place reorganized the cereal aisle,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly. “I guess we have to adapt.”

He glanced over, catching your tone, and said nothing. When you reached the candy aisle, he tossed a bag of Airheads into the cart without asking. You didn’t say thank you, and he didn’t expect you to. You stood in line, quietly watching the conveyor belt fill up between you. A strange kind of memory pressed in on you—of the first time here, when your hands had touched reaching for frozen lasagna, and he’d made you laugh so easily you forgot to pretend it didn’t mean something. Now, you stood just a little further apart. Not far, just�� enough that you noticed it.

Joshua turned toward you, shoulder bumping yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, quick. “Just tired.”

He looked like he wanted to say something else, but the cashier was already ringing things up. You helped bag the groceries in silence. Familiar, efficient. When you got to the car, he unlocked it without a word and reached across the front seat to move his hoodie so you could sit. You noticed a napkin in the cup holder—crumpled slightly, stained with a faint coffee ring. From earlier? From last week? You weren’t sure. You didn’t ask.

The ride home was quiet. Comfortable, mostly.

You still laughed once, when he cursed at a pothole. He still reached for your hand at a red light, but your fingers didn’t tangle the way they used to. 

~

You don’t remember what started the argument—only that it wasn’t really about the dishes. You’d come home tired, worn thin from a week that felt like it had been peeling you back layer by layer, and the sink had been full. Again. And somehow, that was the tipping point. That was the thing that cracked the silence wide open. You’d said something sharp without meaning to, he’d said something softer than you could stand.

“Just say what you’re actually upset about,” Joshua said, standing in the doorway of your kitchen, arms crossed but voice even. Like he wasn’t mad, just waiting. 

And maybe that was what made you lash out again. The waiting. You hated how patient he could be with you. How gentle. It made you feel exposed.

“I’m not upset,” you’d snapped, even though your jaw was tight and your heart was beating fast, even though you were. “It’s not a big deal.”

Joshua’s expression didn’t change. “Okay,” he said, and you hated how calm he was. 

Hated how much of you he seemed to understand without trying. You turned your back, rinsed a plate you didn’t care about, just to have something to do with your hands.

“I just—I feel like I’m carrying everything alone,” you said finally, quieter, words tumbling out before you could filter them. “School, bills, my parents, my head—it never shuts up. I come home and I don’t get to rest. I just have to—keep going.”

You didn’t mean to sound like you were blaming him. Maybe you were.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped forward slowly, like you were something fragile. And you hated that too, how right it felt to let him wrap his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder, the warmth of his chest pressed against your spine.

“You don’t have to carry everything,” he murmured. “Not alone.”

You closed your eyes. He always said things like that. Like love was easy. Like you were easy.

“You say that,” you said, voice thin. “But I don’t think you get it. I don’t think you know what it’s like to be this tired and still feel like you haven’t earned a break.”

You felt him breathe in behind you. Not deeply. Carefully.

You counted three seconds before he responded, “Maybe I don’t. But I know I’d rather be tired with you than well-rested without.”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned back against him and hated yourself a little for how much you needed it. How much you needed him. How badly you wanted to believe he wouldn’t leave when it got hard. You stayed like that for a while—him holding you like you wouldn’t break, you pretending that meant you wouldn’t.

Later, you watched him fall asleep on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, his mouth parted slightly like he always forgot to pretend he had it all together. You watched him like you were memorizing him. Like you were afraid you’d need the details someday.

You didn’t write about that night. You thought maybe you didn’t need to. But now — as the memory of his face gets blurrier—now you wish you had.

I’ve spent most of my life trying to be easy to love. Saying yes when I meant no, smiling when I wanted to speak up, softening my edges so no one would ever find a reason to leave. People called it kindness. I thought it was, too—until I realized I didn’t know who I was without someone else to please. You saw through that, and it scared me more than I thought it would. I’m still unlearning the idea that love has to be earned by shrinking. Still learning how to want something for myself, even if it makes people uncomfortable. Even if it means they walk away.

The office was too white. Not sterile exactly, but cold in a way that made you sit up straighter, made you conscious of your breathing. Your internship had started three weeks ago, and already you could feel your shoulders beginning to curl inward. It wasn’t the work—the work was fine—data entry, scheduling, the occasional writing assignment that made you feel like a ghost in someone else’s sentences.

It was him.

Your supervisor was one of those men who seemed charming at first—polished, smart, the kind who leaned a little too close when explaining something, who always found a reason to linger by your desk, who touched your shoulder when there was no need. His name was Greg, which didn’t help—no one cool had ever been named Greg.

You told yourself it was nothing, at first, but the second time he called you ‘sweetheart’, it lodged in your spine. When he offered to “show you how to work the printer” and spent twenty minutes brushing past your arm, your hip, your back—it stopped being hypothetical.

You’d texted Joshua about it. Just a short message:

he's weird.

Joshua had responded right away.

weird how?

You didn’t answer.

Now, you sat at your desk, your half-assigned workspace in the corner of the office, pretending to read through client notes while your skin itched with the knowledge that Greg had walked by your chair twice in the past five minutes. You kept your cardigan draped over the back of your chair like armor.

“Hey,” he said, pausing behind you. “You free for lunch today?”

You didn’t turn around. “I brought something.”

“Oh come on. First month deserves a little celebration. My treat.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

You didn’t hear him move, but you felt it—the way the air shifted when he leaned just a little too close.

“Hard worker,” he said, low, almost amused. “Gonna go far.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. You just waited until he walked away again, and only then did you let yourself exhale.

You didn’t tell Joshua the full story that day. Just said work was tiring. That your boss was a little too friendly. You joked about it. Smiled while your stomach twisted. You said, “It’s fine. I can handle it.”

But later that night, when he kissed your temple and asked how your day had gone, you hesitated, and he noticed. You still didn’t tell him—not the whole thing. Just enough to pass. Enough that you could keep the lie small and palatable—something that didn’t feel like lying if you said it with a laugh.

“Long day,” you said that night, stretching your arms over your head, trying to shake the stiffness out of your shoulders. “Greg thinks I’m the intern-slash-printer technician now.”

Joshua grinned, already peeling open the takeout containers. “I told you you had hidden talents.”

You smiled back, but your eyes didn’t quite meet his when you said it, and he noticed, you knew he did. You could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second too long, the way his laughter didn’t reach his eyes all the way. He didn’t push, though, and for once you wish he had.

The days bled together. Greg kept finding reasons to stop by your desk, kept asking questions that weren’t really about work. He started standing a little too close when no one else was around. Once, his hand brushed your waist—too slow, too familiar—and you froze.

He’d laughed it off. “Tense, huh? You’ve gotta loosen up.”

You went to the bathroom and sat in the last stall with the lock that stuck, just to breathe. You stared at your reflection in the mirror when you came out, face flushed, hands shaking even though it hadn’t been that bad. You told yourself that a dozen times a day.

Still, the next morning, you couldn’t finish your coffee. Joshua noticed that too.

“You okay?” he asked, brushing a crumb off your cheek. “You’ve barely touched your toast.”

“Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t press either. He kissed your forehead and told you to text him if you needed anything. You nodded, and then you didn’t. At night, you stayed up later; pretended to read, pretended to write. You’d stare at your laptop screen until your eyes burned, then close it without typing a single word. You stopped talking about your internship altogether. And Joshua—he started talking less about his days, too, like he didn’t want to add weight to something already unsteady.

Once, you came home and found him asleep on the couch, the TV still on, his head tilted to the side in that way that meant his neck would be sore in the morning. You watched him for a long time, just breathing in the room you shared, the life you’d built that was starting to feel like it didn’t quite fit. You didn’t wake him, just curled into the armchair with your legs pulled to your chest, staring at the quiet flicker of the screen and wondering if this—this stillness, this silence—was better than the alternative. If keeping the truth to yourself was a kindness, if it made you strong.

Joshua stirred once, sleep-heavy, eyes blinking open.

“Hey,” he mumbled, reaching toward you without thinking, “how are you feeling?”

You slipped out of reach. Just enough that he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m okay,” you said.

And the worst part was that you almost believed it. You didn’t cry; not in the elevator, not in the lobby, not when he brushed too close behind you with a hand that lingered, with a smile that said ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Not when he said your name like it belonged to him.

You just said, “I need to head out early,” and he let you go. As if it was mercy.  You walked six blocks before realizing you hadn’t stopped for traffic once. When you got home, your hands were shaking so badly you dropped your keys twice. You didn’t text Joshua, didn’t call. You couldn’t. Not with your throat closed like that.

You took a shower hot enough to sting.

You scrubbed your skin until it turned pink.

You stood there until the water ran cold.

He came home before sunset. You were curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie and holding a mug you hadn’t drunk from. The lights were off. The TV was on but muted. Joshua paused when he saw you. Said your name once, quietly. You looked up and smiled—not convincingly, but it was the only thing you had left. He didn’t ask anything. He just walked over, bent down, and kissed the crown of your head.

“Hey.”

You blinked hard, nodded. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, close but not too close, his hand finding your knee. “You didn’t say you’d be home early.”

You shrugged. “Just… slow day. Wanted to be here.”

Joshua studied you for a long second, thumb brushing against the fabric of your leggings. He didn’t press, he never did. But his voice was soft when he said, “I missed you today.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. You didn’t mean for it to hurt, but it did, because you’d missed him too—and somehow, that made it worse.

“I’m here now,” you said, the words barely audible.

He leaned over, head on your shoulder, arms around your middle like he was trying to keep you steady. Like he knew, maybe not the details, but enough. He didn’t ask why your voice was quiet or why your hands hadn’t warmed up. He didn’t ask who made you feel small today, or why you couldn’t quite meet his eyes. He just held you like you weren’t broken. Like he didn’t need to know what was wrong to want to make it better.

For a long time, you stayed like that. His arms around you. The TV casting soft light on the walls. The tea cold in your hands. The moment soft around the edges, blurred by exhaustion.

Eventually, he murmured, “Want to watch something dumb with me?”

You nodded into his shoulder.

“Something with explosions,” he added. “And absolutely zero emotional value.”

You almost smiled. “You spoil me.”

He kissed your temple. “Always.”

And you let yourself lean into him—just for tonight. Just for now.

Because if you let yourself fall apart, you weren’t sure you’d come back together the same way.

~

The rest of senior year passed like a train you couldn’t quite catch. One minute you were splitting groceries and syncing calendars and trying to figure out how to make time for dinner together three nights a week, the next, it was midterms and internship deadlines and alarm clocks that always rang too early. Your days folded into each other—study, eat, work, sleep, repeat—and the softness between you started thinning in ways you didn’t notice until it had already worn through. You kept telling yourself it was just a busy season, that it was normal to be tired, that all couples got quiet when things got hard.

Joshua would leave coffee for you some mornings, and you’d find it sitting on the counter with a sticky note—Hang in there, I love you—and your chest would ache in a way that didn’t feel sweet anymore. You’d write little messages back sometimes. Smiley faces, half-hearted doodles, but neither of you said much out loud. There were good days, still, days when he made you laugh in the cereal aisle, days when he kissed you just to make you blush. You held onto those like they could carry you through the rest.

But mostly, it felt like you were living on fast-forward. Like the version of you who’d once sat on the beach next to him with sand in your hair and a story in your throat had been replaced by someone who only spoke in deadlines and weather updates. You kept meaning to slow down, to fix it, to say something real, but then graduation came.

Caps and gowns and name cards you almost lost. Cameras flashing in the wrong direction, people shouting, Minji tripping over her heels, Luv crying with Seokmin in the crowd, Joshua holding your hand too tightly the whole way through, like maybe if you both squeezed hard enough, the rest of it wouldn’t fall apart. You smiled for pictures. You kissed him in the middle of a crowd and told yourself this was the beginning.

You didn’t know yet that something had already ended.

~

You sat at the kitchen table with your laptop open and your head in your hand, scrolling through job listings that all blurred together after a while. The apartment was quiet—too quiet, maybe, the kind of quiet that made you painfully aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The occasional rustle of cars outside. The tap-tap-tap of your fingers on the trackpad as you refreshed the page for the fifth time. Joshua padded out of the bedroom, still in sweats, his hair mussed from sleep. He rubbed at his eyes before leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“Any luck?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, shoulders slumping as you leaned back in your chair. “They all want three years of experience for an entry-level job. How does that even make sense?”

He frowned, pulling out the chair next to you and sitting backward on it, arms resting across the backrest. “It doesn’t. It’s bullshit. You’d be perfect for half of these.”

You gave him a tired smile, appreciation soft but weighed down. “Tell that to the hiring managers who probably haven’t even opened my résumé.”

He reached over and tilted your laptop screen down until it closed, gentle but firm. “Take a break for a bit. Come lay down with me.”

“I can’t afford a break right now, Shua.”

“You also can’t afford to burn out two weeks into job hunting.”

That made you pause. He looked at you then—really looked at you—with that same mixture of protectiveness and softness he always carried. Like if he could take this weight from you and carry it himself, he would. And maybe that was why you let him guide you back to the couch, pulling you close, tucking your legs over his lap. The job would come eventually, but for now, you let yourself rest. Just for a little while. With Joshua’s fingers tracing slow circles into your back and your head on his chest, it felt okay to let go. But rest was never just rest anymore.

You could feel it even then, the way his touch didn’t linger as long as it used to, the way his other hand still held his phone, thumb swiping mindlessly through notifications. He wasn’t scrolling with purpose. Just habit. Just something to fill the space between you that neither of you wanted to name. You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes—thirty, if you counted the time you pretended to be asleep. Then your laptop called you back with a faint ding, an email notification that made your heart jolt before you even read it. Another rejection. Thank you for applying. We regret to inform you… Joshua glanced at your screen when you sat up. He didn’t ask what it said, and he didn’t have to.

Instead, he stretched and stood, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “I’m gonna shower.”

You nodded, watching him disappear down the hallway. The bathroom door shut with a soft click, and you were alone again. You opened a new tab. Typed in your major. Filtered by location. Salary. Remote. Any. Nothing changed. You weren’t sure when the spiral started, exactly—maybe it had been building for months, buried under essays and work-study shifts and Sunday grocery runs. But now it felt like it was everywhere. In the half-unpacked boxes still in the closet. In the dishes that sat a little longer in the sink. In the way you and Joshua had begun to orbit each other like two planets slightly off their axis—close enough to touch, never quite colliding.

That night, he made pasta. You did the dishes. Neither of you mentioned the email or the silence. You went to bed early, curling toward the wall before he joined you. He wrapped an arm around your waist like always, and you reached back to lace your fingers through his. It was muscle memory by now. But even muscle memory could falter.

Joshua got a job two weeks after graduation. It happened quietly, the way most things with him did—no big announcements, no dramatic declarations, just a text while you were elbow-deep in laundry:

got the offer :)

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, the basket half-sorted, a sock dangling from your hand. Then, slowly, you typed back:

holy shit?? already??

music teacher position at the middle school, he replied.

i start next month.

You were proud of him—of course you were. You told him that when he got home—hugged him tight, kissed his jaw, let him spin you once in the living room with that stupid grin he always wore when he was excited. It was what he’d been hoping for. A public school gig in a district that still valued arts programs. A classroom of his own. Sheet music he didn’t have to borrow. A piano that wasn’t out of tune.

“I’ll finally have space to hang that ‘World’s Okayest Teacher’ mug from Seungkwan,” he joked, practically glowing.

You laughed and meant it, but the sound felt a little thinner than usual. He didn’t notice, or maybe he did, but didn’t know how to say anything about it. Either way, the days moved on. He started prepping lessons, reading up on middle school pedagogy, scribbling little icebreaker activities in the margins of your shared grocery list. He bought a pair of dress shoes he didn’t hate. You helped him pick out button-downs that wouldn’t wrinkle too badly. 

And you kept applying. Every morning, you set up at the kitchen table with your laptop and a spreadsheet and a cup of slowly cooling coffee. You clicked through job boards like it was your only job. You rewrote your cover letter so many times the words stopped meaning anything. And every time another rejection email popped up in your inbox, you minimized the window and pretended not to care.

Joshua didn’t gloat. He was never unkind about it. But sometimes, when he’d tell you about the school’s band room or how one of the seventh graders called him “Mr. H,” you’d nod and smile and feel the tiniest prick of something sharp settle under your ribs. Not quite jealousy,  just the quiet ache of falling behind. You told yourself it wasn’t a competition. That it didn’t matter who got there first, and you believed that—mostly. But some nights, when he fell asleep beside you, already dreaming of classrooms and chorales, you stared at the ceiling and wondered when it would be your turn.

You didn’t expect much when the email came in. It was buried between a coupon from CVS and a LinkedIn newsletter you never subscribed to, the subject line so plain it almost felt like a scam: Interview Invitation – Financial Analyst Associate (Entry Level). You had to reread it three times before it sank in. Your breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

“Shua?” you called, voice shaking just enough to make him look up from the sink.

You turned the screen toward him, blinking fast. “They want to interview me.”

He stared for a second, then crossed the room in three strides, towel still in his hand. “Wait, seriously? Who?”

You named the company, the one you’d sent your resume to weeks ago and promptly forgotten about. His eyes widened, and the smile that broke across his face felt like sunshine after weeks of rain.

“Baby, that’s huge.”

“I haven’t even gotten the job yet.”

“Yeah, but you got the interview. That’s the hard part. That’s everything.”

He kissed you—quick, excited—and you laughed into it, the sound bubbling out of you in a way it hadn’t in a while.

The next few days were a whirlwind. You researched until your eyes ached, practiced answers until your voice sounded rehearsed even in your head, dug through your closet for something that looked confident but not overdone. Joshua helped where he could—printed your resume at the campus library, made you tea when your hands wouldn’t stop trembling, quizzed you until you rolled your eyes and told him no more mock questions, please, I’ll scream.

You went to the interview, palms sweaty, heart hammering. And then… you nailed it. You didn’t know for sure, of course—not right away—but you left with a smile on your face and a quiet kind of pride blooming in your chest.

A week later, the offer came in. You were brushing your teeth when you saw the email. You froze, electric toothbrush still buzzing in your hand, and ran into the hallway with foam in your mouth.

Joshua took one look at you, wide-eyed and feral with mint toothpaste, and blinked. “Wait, did you—?”

You just nodded, grinning so wide it hurt. “I got it.”

He shouted. Actually shouted. Picked you up and spun you around the living room until you were laughing so hard you choked on the toothpaste, both of you collapsing onto the couch in a dizzy heap.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered later, forehead pressed to yours.

And you believed him.

Everything didn’t magically fix itself overnight. There were still bills to split and long commutes and nights when you both came home too tired to talk. But things began to shift—slowly, then all at once. You got up in the mornings with purpose. You made coffee with music playing again. You told Joshua about your coworkers, your strange little cubicle, the new routine you were building from scratch. He started sending you “good luck” texts on meeting days. You caught yourself smiling at red lights for no reason at all.

One night, he came home with a bottle of wine and takeout from your favorite place. Said, “I thought we should celebrate you.”

“You already did,” you said, smiling as you reached for the chopsticks.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now, “but I think we’re worth celebrating, too.”

~

Work changed things. Not all at once, but gradually. Like a sweater unraveling stitch by stitch, so slow you didn’t notice until the cold set in. Mornings used to mean sleepy forehead kisses and shared coffee on the balcony. Now they meant quick goodbyes, separate commutes, and breakfast eaten over unread emails. Joshua’s first period started early, so he was usually gone by the time you finished brushing your hair. He’d still leave notes sometimes—Have a good day, Love you, Don’t forget your lunch—but they were taped to the fridge now, not placed gently on your laptop. You kept them anyway, folded and tucked into the back pocket of your planner, like maybe they still meant something if you didn’t throw them away.

Evenings weren’t much better. You came home exhausted, heels blistered, eyes burning from too many screens. Joshua would be sitting on the couch in his work clothes, tie loosened, grading papers with a red pen that always stained the side of his hand.

“Hey,” you’d say.

“Hey,” he’d echo.

And that was it.

Sometimes you’d ask how his day was. He’d give a half-smile and say, “Same as yesterday,” and you didn’t press. Sometimes he’d ask about your new client, and you’d mumble something about spreadsheets and metrics and he’d nod like he understood. You stopped watching shows together. You started eating dinner at different times. You went to bed first more often than not.

~

You were never a heavy drinker, so when you did get drunk, it was… an experience. It started innocently—just a quick dinner, a little networking, maybe a glass of wine if someone else ordered first. But somewhere between your boss ordering shots “to celebrate Q3 wins” and the cocktails that tasted suspiciously like candy, everything blurred together. Before you knew it, you were standing outside the restaurant, blinking down at your phone as if it might steady the world.

There was his name on the screen: Joshua 💛

You hit call without thinking.

“Hello?” His voice was warm, tired, a little scratchy from late hours. It was late, much later than you usually called.

“Shua,” you whispered, like it was a secret between just the two of you. “My hands don’t work.”

There was a pause—gentle, patient. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great. Amazing, even.” You hiccuped. “I think I’m a little bit wine. I mean… drunk. I’m a little bit drunk.”

He exhaled—soft, fond. “Where are you?”

“Outside. Somewhere. I think there’s a statue of a dog?”

“…You’re definitely drunk.”

You laughed, swaying on your heels. “I wanted to call you because everyone kept talking about pivot tables and profit margins and team synergy and I just—ugh.” You leaned against the cold brick wall. “I missed your voice. And your face. But I don’t know how to FaceTime right now. My eyes are blurry.”

You can still imagine his chuckle, picture him sitting up in bed, probably running a hand through his hair. “I’ll come get you, okay? Just stay put. Try not to wander off or hug any strangers.”

You gasped, trying to explain, “How’d you know I was gonna hug someone?! There’s this girl in HR who’s so soft, like emotionally, and she’s been through a lot—”

“Baby,” he interrupted gently, “focus. Statue. Dog. Send me your location.”

Somehow, with a bit of luck and a lot of blurry fumbling, you managed it. Twenty minutes later, his car pulled up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dark like a rescue mission.

When you saw him, you lit up like a kid on Christmas.

“Shuaaaa!” you sing, stumbling toward him. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” he said, steadying you with both arms, tucking your coat tighter around your shoulders. “You’re a mess.”

You grinned, slurring, “I’m a very professional mess. I networked.”

He kissed your forehead, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

You melted against him, cheek pressed to his chest, barely holding your head up. “I love you, y’know.”

He smiled, quiet and close, and said, “I know. I love you, too.”

And that was it. The first and only time you ever said it. Not because you didn’t mean it—but because you were a coward sober.

It’s those moments I miss the most. The soft ones that still make my heart warm even though everything is over. I’m still a coward sober, but I don’t lie to myself anymore. I loved you. I still do. I miss you more than anything. But it’s too late now. I wish I’d realized sooner, but I know it was the end that made me start looking back. That made me start writing again, about those moments after I’d stopped, in hopes of saving them somewhere other than my memory. 

You didn’t mean to forget. In fact, if someone had asked you two days before, you probably would’ve said your anniversary was still weeks away.

It wasn’t. You realized it only after Joshua set a plate down in front of you—takeout from your favorite Thai place, the one with the peanut sauce you always stole from his plate. He had even lit a candle, small and flickering in the middle of the table, nestled between your clutter: unopened mail, a half-used sticky note pad, a pen that had long since dried out.

“What's this?” you asked, tugging your blazer off, more exhausted than curious.

He smiled, soft but a little hesitant. “Happy anniversary.”

You blinked, and then your stomach dropped.

The silence must’ve lasted too long, because his smile faded, just slightly, like a string pulled loose.

You covered your mouth. “Oh my god, Shua—I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head quickly. “No, it’s okay. I know work’s been crazy. I just thought… we could do something low-key. I didn’t want to make it a big thing.”

You sat down slowly, trying to force your brain into remembering something—anything—you could use as an excuse. You couldn’t. You’d been so caught up in back-to-back meetings, missed trains, and trying not to cry in stairwells that the date had slipped by like any other Tuesday. You looked at him then—really looked at him. Still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled up. Tired eyes. A faint ink smudge on his wrist from grading papers. He’d tried. He always tried.

“I should’ve remembered,” you said quietly, picking at your napkin.

He reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

And you were. Physically, at least. You ate together, even laughed a little over dinner, but something about it felt quieter than it should have. Like you were playing a part you used to know by heart, only now the lines didn’t come as easily.

It's hard to pinpoint one moment that we started breaking, when the cracks started getting longer, deeper, until we shattered. Maybe it was one too many forgotten anniversaries, or the way I started avoiding you even when you tried to get closer. I could feel us slipping, so I pulled away quicker so it’d hurt less. At least that's what I told myself.

It wasn’t one big thing. It never is. It was the little things, like how he started staying at school later. He’d say it was to help a student rehearse or prep lesson plans, and maybe that was true, but he used to text you when he was running late. Now he didn’t. Now he just came home after dark and tossed his keys on the counter with a quiet, “Sorry,” before disappearing into the bedroom.

It was the way your mugs sat unwashed in the sink for days—his coffee stains, your lipstick rings—like tiny pieces of evidence neither of you bothered to clean up. It was the laundry piling up on the chair in the corner because no one had the energy to fold it. The groceries that went bad in the fridge. The forgotten texts. The missed calls. The goodnight kisses that landed on hair instead of lips. It was how you stopped making each other laugh. How dinner went from something you cooked together to something you ate apart, often at different times, with different shows playing on different screens. It was the way he didn’t correct you when you forgot your anniversary. The way you didn’t correct him when he called you by the wrong pet name once—an old nickname, sweet and familiar, but one he hadn’t used in months.

It was how tired you both always were, and how that became your excuse for everything.

It was the silence between you, filling up all the space that used to be soft. You told yourself it was just a phase. That it would pass. That things would feel better once the new job got easier, or once his school year ended, or once you both finally got a weekend off at the same time. But it kept going.

And somewhere along the line, you stopped planning for the future together. You stopped asking “what should we do next?” and started asking “what do I have to do tomorrow?”

He still kissed your cheek when he left in the mornings. He still said he loved you.

Every morning, just before the door shut behind him.

Every night, when you were half-asleep, curled toward the wall.

Sometimes over the phone, if one of you stayed late at work.

Sometimes in the middle of a sentence, like muscle memory.

“I love you.”

And you always answered with something.

“Drive safe.”

“Sleep well.”

“You too.”

A smile. A hand on his chest. A nod.

Never the words. It wasn’t intentional at first. You’d be tired, distracted, too deep in an email or a thought or your own spiraling doubt. And by the time you realized he’d said it, the moment had passed. You told yourself you’d say it tomorrow. That he knew. That it didn’t matter if you said it every time.

But tomorrow kept moving. And then the longer you went without saying it, the heavier it became. The more it felt like a choice. Like saying it now would be a lie, or a performance, or worse—an admission that you hadn’t meant it the last time.

So you didn’t.

And he noticed. You could tell by the way he lingered after saying it. The pause, the wait, the way he’d glance over like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. And when you smiled or nodded or kissed his cheek instead, he’d nod too, and pretend it was enough.

But it wasn’t.

He was still trying. He still said it every night, and you kept answering with silence, until silence was all that was left.

So you ended it. The day is still clear in your memory, how he’d looked at you like his world was falling apart. You’d stood by the window, your hands tucked deep into the sleeves of your sweater, eyes fixed on the streetlights outside like they might offer some kind of answer. Joshua was behind you, pacing in slow, uneven circles like a man rehearsing a conversation he didn’t want to have. You could hear his breathing—short, uncertain.

“I just don’t understand,” he said, again. His voice cracked a little. “Why are you shutting me out like this?”

You didn’t answer right away, you couldn’t. You were tired—tired in a way that made words feel pointless, like shouting into a vacuum.

“You're acting like none of this mattered to you,” he said.

At the time, you had convinced yourself it hadn’t, let yourself go quiet and disappear. A slow, creeping numbness had moved in like fog, and by the time you noticed, everything felt distant, even him. Especially him.

“I don’t know how to fix this if you won’t let me in,” he’d said. “Just… talk to me.”

You turned then, finally meeting his eyes. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched, like he was holding everything in place with sheer force of will.

“I don’t want to fix it,” you said. Your voice came out flat. It wasn’t cruelty—you didn’t even feel cruel. You felt nothing. That was the worst part. “I don’t love you.” You had lied, even you knew that much, but Joshua still flinched, like you’d slapped him.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. And maybe you were. You would have liked to be the kind of person who stayed, who felt things the way he did. But you weren’t. Not back then. He stepped toward you, slowly, as if you might bolt.

“Don’t do this. We can figure it out. Whatever this is—whatever’s going on—we can work through it. Just don’t walk away.”

But you already had. Inside, you’d left a long time ago, and you knew he had too. So you just shook your head. Not to be cruel, just to be clear.

“This isn’t working and you know it. I can’t keep trying,” you said. “And you shouldn’t have to either.”

Joshua's eyes went glassy. He didn’t speak, and his hands dropped to his sides, useless. You didn’t stay to see the moment it hit him, because you knew if you saw it you’d come back. So you picked up your coat and walked out the door, letting it close softly behind you, half wishing he’d come running after you. No slammed doors. No raised voices. Just the quiet kind of ending—the kind that hurt more because it didn’t look like heartbreak.

It just looked like goodbye.

It's been a full year now, since everything happened. Since I stood in front of you and said things I didn’t mean, or maybe meant too much—it’s blurry now. Since you looked at me like you were still hoping I’d say something different. Since I turned around and walked away, thinking you’d stop me.

You didn’t. And I told myself that was your choice.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if maybe you were just tired of waiting for me to choose you first.

I tell people I’m doing okay. I keep up the image—work is steady, friends are still around, I eat real meals more often now. But every once in a while, I’ll hear a song you used to hum under your breath or see someone with the same walk as you, and it knocks the air out of me like I’ve run straight into a memory.

Do you still make coffee with two sugars and forget it on the counter?

Do you still keep extra napkins in your glove compartment, even though you said it made you feel like your mom?

Do you still wait three seconds before replying when you're mad, like you're trying to be kind even when you're hurt?

I keep thinking I’ll stop wondering eventually, that time will do the whole healing thing people like to talk about. But I think there are wounds that don’t scab over, just ones you get used to carrying. Like an old injury that flares up in the cold. You learn to live around it.

And the worst part is, I don’t even want to move on most days. I just want to go back. Not even to the good parts. Just to you. Even when we weren’t at our best, at least you were still within reach.

There’s so much I never told you. So much I’m still afraid to admit, even here, where I can pretend you’re reading and not judging me.

I think I loved you in the quiet ways. The kind that didn’t look like love because I was too scared to name it out loud. Too scared that once I said it, you’d realize how fragile I really was. But maybe that’s what you needed from me all along—just for me to admit I needed you, too.

I wish I could do it differently.

I wish I could do it over.

But I can’t, and so I write. Over and over and over again. Like if I write it just right, maybe you’ll feel it wherever you are. Maybe some part of you still listens. Maybe some part of you still cares, even if I don’t deserve it.

After the breakup, you’d moved out, found yourself a small apartment closer to work, and sobbed into his hoodie on the bathroom floor like you hadn’t thrown everything that mattered away. You called Bella, just to check in, talked for a while about her and Chan and how they were settling into college life. You pulled yourself together, because you had to. The apartment was smaller, quieter. The hum of the fridge filled the silence, and sometimes you’d sit with it like it was talking to you. You bought throw pillows. You learned how to cook for one. You stacked his hoodie in the back of your closet like it was a guilty secret. You stopped checking his socials—at least, not every day.

Nights were the hardest. There was no one brushing their teeth beside you, no coat thrown over the dining chair, no keys jingling in the bowl by the door. Just you, and the quiet, and the dull ache that settled somewhere beneath your ribs like something unfinished. You didn’t tell anyone how often you still thought about texting him. How your fingers hovered over his name in your phone. How sometimes, after a long day, you would whisper his version of your name into the dark—just to hear it again, even if only from your own mouth.

You saw a couple at the grocery store one night—arguing over pasta sauce, of all things—and it nearly broke you. Not because they were fighting, but because they still cared enough to fight. You remembered what that used to feel like. The messy, stupid, infuriating intimacy of building a life with someone. And how you’d let it slip through your hands like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

But he wasn’t. And you knew that. You always knew.

Still, you got up the next day, made your coffee, took the train, sent a polite email, sat through meetings, and smiled when someone made a joke.

You didn’t fall apart. Not completely. And that was the cruelest part of all. Because the world kept moving—utterly indifferent to the fact that you had loved someone so deeply, and only realized once you’d left.

But slowly, you started growing. Not all at once, not in any way that felt cinematic—you didn’t wake up one day and feel healed. It was messier than that—small, stubborn inches instead of leaps, like a plant pushing through cracked pavement, unsure if it even belonged there.

You started by doing the dishes. It sounds stupid, maybe, but one night you just… did them. Without letting them pile up, without waiting for the weight of it all to crush you into movement. You turned on music and scrubbed away coffee stains and silence and everything else that used to sit between you and someone else. And then you did it again the next night. 

You stopped checking your phone after work, started taking walks just because the air felt nice. You started saying yes when your coworkers invited you out, even if you only stayed for one drink. Even if you spent half the time wondering what Joshua would’ve ordered.

You bought a cheap bouquet of grocery store flowers for your kitchen table. You opened the windows when it rained. You rearranged the furniture—not because it was necessary, but because you could. You read books without annotating them, cooked meals without trying to impress anyone, watched movies and actually finished them without checking your phone every ten minutes.

You began to realize how many things you used to do just to be easier to love.

And when you caught yourself doing them again—over-explaining, apologizing too much, shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort—you paused. You took a deep breath. And you tried again.

You started writing again, not about him this time, but about other things. Stories that had nothing to do with heartbreak. Characters who didn’t carry your face or his name. You let yourself be bad at it. You let yourself be free. And when you started admitting to yourself how much you missed him, you let yourself write about that too. About the memories, about the future you didn’t have, about how sometimes things are meant to happen even when they hurt.

And some days were still hard. Some nights you still found yourself curled up in the corner of your bed, arms around your knees, that hoodie still tucked somewhere in the closet like a soft reminder. But there was a difference now. You weren’t waiting to be saved anymore. You were building something, even if it was small. Even if it was just a life where you could sit with yourself without feeling like a stranger. Even if some days all you did was make your bed or answer that one overdue text.

That counted, too. Because healing, it turns out, isn’t always loud. It’s not a speech or a dramatic realization or the perfect closure scene. Sometimes, it’s just standing in the middle of your own life and choosing to stay. Choosing to try again. Choosing to believe you’re allowed to be whole on your own.

And slowly, you did. You started becoming someone you could live with. Someone who didn’t just survive the hurt—but grew from it.

Of course you still miss him. Even after everything—even after the growth, after the quiet rebuilding, after the nights where you didn’t cry and the mornings where you didn’t think of him first—you still do. Maybe more honestly now.

Because it wasn’t until after everything that you could finally admit it.

It wasn’t the desperate, drowning kind of missing that used to own you, or the version where you’d check your phone at midnight and wonder what he was doing.

This was different. This was the kind of missing that didn’t ask to be fixed.

You could say it now—I miss him—and not fall apart.

You could carry the truth without letting it break you open again.

You’d done the hard parts. You’d stood in your own silence and learned how to live there. You’d stopped rewriting the past in your head like a prayer for one more chance.

And somewhere in all of that, you found room for something softer. You stopped fighting it. Stopped pretending the memories didn’t still live in you. Stopped scolding yourself every time his name rose up like smoke in your mind. He mattered. He mattered so much. And you missed him—not because you hadn’t healed, but because you had.

Because healing didn’t mean forgetting, it just meant being able to remember without losing yourself again.

You miss the sound of his laugh.

You miss how he’d hum while brushing his teeth, how he’d wait three seconds before replying when he was mad, how he knew your coffee order even when you changed it.

You miss the safety. The stillness. The softness he offered, even when you couldn’t meet it.

And now you realize that’s okay.

You’re allowed to grow and grieve.

You’re allowed to move forward without erasing where you’ve been.

You’re allowed to miss someone who felt like home, even after you learned how to build a new one on your own.

Maybe you always will. Maybe some part of you will always look for him in the crowd, always wonder if he ever looks for you too.

But you don’t need an answer anymore.

You’ve made peace with the silence.

Just like that, three years passed.

Time felt impossible after the breakup, like something that happened to other people. You counted days in coffee spoons and missed calls, in all the quiet spaces where he used to be. You thought healing would come fast, like a wave or a revelation. It didn’t. It came slowly, in barely noticeable shifts. And then, all at once, the calendar said three years.

Three years since you stood in front of him and lied.

Three years since he reached for you and you didn’t let him touch you.

Three years since you walked away.

You moved apartments once, got promoted, changed your hair. You lost touch with some people, grew closer to others. You built a life that didn’t revolve around anyone but you—and that felt like an accomplishment. A hard-won, deeply personal one. You didn’t need someone else to make the bed, or share the weight of grocery bags, or remind you to eat lunch. You didn’t need Joshua to feel whole anymore.

But you still thought of him.

Not every day, not even every week sometimes, but enough. Enough that when the song came on—the one he used to hum without realizing—you froze in the middle of the cereal aisle. Enough that when you smelled his cologne on the train, your stomach dropped like it used to when he’d say your name half-asleep.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore, just dull and familiar—something you carried with you like a scar that stopped hurting, but never fully disappeared.

And what surprised you most was this: you stopped being angry. At him. At yourself. At the version of love you couldn’t hold onto.

You started looking back with softness instead. Not to rewrite the past, not to pretend it hadn’t broken you—but to honor it. To let yourself admit that it mattered. That it changed you. That it made you into someone stronger, even if it cost more than you thought it would.

Sometimes, you still wonder if he’s okay. If he ever thinks about you when it rains, or when he drives past that Korean place you both used to order from.

You’ll probably always wonder a little, but you’ve learned how to let that wondering live beside you, instead of inside you. It doesn’t gnaw at you the way it used to. Just sits quietly in the corner, a reminder that love like that leaves a mark—but it doesn’t have to define you forever.

Three years passed, and you’re still here. Still learning. Still growing. Still becoming someone you’re proud of.

Holy shit.

I saw you again.

And thats a wrap on part one, it was an absolute monster to write and I'm not super satisfied with it, but its done and on time so whatever. There will be a part two eventually, once I get my shit together! It may take a little bit because I have other things I wanna write too, but I'm not sure yet. Anyways hope you enjoyed reading it.

[duexnuts]

mark my words | megumi x reader ⋆˙⟡

probably ooc, not proof read

ch 1: the interview | masterlist! | next ch.

you just graduated from a no-name university and have had trouble getting a stable job for… 2? years. don’t worry, your family has been there to help you while you’ve been working at wendy’s. it’s not enough to move you out of the house but enough to help your family get by. it’s not like you haven’t tried getting a job, but the sheer amount of interviews you have failed has probably set a record at this point. 

alas, you have another interview scheduled today at jujutsu tech. it’s no google, but as long as you get a somewhat decent job, your family (and you) will be happy. probably. 

“hi, i’m here for an interview with megumi fushiguro? i’m y/n l/n.” 

the lobby secretary looks you up and down.

“sorry. the positions been filled.”

what..? “what do you mean the positions has been filled? i just saw someone exit from an interview.”

you didn’t see anyone exit. you lied. 

“first of all, i would know if someone just got out of an interview. i am here all day. and second, sorry! mr. fushiguro said he already found someone… more capable.” 

“no please, just give me a chance. let me up there,” you plead. 

you need this so bad. no more flipping burgers or putting fries in the bag, please. 

“ma’am, i’m going to have to ask you to leave or i’ll have to call security.”

fuck. 

you leave, wanting to save the little bit of dignity you have left. 

you hop on a bus to go home. another failed interview..? you couldn’t even get in this time. maybe you just got the wrong degree— maybe you should listen to your sister and just become a teacher. a comp sci teacher, or maybe an art teacher. you haven’t decided yet. or what if you start a crypto scam? that could work, and it’s close enough to something in the tech field so that you can just lie to your dad and say you’re in the field. 

google: how to create my own cryptocurrency 

nevermind. that’s way too much work. 

hopping off the bus, you begin walking home. damn, if your high school bullies saw you now, they would really see that you hit a new low– and in high school, you t-posed. 

you unlock the door and call out, “i’m home!”

your dad greets you first, “welcome home, sweetheart! how did it go? did you get the job?”

sigh. “they didn’t even let me interview this time. but don’t worry! i’m sure that i can just apply to a different company.” 

he pats you on the back and replies, “it’s their loss, sweetheart. you’ll knock them out next time,” while handing you an apple slice. 

“i just don’t understand what i am doing wrong. i got a 3.84 gpa, i have so much experience from my internships during college, and i am an excellent interviewee... i think.” 

“all of the assistants you have NEVER hired never help you in any way, megumi,” gojo scolds, “why dont you find someone… actually capable? someone with a good resume.” 

“because, i don’t need an assistant.”

“look, i gave you this position because you are good at your job, but look at yourself, megumi.”

gojo points around the room, where to-go boxes and crushed cans of red-bull are scattered around.

gojo continues to speak, “you need help with your job. it’s okay to ask for help. these bimbo assistants you find just want other things. i actually saw a really nice girl earlier get denied for an interview.”

gojo throws y/n’s resume down on the table, “please, just consider it.” 

a/n: my first work uploaded to tumblr ! its def a bit hard to get used to this app (i accidentally made the entire fic a tag on accident.) but like FREEDOM TO THE PEOPLE! I WILL GET THROUGH THIS AND LEARN HOW TO USE TUMBLR!

[a-romantics-guide-to-life]

⋆⟡˚ ཐི⋆♱ 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 ♱⋆ཋྀ ˚⟡⋆

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: alex nilsen x fem reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you two always love going to the schools haunted house during halloween every year except this year the student upped the ante

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, haunted house (but at school), students are MAD jealous of you two, couple costume, you're a comp sci teacher

𝐚/𝐧: baby's first alex fic!!! hope this was good and did I project my love for computer science AND tangled onto this fic? why yes, yes i did, hope you enjoy!

𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟-𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

All the students at East Linfield High knew never, ever, to go even near the Literature classroom during lunch. 

The seniors knew exactly why so they warned the younger students, drilling into them not to even think about getting anywhere close to the Literature classroom during lunch.

Yet, every year, there’s always a group of ballsy freshmen and sophomores that walk by the classroom. Giggling and tiptoeing their way through the hallways, inching closer and closer to the classroom when they’d hear laughter. The students would stall outside the door when even more laughter would escape the room, actually even smells of wonderful food would escape the room.

They would stop, look at each other, before peaking into the room noticing their Computer Science teacher laughing it away with the Literature teacher.

They would smile softly as the two teachers joked around, dancing around the classroom, and kiss so softly. Their chests would swell with jealousy at the two adults’ love for each other.

And what a love it was you two had. You and Alex had known each other forever, having gone to University of Chicago where Alex also had gone. You two took your core classes together, scheduling your days to be aligned so you two could hang out with each other. But, when you two had to go into more major specific classes, you two split. Like a Kit-Kat, except one side didn’t have any wafers while one side didn’t have any chocolate. 

It was sad to say the least, both of you felt a part of your heart being chiseled out of your hearts. You were never the same, even when you eventually found a job at East Linfield High just two years after getting your degree in Computer Sciences.

Your parents found it quite odd moving to Linfield, Ohio of all places.

To you, it just felt right. 

Especially, a few years after starting as the sole Computer Science teacher, when you spectacularly find out that the new English teacher was actually your best friend by bumping into him, making the orange juice in his hands spill all over his fresh button down shirt he had worn for his first day. 

Alex had been just as surprised to see you, unsure of what to do when he found himself looking down at you. Memories started rushing back, his blood rushing as he finally saw you. Memories of late night study sessions, of early morning runs together (occasionally), of laughter in your dorm room. Memories of warm cuddles, soft smiles, and loving hugs. Memories of near kisses and confessions that never quite made it out either of your lips. 

You took one look at his hazel eyes and brunette hair and fell all over again. Your heart tripped in your chest, your mouth slightly open, ready to say hi or something yet nothing came out.

You two just smiled at each other for a second, taking in each other once more. You laughed jumping up into his arms, orange juice soaked shirt be damned. You squealed, jumping up into his arms nuzzling his neck, breathing him in. Alex sighed, pressing his nose against your hair. He held you steadyfast, his strong arms wrapped around your middle, hoisting you up. 

“Oi, get a room! Teacher meeting starts soon!” Your colleague, one of the other English teachers, yells at you two. You two laugh, Alex setting you down.

He nuzzles his nose against yours, “Orange you glad to see me?”

“Alex, we have to get back to teaching classes.” You whine into his shoulder, the soft polyester cotton mix muffling your voice slightly. 

He laughs, pressing his lips to your  forehead again. “Are you sure? I’m sure those seniors could do without me for a class period.”

“Alex,” you look up at him meeting his hazelnut eyes, “the tenth graders definitely need me. There’s no way I’m just gonna throw Java at them without showing them what the hell it all means, I don't think you would want to have Java just thrown at you, would you?”

“No you’re absolutely right darling, I wouldn’t want java thrown at me.” Alex smirks, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

You chuckle, “Babe, are you sure you know what Java is?”

He nuzzles your nose, kissing you softly on the lips, “Nope, not a clue.”

You laugh, the school bell ringing signaling the start of the passing period. You press another kiss to his lips before leaving his classroom, your dress’ skirt swishing at your shins.

You walk to your classroom, waving at past students and smiling at others. You finally get to your room, set your bag down and get started with class.

“And don’t forget the homework! It’s a free response question where you write the class and the methods, okay? Don’t forget!” You remind your students as they start to file out of the classroom.

“Miss?” Sandy, one of your lovely junior students, walks up to you with her other friends Jameson and Nico.

“Hmm, yes Sandy? What can I do for you?”

“I was just wondering if you had any plans for Halloween. It’s coming up soon and we have this class that day so I was wondering if we are actually going to do some more coding and Java work or if we could maybe do a Halloween themed class?”

You laugh, “Yes, don’t worry, Halloween won’t be too intense, I promise. And while we will be doing some coding, the overall activity for that day is very much spooky themed.”

“Are you doing a couple costumes with Mr.Nilsen?” Nico asks, the dear already a senior taking Lit with Alex.

“Maybe? Do you have any suggestions because me and him haven’t really talked about it.”

“OHH!” Sandy exclaims, “You two should definitely do like a Disney couple, those ones are always so cute!”

“Or you two could do a spooky themed costume like the Corpse Bride.” Nico smiles.

You smile right back, your next class already filing in. “I’ll definitely talk to Alex about those suggestions. Now, run along to class.”

They laugh, walking slowly to the door with a loud “Thank you!”

You and Alex lay on your shared bed, the silky green sheets wrinkling underneath your figures. Alex’s breaths came out labored as you stood, turning on his very fancy humidifier adding essential oils. You grab a shirt, throwing it on.

“You look so beautiful baby.” He murmurs as you lay back down next to him.

“Right back atcha tiger.” You smile, resting your head on his chest, the rising and falling of his chest comforting.

“Hey Alex?”

“Yes darling?”

“Would you do a couple costumes with me?” You sit up, resting on one elbow, your other hand tracing lazy patterns along his neck to his collarbone.

“Of course I would. Wouldn’t be particularly good but yeah, I’ll do it.”

“Really?”

“Of course, it’s you after all.”

You laugh, poking his chest. “Awww, someone loves me. You would suffer through a costume for me? How adorable.”

“Ugh, how you mock me, woman.”

You laugh, your head falling back to the bed. Alex starts tickling your sides causing you to nearly fall off the bed and turn like a capsizing boat. You shriek as he tickles your belly button. Alex hovers over you, his lips falling to yours.

“Of course I love you. Unless, I need to fuck you again just to remind you, hmm? Bet you would like that, freak.”

You laugh even more, wrapping your arms around his neck and locking your legs around his waist.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

You turn to Alex, his hair all gelled up. He wore a dark turquoise vest with dark brown trousers a white shirt underneath. Of course, he still wore his loafers for “professionalism”.

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be? Besides, it’s our first couple costume and dare I say we look stunning and nailed it?”

He looks at you, his eyes glittering with adoration as he stares at you in your periwinkle purple dress, a green plushie sitting on your shoulders.

“I think it’s a bit premature to say that we ‘nailed it’ darling, or should I say princess?”

You chuckle, your Tangled inspired costume coming together. You had even worn a small tiara you had laying around to complete the look, the Pascal plushie you wore on your shoulder a souvenir from a trip to Tokyo Disneyland a few years ago. 

“I think princess fits a little too well. Beware Alex, I may get used to that nickname.”

“Princess, it would not be an issue if you did.”

You laugh putting on your matching purple heels, grabbing your bag as Alex slings his over his shoulder. He grabs his keys, swiping the lunch you had prepared for the two of you off the counter.

You locked the door, walking to Alex’s car where Alex sat behind the wheel as he did every morning. You only ever drove when Alex couldn’t or on the weekend where you would take your SUV around town.

As Alex started to drive, he played Halloweeny music.

“Are we still on for lunch?” You ask him. He glances over to you as he makes a turn.

“Um, yes? I mean, we can meet in your room this time if that is what you mean.”

“No Alex, I meant, are we still going through the students’ haunted house at lunch?”

“Oh right,” he laughs, rubbing his neck with his hand, “um, sure. But, what if there’s a long line?”

“Then, we wait like any other person.”

“Are you sure darling? What if we don’t get to eat after?”

“Alex, stop overthinking this. If you think we won’t have enough time then we don’t have to go babe, I don’t mind.” You grab his hand clutching the gear shift.

“No, we should go. I’m sorry baby.” He lifts your hand, kissing your knuckles gently as he pulls up to the admin parking.

“Are you sure? We really don’t have to.”

“No, I want to, promise. We’ll meet up outside your room since it’s closer to the library where the haunted house is set up.”

“M’kay!”

Finally, the morning classes were over and it was lunch. You were still fixing your dress, which many students complimented you on, recognizing the Disney princess you were dressed up as quickly. You rushed, grabbing your phone and classroom keys before locking your door and waiting outside for Alex.

“Princess, my love, I have arrived.” Alex played a fake fanfare as you smiled, starting to walk over to him.

Students gasp as they finally see you and Alex in your matching costumes, your arm looping through his. You two happily walk through the halls, asking each other about the other’s day, passing snacks back and forth as you walk to the library. 

Outside the entrance door stood at least 15 students away. Alex shook his head, a sly grin on his face.

“What is it Alex? And if you say ‘I told you so’, you can count yourself girlfriend-less very soon.”

He laughs, some students around you snickering at your antics. “Of course not princess, I was just about to say that you look particularly gorgeous this afternoon. It would be my greatest honor to take such a maiden to lunch.” He dramatizes, his hand taking yours to kiss the ring you wore.

You and the other girls around you giggle, accepting Alex’s offer.

You have to admit, dating one of your colleagues has its pros such as lunch time. You two always always spent lunch together, watching some TV while eating whatever you had prepared or what Alex had ordered, or perhaps even catching up some work in silence as you two ate. But, there were also cons. 

Very large and apparent cons.

Such as the female student population crushing on your boyfriend. Of course, you knew how fit he was, the man runs every morning without fail (unless his back pain ramps up again in which case you have to take care of him, usually leaving home, calling for a sub). You also knew that he was incredibly handsome, outside and in. He was kind and sort of dumb but in the most endearing way ever. Alex was just so incredible, so loving that you knew everyone could see it on his face when he looked at you from across the hall.

So of course, you had to stake your claim every now and then. And now was a time to assert your position as “Alex Nilsen’s one and ONLY girlfriend” but lifting yourself up onto your tip toes and kissing him.

All the girls around you shrieked, the boys (and other younger students) gagging in ‘disgust’. Alex just smiled against your lips, hugging your waist. He dropped his bag softly onto the floor, hoisting you up slightly as he kissed you softly.

“I love you.”

You smile, dropping down onto your heels, “I love you.”

He smiles so quietly but the love you felt at the moment was anything but. It was loud and larger than life.

He pulled out the lunch you made that morning and took a spoonful, giving it to you. You two slowly but surely advanced the line, the number of students in front of you slowly dwindling lower and lower. Finally, you made it to the door without choking on your mouthful of food as you watched him awkwardly interact with the sophomore girls around him.

“Mr.Nilsen!” The senior manning the door greeted your boyfriend.

“Hi there Moon, how’s your day going?”

“Well good, I have to admit. It has been very fun seeing everyone’s reactions to the haunted house.”

“That's fun.”

“Well, you and Miss can go in now. Have a good scare!”

“Thank you Moon, see you later in class.” He waved to the senior.

Your heartbeat slightly, slightly, increases. “Alex, what did she mean by ‘have a good scare’?”

“Oh I’m sure it’s nothing. They were head of the committee this year and decided to up the scare factor of the haunted house this year is all.”

“Mhmm.” You gulped. You start to walk slowly through the haunted library, following the path illuminated by the glow sticks lining the floor.

Suddenly, eerie music starts playing. A groan coming from in front of you takes you by surprise, causing you to yelp and hold onto Alex’s arm.

He chuckles, “Princess, you can’t seriously be scared by the fake groaning and music, right?”

“Hmm, oh yea, pshhh nope, doesn't scare me.”

Immediately you curse your words for jinxing it because as soon as you let out a sigh of relief, an animal masked figure jumps up in front of you, screaming at you causing you to shriek and jump. Alex tenses beside you but laughs it off wrapping his arm around your waist, slowly pushing you faster through the maze of jump scares. More students dressed up in animal motif horror masks jump up from behind curtains and other furniture.

Finally, a student greets you at the end, your blood still humming in your veins. The student holds out a bowl of candy in front of you and Alex and you hurriedly take a random piece of candy before rushing through the exit door before someone else could jump scare you.

“Woah, slow down darling.”

“Slow down?!? Slow down, I need my heart to slow down. I feel like I could run a marathon right now from all this adrenaline.” You say looking down at the chocolate flavored lollipop in your hands, disappointment filling your veins. “Look I was scared so shitless I grabbed a chocolate flavored lollipop, a chocolate flavored lollipop! Who even likes these things?”

“Darling, I’m sure there is a Karen out there whose favorite candy is chocolate flavored lollipops. What matters is we got to go through the students’ great haunted house seeing as it ‘scared you shitless’.”

“Oh, do not mock me, Alex Nilsen. You’ll regret it.”

“Darling, I could never regret anything with you.”

“I hate you, Alex” You crash into him, hugging him fiercely, your heart starting to slow down.

“I love you too, princess.”

i sincerely apologize if you like chocolate flavored lollipops, i promise I don't think ya'll are karens i just don't understand but i promise, no hate. hope you enjoyed!

[lilareviewsbooks]

eArc Review: The Incandescent, by Emily Tesh - Reflections On Private High School

5/5 stars 400 pages contains: demon magic; private school shenanigans; workplace romance but like. Ethical. And also gay!!! out on June 3rd!

Thank you to Tor for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review!

I was so excited to read this book! 

I’ve been a big fan of Emily Tesh since I read her Greenhollow Duology. That was one of the novella series that really put me in the mindset of reading as many novellas as possible — which is now my whole personality. So, truly: me and Emily Tesh are best friends! I was quick to read her debut novel, Some Desperate Glory, which got a lot of very deserved critical praise.And I was excited to read The Incandescent — especially because it was comped with Naomi Novik’s Scholomance trilogy, which is one of my favorites! 

I was also looking forward to Tesh’s disruption of my expectations. Every single Emily Tesh book is completely different. Like I wrote in my review of Some Desperate Glory, from reading the Greenhollow Duology, folklore and romance-heavy episodic novellas, you would imagine something of what Emily Tesh likes to write. But she did a 180 and dropped a military sci-fi, complete with spaceships, alternate universes, and aliens. And there’s one more surprise waiting for you — whatever you think the story is going to be about, Tesh is going to flip it over your head. It’s about to be about something else entirely.

Similarly, I went into The Incandescent with an expectation of what the plot was going to be. That happens when you read a lot of genre fiction and get used to the genre conventions (and there’s nothing wrong with it!). I guess I forgot about Tesh’s predispositions to surprise me! The synopsis promises the magic school trope, but in a contemporary preppy English boarding school. And we don’t follow the children, but the Director of Magic, Dr. Walden. She’s a very talented magician, a workaholic, and has complicated relationships to the demons that make up this world’s magic system.The thorn on her side is an Awesome Hot Magic Demon Fighter Lady who’s in charge of the security of the school. And now they have to work together to face a massive threat living underneath the school…

I won’t spoil it by telling you what the twist is. But I will say that, although I thought the pacing was great, it’s a lot less action-heavy than that synopsis might imply. There’s a lot of reflecting on the role of schooling in a child’s life, and the impact individual educators have on them. The setting also leads us to the unavoidable discussion of privilege (which, although very present, isn’t the main focus of the story), especially along the lines of race and class. 

What I thought was more striking, though, was how Tesh approaches the “two worlds” inside a school. For the students, Tesh writes, the school is their whole world. Boarding schools, especially, are bubbles for their students. It’s where they live, where they see all their friends, and where they learn. But, for the staff and for the faculty, the school is their workplace. Although boarding school adults live there too, their relationship to that space and that community is very different than a student.

It’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but this analysis was an epiphany for me — and I’ve been in school my entire life. As a college junior, I’m a fairly recent high school graduate. And I went to a similarly preppy private school with a heavy legacy and a lot of rich classmates. The school was my whole world, and when I left, it was a bit of a shock — a positive one, to be honest. It kinda sucked over there. But I’m embarrassed to say I never considered how my teachers saw the same space I saw. The Incandescent made me think about them — how did they see themselves, and how did they see me?

The title of the book comes from its epigraph, which waxes about the “adolescent incandescent”. Throughout the story, Walden is frequently in awe of her students’, of their potential and their intelligence. I guess I never thought teachers had opinions about their students, but now it’s obvious that of course they do. I never thought teachers fought amongst themselves, or that – oh MY GOD – they dated each other, or something. As an adult, with my own coworkers to speak of, I found myself returning to my high school teachers and imagining them in their teacher’s lounge. Who did they absolutely hate, and who did they hope to run into every workday? 

Similarly, I was touched by the appreciation Tesh (and Dr. Walden) have for the staff of the school — from secretaries to custodial and maintenance staff. Schools this size are the devil (no pun intended) to run, as the book evidences. The nitty gritty is often the worst of it, which obviously includes making sure all the smart boards or whatever the fuck are working, and that the kids aren’t clogging up every toilet at once. When I was in high school, I remember the maintenance, custodial and secretarial staff being huge presences in our lives. Some of them were mythical, like Dona Eneida, who had been at school for ages and who controlled everything (she once checked over my shoulder when I told her there was an issue with a test’s alternatives, and it was terrifying). Some of them were the nicest and just took care of us, like Seu Luís. I have a video I took on my last Monday at the school — right on the cusp of graduating. It’s a first person POV of me and my best friend walking out for the last time on a Monday. Why I thought this was significant to videotape, I can’t say, but I’m glad I did. It was nice looking back. A prominent figure in the video is Gil, a security guard who was standing by the exits and watching over us leaving the school. He couldn’t have been more than 25. In the video, we cheer when we see him and we ask if he’s feeling better after being out sick. These people were staples of our daily lives and they watched out for us every day as we went in and out of the school. It’s a sad thing to realize how little credit they get for doing what they do.

But Tesh is firm with the idea that “every child is every adult’s responsibility”. She shows us point blank how actively adults (all of them) in schools are involved in caretaking. How they go “above and beyond” what is literally in their job descriptions to create healthy environments and to take care of the children. And I guess I never really realized anyone was taking care of me. 

This, I think, was the best time for me to read this book. As college graduation rapidly approaches, – oh my GOD – I think I’m at the moment where I stop being a kid. Now I’m a (mostly) grown adult. I’m supposed to get a big girl job, and pay even more taxes, and – fuck. – deal with insurance or whatever. All things I’ve been doing for a while, but now it’s for real. And this moment really does give you some perspective. I��m at the age where a lot of my teachers and staff members at the school were when they started their career paths. Now children and teens are my responsibility, just as I used to be these people’s. And Tesh’s The Incandescent is a lovely way to come full circle. No matter how many terrible memories I have of my (endless) days at Brazilian Private School, Tesh has helped me to see that, all that time, I was being watched over. And y’know, there wasn’t an actual demon living beneath the school, but we did come real close to a metaphorical one. 

So, today I guess I’m grateful for all the adults that kept me from getting (metaphorically, and maybe literally a couple of times) eaten. Thank you for showing me wonderful things. I promise I’ll remember them for a long time.

[competitive-brother-lover]

Big bro feeding you T and instead of having sex with you, he straight up crams you for Comp-Sci and tells you if your parents are already thinking shit about you, better shove it in their faces how much you can change if there is nothing else to prove.

You were going to hate every single moment waking up studying until you saw that hint of your brother smiling at the student's conference. The way he refused to let you go back to slacking off and reaffirmed you kisses in the library wouldn't be suspicious to teachers at all, and noone would report him to the teachers cuz he doesn't go here. He does it because he could skip his own school being that smart and instead chooses hanging out with his lil bro would be much better.

So you just feel this impending need to impress him and make him want to be there. Just so you could kiss him behind the bookshelves again.

[misty-moth]

hi, just ignore this if it’s too personal—

Why did you switch from comp sci to sociology? And do you enjoy your studies?

I don’t mind at all! It’s a somewhat long story (because I ramble 😅) so I put a tldr at the bottom 😭

Basically I signed on for a school that specializes in computer science. The gist was it was a sped up process where in 3 years you earn a bachelor’s degree and a guaranteed job. Which is a pretty rad deal. In theory.

I am nooot a fast learner. I think I’m pretty smart, but when it comes to memorizing it takes a hot minute to settle. I knew that going in, so I got tutoring every single day during lunch and after classes. I got to the second semester easily enough, but then I had a coding class with a particular teacher who lives in my mind’s hall of shame 😐

I was excelling at all of my gen ed classes, but if you fail any coding class at any time, you have to wait a year before you can take that class again, and you can’t move onto the next cs course because it’s a progression. So obviously I was trying my damndest to study so that wouldn’t happen. I asked a ton of questions during class, too, no shame if it meant passing.

And riiight at the end of the semester it all finally clicked. We had a project where I realized all of the math was mathing, I knew what programs to call, etc etc. But my teacher still just knew me as asking “too many” questions.

In the fine print of the college acceptance agreement, turns out a college professor there can change your letter grade if they feel like it. So I earned a 70.1% in the class (which is baaarely passing) but he switched it to an F. 🙂

So then I transferred because I wasn’t going to only take gen ed classes for a year on the off chance they pass me the next time (it was also crazy expensive ofc) so I transferred without any clue what I now wanted for a degree…

Funnily enough, what made me choose was a gender studies class I signed up for on a whim. It opened my tiny lil world from everything I learned from my childhood, and I realized I liked people 😅 I branched into sociology because it’s like psychology-in-motion, and figuring out why people do things made the world make more sense.

I don’t work in the field anymore, but I worked in the behavioral science field for a while. I taught a class of three year olds who’d experienced trauma how to cope/socialize, and later at an elementary school I was a med tech/receptionist/multi-office manager of a few behavioral units (they gave me a lot of hats but no raise 🥲) but the The ‘Vid happened and I burned out.

I loved working with kids, truly, but I didn’t make anywhere near enough to live so I had to give it up. The 3 yo job was $11 an hour and the elementary school was $15… for context. Degrees required for both *feels good inc laugh*

Tldr: I think sociology is really interesting, but I also found computer science interesting. I was just better at one of them 😅 I also would have been making a lot of money rn had I succeeded (my friends who graduated there are making six figures kill meee)

[fiapartridge]

have you already posted your stats, if not what we’re they? congrats!!

i think i did but i can’t find it anymore 😭😭 so i’ll post them again here HAHAH (also thank u!!!)

gpa: 3.94 (uw), 4.25 (w) but i think ucs look at ur 10-12 weighted so i had a 4.4 w gpa

tests: i went test-optional! and then i submitted all of the ap exams that i scored a 3+ on

ap classes: i took 10 aps (ap world history, apush, ap chem, ap lang, ap comp sci, ap lit, ap bio, ap gov, ap econ, & ap stats)

awards: LITERALLY JUST HONOR ROLL LMFAOOO like that’s all i had 😭

extracurriculars: i was senior class president, junior class vice president, i founded and was the president of a women’s rights/menstrual equity club, i did competitive karate for a bunch of years, i taught karate to kids, i volunteered for spread the love (we wrote notes + letters to kids diagnosed with autism), i wrote for the school’s newspaper, and i was the team manager of my school’s badminton team

essays!! these r muchh different than the common app essays! (there’s 8 prompts and then you pick 4 essays to write! here’s what i chose!)

1. describe an example of your leadership experience in which you have positively influenced others

i wrote about how i stopped doing karate competitively after the pandemic because all of my friends stopped and how i kinda lost my love for the sport. then i started teaching & it made me love karate again

2. what would you say is your greatest talent or skill?

i talked about creative writing LOL. i (very lowkey) talked about my fics that i used to write for someone and how they blew up and i had a bunch of readers LMAO so if i ever see this person i wrote about irl ill be sure to thank them for getting me into uc berkeley haha

3. describe how you have taken advantage of a significant educational opportunity or worked to overcome an educational barrier you have faced.

i wrote about how i didn’t have teachers for a lot of my academic journey. like i had subs coming in and out of the classroom and there was never the stability of having a teacher so i had to learn how to self study and teach myself these things from a young age

4. what have you done to make your school or your community a better place?

i wrote about my women’s rights/menstrual equity club and how we put hygiene products in different classrooms around school & how we eventually got dispensers in the bathrooms

so i didn’t have the highest stats, i didn’t get straight As throughout high school (i think i got like 3 Bs), and i def wasn’t valedictorian but i still got in! schools like uc berkeley look at each person holistically so it’s really like do they see who you are thru ur essays; it’s not just grades and extracurriculars. so def try if you’re considering!!! u never know!!

college decisions is such a gamble tbh. like i got waitlisted at uc irvine but accepted to uc berkeley. like it might seem like everything is going wrong but it’ll be okay!!! it’ll all work out in the end!!!

[delicatefury]

Look. I love my parents, and they did their best with 4 kids and everything else going on in our lives.

But my teacher wanted me evaluated for ADHD in 1st grade. I don’t think my parents intentionally hid it from me. I don’t think they were worried about the stigma. I just think they literally forgot to mention it until I brought it up myself in my late 20s. (Both parents are undiagnosed but display very strong symptoms).

But if I had known that ADHD was on the table and I wasn’t just lazy/depressed?! Dear Lord, that would’ve changed my entire career path!

If I could’ve gotten help focusing, I would’ve been able to sit through the college math classes taught by the most boring TAs in the world to get to the interesting stuff! I’d have not been so freaked out by the boring memorizations in bio! I might’ve been a comp sci major or gone to veterinary school!

Instead, the only thing that really engaged me was the passion of my philosophy and poli sci profs. And now I’m an attorney, who keeps being told she should’ve been a vet.

Please, please be honest with your kids if you think they have a learning disability of any sort.

Not telling your kid they have a learning disability, chronic illness, mental illness etc. so they can “feel normal” actually does the opposite. They will not feel normal if they do not have the context to understand that their normal will be different from that of their peers.

[shruggingcutely]

Sit down, kids, and let me tell you the story of how I graduated high school with honors despite almost getting an F in geography

To set the scene, I was mostly coasting through high school, except in those subjects I considered boring but that actually required effort and attention, like math or Latin (it was a humanist kind of school in the classical sense)

So geography class was actually more economy class, and there are few things I find less interesting that capitalist economics. I also had a tendency to... sabotage myself if I couldn't stand the teacher, like I was getting at them instead of just making my own grades worse. And I sure couldn't stand the teacher -- there was the overwhelming feeling that she gave the girls (all, uh, 3-4 of them, it's a story) preferential treatment

See, in our education system, a significant part of your grade, especially in the secondary subjects (i.e. not English or math, where you had regular exams or essays) was "paying attention", meaning homework and correctly answering question in class. And when this teacher had the feeling you weren't paying attention she kept asking you questions constantly, effectively tanking your grade, which is what happened to me (on account of not getting the girl bonus back then, which would have meant only getting called upon like once a term)

So when she told me I was set to get an F I got so annoyed about this bullshit (my own, the self-sabotage) and just started reviewing for a few minutes before class. She was so impressed by my half-assed effort she actually wanted to give me a B, but for some weird legal reason you couldn't actually change your grade by more than one in such a short time span, so I got a C

Anyway, finals in Austria ("matura") are probably comparable to A levels. You've completed your final year, but now you have a big multi-part exam that enables you to go on to uni (a reason why uni is seen as more elite here than in many other countries despite mostly being free, the exam sucks and most kids don't even make it that far). You got several written exams/essays in your primary subjects (German, English, math, Latin again, plus whatever was the focus of your elective branch, comp sci in my case), then some oral exams a month later (for subjects you picked in advance because you need to prepare a report on some kind of topic you've chosen). There's some choice on what subjects you have which exams in, but like, you're not getting around the primaries (though they've changed the system several times since, so what do I know). Somehow, despite being quite terrible in Latin and math, I got several As and a single B, which gave me the completely pointless bonus of "graduated with honors", because only the finals count

So here's the punchline to the whole story. We kept making fun of our geography teacher because the correct answer to like 70% of her question was "traffic links". "What is the most important aspect for economic centers?" "Traffic links" "What's special about Osaka-Kobe?" "Traffic links" "Why was India so important to the British Empire? "traffic links...?" It felt quite silly

And now, almost 20 years later, I have to confess... infrastructure really is that important. All this time I underestimated traffic links...

[cheers-to-you-th]

100 Ways to Lose Your Love (TEASER)

Pairing: Joshua x Reader Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, emotional slow burn Word count: Teaser 1k, Final 26.8k Summary: Love isn’t lost in the big fights, it’s lost in the fear of being truly seen. Release Date: 6/25/25

full fic

Teaser for my fic in Yuki's 100 milestone collab, my bbgs are all cooking up in there so check out their stuff too, it's gonna be amazing.

Writing has always been my escape. It’s been how I ran away from reality into a place I can shape and form however I want for as long as I could hold a pencil, my little bunker in the tornado of life. My teachers had called it a gift, my parents called it useless, and I just continued writing through it all. It’s how I process your emotions, I guess, although now I’m starting to realize it may be how I avoid them. And yet, here I am, writing again.

The first time you met Joshua, it was the summer between your sophomore and junior years of college. Your friend, Soonyoung, invited you amongst a handful of his friends to go on a road trip from campus down to his parents' vacant vacation home and stay for a few weeks, enjoying the beach.

You said yes because the thought of going home to see your parents made your skin crawl, even if it meant sharing a house with near-strangers and dealing with sand in your shoes. Soonyoung had promised late nights, grilled food, and sunsets that didn’t need filters. You figured you could use a break—from school, from expectations, from yourself.

Joshua wasn’t who you noticed first. He wasn’t loud like Soonyoung, the Zoology major who’d attached himself to you the year prior, or constantly moving like Jun, who you’d never met before this but his constant foot tapping was starting to grate on your nerves. He didn’t make a big deal of his entrance when he showed up late, either—just walked up with his guitar case and an apologetic smile, soft-spoken as he said hi to the others. You were sitting on the porch steps, sipping iced coffee from a paper cup and trying not to feel out of place even though you knew a couple others there from shared classes.

He sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world, not crowding, not even really facing you—just close enough that you could hear him breathe between sips from his water bottle. You remember glancing over, expecting a brief hello or maybe one of those awkward small-talk moments where you both pretend the silence isn’t loud. But he didn’t say anything right away. He just looked out toward the driveway where Soonyoung was loudly arguing with Seungcheol about how to pack the cooler.

“Do you think they’ll still be fighting about ice packs when we’re thirty?” he asked suddenly, voice light, almost amused.

You snorted into your coffee. “I think they’ll still be fighting about everything when we’re thirty.”

That was it—your first exchange. Just a few words, a shared joke at someone else’s expense, and then the quiet again. You didn’t know what to make of him yet. He wasn’t unreadable, exactly. Just... settled. Like he knew how to take up space without demanding it. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone here, not even himself.

You ended up crammed between him and Minji—who you talked to a few times over the semester in stats—in Seungcheol’s beat up SUV. Jihoon, a music major, had aux, Soonyoung belting along as Wonwoo (comp. sci.) tried to drown them out with noise-cancelling headphones. Joshua’s smile was fond as he looked at them, occasionally joining in.

He had one of those quiet presences that didn’t feel the need to compete with chaos. You noticed it again during the drive, when Minji fell asleep with her head against the window and your shoulder began to ache from staying too stiff, too polite. Joshua, without a word, shifted slightly and leaned closer—not enough to touch, just enough to make it feel like you weren’t holding yourself alone in the noise.

At one point, Jihoon passed the phone back for song requests, and Joshua didn’t even hesitate before handing it to you. “Pick something you won’t regret screaming later,” he said with a teasing grin, the first real note of mischief in his voice.

You scrolled, stalling, then picked a song from your high school playlists—too nostalgic, too dramatic—and halfway through, when you were laughing with your head thrown back at Jeonghan, one of Seungcheol’s friends from finance, trying to rap and Jihoon snapping at him to stop, you realized Joshua was looking at you. Not in a way that felt like pressure. Just… observing. Like he liked the way you looked when you weren’t trying so hard.

The house was nicer than you expected. Weathered wood, sand already in the doorway, old photos of Soonyoung and his family in every corner. You all chose rooms with the urgency of kids at summer camp—first come, first sleep—and you ended up with Minji, who said she snored and wasn’t sorry.

Those first few days blurred together: grilling badly, racing to the ocean, eating popsicles in the shallow end of the pool while the sun melted down your shoulders. You’d catch Joshua sometimes with his guitar by the fire pit, or humming a melody while washing dishes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He always smiled when he saw you—not a flirty kind of smile, something gentler. Something that made you feel like he saw through you a little, and didn’t mind what he found there.

It took three days before he asked you to join him for a walk on the beach.

It was after dinner—everyone else hanging back for a movie night with popcorn and the last bottle of Soonyoung’s dad’s expensive wine. You’d wandered outside for air and found him there, barefoot in the sand, hands in his pockets like he was waiting for the right kind of silence.

“Want to come with me?” he asked, nodding toward the shoreline.

And you did.

You walked in companionable silence for a while, the sky streaked purples and oranges, the wind teasing at the hem of your hoodie. Every now and then your arms would brush, and you’d both pretend it didn’t mean anything. But you felt it. Every time.

“I like it here,” he said after a while, his voice low, like he didn’t want to ruin the stillness. “Feels like you can breathe more slowly. You know?”

You nodded, and that was the first time you smiled at him like you meant it.

[saheira-dreams]

22/01/2024

Happy belated new year!!!

So I was abroad this holiday and basically FORGOT that Tumblr existed and that I had even started a blog which, now that I think about it, really annoys me. Like, how do I forget about something like that?

Anyway, school started a couple weeks ago and I'M WRITING MY IGCSEs THIS YEAR. I have like 8 months left which actually seems like such a short time and I'm not JUST a science student so if you put together bio + chem + physics + comp sci + HISTORY (there's an actual shit load of content there) + all that french VOCAB + those 15 poems for literature which I haven't touched since last year along with a novel, and two other plays we'll be doing this year, all for literature, I get a TON of stuff of study.

And because it's our IGCSE year, our teachers are taking things really seriously-- we've got afternoon lessons and Saturday classes. This is all really hectic and tiring but you know what?

I actually enjoy it.

I feel like, we're making valuable memories which I may think back to a decade later. Who knows where I'll be?! My friends and I try to be there for each other, make jokes, chat in between (and sometimes during) classes, pass notes and just have a good time together through the dreary lessons. Honestly, when I think back on it now, the events of today, of Saturday, of Friday last week, my heart feels...warm?

I don't know if it's like 2024 energy or something but I think I decided to better myself, for myself. I started journalling, I think. I made a pretty cover for the month and a habit tracker to track my daily goals like drinking more water, studying and reading every day etc. And honestly, I'm not doing too bad. I was pretty consistent in recording during the week and only did none of them on Sunday which is now my only weekend day so I shall forgive myself for missing Sundays.

I've been obsessed with green and stem academia more (I even edited my intro). I don't know why, green academia kind of just resonates with me and STEM academia just gives me motivation. For the longest time, I just didn't know what I wanted to do, despite taking quizzes and stuff, but finally decided that I would be a doctor or somewhere near to that. But I didn't know what kind of doctor I wanted to be, nor did I have any motivation, and STEM academia just gives me an insight into the life I may lead by pursuing medicine which gives me motivation to work hard now rather than to regret it later and get a life I will be proud of. Chaotic academia is still a part of me, no question! I'm generally chaotic so my lifestyle just has chaos integrated into it. I can't get rid of it anytime soon XD

Anyway, that was a long rant. I'll try to post more often so that my posts will be shorter and not as long as this XD

To all the students out there, good luck with your studies, exams, homework and school life in general!!

[peronasghosts]

Trick or treat!

treat!! excerpt from my satosugu comp sci au!

[A high school yearbook, opened to a page covered in photos of about fifteen teenagers. The title on the bottom, in a font reminiscent of hacker screens in movies, reads Jujutsu Tech Robotics Team. It’s a double spread. On the top left corner, there’s a photo of two older teenagers holding a small gold trophy together. The one with spiky white hair and round black sunglasses is smiling wide at the camera. The one on the left, with dark hair in a bun, looks over at the other with a small smile. Behind them, the other members of the robotics team are laughing and jumping up and down together. One other photo shows just the two older boys. It’s on the right page, in the middle. It’s a candid photo of the dark haired boy hunched over a laptop, while the white haired boy drapes over him and points at something on the screen. The dark haired boy looks frustrated, but the other boy looks down at him with a soft, slight smile.]

~

— Jujutsu Journal — Jujutsu Tech School Newspaper — February 16, 2006 — Page 1

Jujutsu Tech Robotics Team Wins Nationals For The Second Time

Co-Captains Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru Say a Bittersweet Goodbye

By Haibara Yuu

How did a small charter school’s robotics team win Nationals? More importantly, how did they do it twice? Those were the questions that many of us asked ourselves this year after our own school’s team made history.

If you ask one of the captains, you’d get this answer: “We started with a great foundation. Our previous captains prepared us and the team very well, and we had a lot of resources because Jujutsu Tech has been incredibly supportive. Additionally, I think that both years we’ve truly put in the effort. My co-captain and I both stayed late after almost every practice, and starting early in the season, so did many of our teammates. And our teammates are all very good at what they do.”

If you asked the other captain, he’d say: “Well, if you do something one time, you should know how to do it a second time, shouldn’t you?”

It wouldn’t be a mystery to most to know that the first captain quoted was Geto Suguru, Jujutsu Tech senior, and the second was Gojo Satoru, also a Jujutsu Tech senior. The two of them have been co-captains of the robotics team for the past two years, and their departure is set to cause the robotics team to scramble for a replacement.

Nanami Kento, Jujutsu Tech junior, said, “Geto and Gojo have been captains for the entire time I’ve been on the team. It’ll be weird to go to practice and not deal with them and Shoko.” Ieiri Shoko is, of course, the other senior on the team. He also said that the captaincy next year is still up for debate. “We’ve got a lot of candidates. I’m among them.”

Gojo and Geto have made a huge impact on the team, from overhauling the prototyping and drive train (the base of the robot, including wheels, motors, and circuitry) building process to gaining a record fifteen big sponsors in just one year. Head coach and math teacher Yaga Masumichi said, “Gojo and Geto are great students and great captains. I’m looking forward to seeing where they’ll go after graduation.”

Continued on page 4

~

From: noguchi.emi@jujutsutech.edu

To: geto.suguru@jujutsutech.edu

Re: Post-Secondary Options

Hello, Geto-kun!

I must admit that I’m a bit surprised that you aren’t completely set on going into computer science after high school, especially since you applied to so many schools. You’ve got quite a reputation, and I know Gojo-kun is aiming for the University of Tokyo. However, I’m from a lower income family myself, and I know how hard it is to decide whether to go for your own dreams or to support people at home. I do think that it’s important to do what you want to do, and not think about other people all the time. It’s what I did. Perhaps you could look into doing a degree over a longer time than four years, and working part time? Community college is also an option! I’m here to support you in whatever you decide, though.

Sincerely,

Noguchi Emi

Guidance Counselor

Jujutsu Tech

~

Texts to Geto Suguru from Gojo Satoru - February 20, 2006

[15:34] hey look at this

[A link to a YouTube video of a cat pawing at half of a watermelon. The watermelon is rolling around, and the cat’s paws get progressively pinker.]

[15:40] Satoru, school got out ten minutes ago. Why have you already sent me a video.

I just got on my bus.

[15:40] why haven’t you turned off autocaps

i drive myself and was bored. so before i left i went on twitter

[15:41] I still can’t believe you use Twitter. It’s a hellhole.

[15:41] you use twitter too! and yeah its a hellhole but sometimes ppl are funny. and now i know someone who lives in spain!!

[15:42] I use Twitter to make myself look like I’m an outspoken and involved teenager for colleges and jobs. Also, your Spanish friend is catfishing you.

And I’ve never seen anyone on Twitter who was remotely funny.

[15:43] im on twitter

>:(

[15:44] Yes, and?

[15:44] suguru! why are you so mean to me!!

[15:45] You should probably be heading home. We’ve got a lot of homework from Kuroki-san.

[15:46] pls dont remind me

[15:49] suguru?

[15:53] suguru pls dont ignore me i really dont want to this lit hw

[15:54] Do your homework.

[15:55] fiiiiiine. but im gonna complain abt it

[15:56] You’re saying it like I didn’t expect that.

[15:56] rude

~

Phone call to Gojo Satoru from Geto Suguru - February 24, 2006

“Hey, Suguru. What’s up? It’s late.”

“I know. I-I know. Sorry. I just need to talk to someone. You.”

“What kind of friend would I be if you couldn’t call me in the middle of the night in a crisis?”

“Who said I was having a crisis?”

“Your tone, Suguru.”

“Ah. Yeah. So, I got accepted into Toudai.”

“Same here!”

“Of course [laughter]. I don’t think I can go. My family needs me to be working. They say they don’t, they say everything’s fine and that they worked hard to make me able to go to college, but I know they need me. They were the ones to tell me to talk to you, actually. Said that you were arrogant and tactless-”

“Hey!”

“-but that you knew me. That you might be the only person able to ‘knock some sense into me.’ I think I’m the one making sense. I can help. I should help them. Pay them back.”

“Did they really say that?”

“I shouldn’t have called you. I know what I’m doing.”

“No-Suguru, you don’t. You can still work while you’re at Toudai, right? If anyone could, it would be one of us. So don’t-don’t give up your whole life just because your family could use your help. Of course they could, but they said they don’t want it. Wouldn’t it be more respectful to honor that, and go to Toudai?”

“They’re trying to make me feel better. That’s all.”

“What did your sisters say? Mimiko and Nanako would never lie to you about this. They want you to stay more than anything.”

“They-they told me to go. Said that if I moved to Tokyo, I could take them shopping. I [muffled sob] should really do this, shouldn’t I?”

“I do need a roommate.”

“Fuck off, I’d never room with you. I know how much of a slob you are.”

“Suguru~”

~

Geto Suguru @gsuguru

Moving into Toudai with my best friend. He’s not really helping, but I guess that’s my fault for deciding to room with him.

[Image Description: Gojo is taking a selfie, his face taking up the bottom half of the screen. He’s wearing round, black sunglasses and is sticking his tongue out. In the background, Geto is lifting two boxes and his mouth is open as if he’s yelling at Gojo.]

13:04 - March 26, 2006

|

Geto Suguru @gsuguru

Update: I sent him to get dinner for us and he somehow made a friend. That he took back to our dorm. Without telling me. 🤷

18:23 - March 26, 2006

|

Geto Suguru @gsuguru

Another update: We’re finally unpacked! I can relax now. Satoru wants me to tell you all that he didn’t actually make a new friend, he’s known Iori for years. I’m still not sure if Iori considers them friends, but she did eat with us. At least Uzumaki is happy in her new home.

[Image Description: A sprawling Camellia in a dark red pot sits in a small window. A sunset is viewable through the window.]

19:21 - March 26, 2006

~

December 17, 2008 — Tokyo Times — Page 16

Is this the future of tech?

Heir of the Gojo family fortune wins Tengen Award for Creative and Innovative App Design

By Kita Kokoro, Tokyo Times Technology Correspondent

[catgirl-catboy]

Me: It is not my fucking job to parent strangers on the internet. Also me when I see a 14 y/o admitting to reblogging NSFW stuff:

[shakirawastaken]

dsmp if... they were teachers!

they are all high school teachers 

dream: stats - gives his class random stats facts about each exam they take - “the median was 25.8% and the mean was 50% and the mode was 72% andt he t-test showed the results were statistically significant” - wears a green button up formal shirt . every day. with different shades of green  - tries to tame his hair every morning but we’ve all seen that shit. its a mess its so fluffy - you try to fix it in the morning but by the time he gets to school its fucked - “whats the probability mr wastaken’s hair is gonna be tamed today? i bet 5 dollars on 13.2%” “...i hear you guys you know” - is always 20 minutes early - never more than that tho - speedruns grading tests  - if a kid is slacking in class, he makes sure that reflects on his grade - he has this big project each year where he asks all the kids to make a project that relates stats to their real life - his favorite thing ever - he’ll come home and be like “dear, tubbo had this amazing idea, the kids are so innovative”  - tearing up cause his students - best friends with sapnap - u make him a lunch every day and he just trades it with sapnap - everyone thinks hes in an affair with george but he tells them everytime that he has a lovely s/o at home  - one of the teachers everyone has a crush on  - is always standing at his desk like in front of it and leaning back - does not use the whiteboard he just has slideshows  - the room is sparsely decorated - its mainly old projects that people did - has a wall with all the cards and stuff kids gave him, its behind his desk 

sapnap: pe/ basketball + football coach - bro - he’s the type of coach/teacher that when he has one of his atheletes in his class he’s RUTHLESS - “pick it up tommy!! is this how you’re gonna be in the game on friday!!! i hope not!!” - jokingly ofc - if ur not one of his athletes he’s nice dw  - still makes everyone call him coach tho - how on earth do u spell athletes i think that’s right - will let you sit out if he can tell ur hurting - knows when a kid is faking it - BUT if you use the “im on my period” trick he doesn’t even question it - “coach im on my period” “okay ur good sit out for today” - likes giving romance advice for some reason - “coach :((( jared blh blah [insert problem]” “omg okay here’s what u do” - pretends he’s in a relationship with karl (u know about it ofc) - so when u show up to one of his games and kiss him all the players are like - “YOURE NOT DATING MR JACOBS” and he just laughs and kisses you again - wears shorts or sweats with a tshirt no matter what - “im a pe teacher fuck professional”  - makes fun of dream for like no reason  - his favorite unit is the flag football unit and his least favorite is the line dance one - but uses it as an opportunity to play country music and visit his roots amen - just imagine sapnap teaching u line dancing HAAHAH okay im done here 

george: comp sci - doesnt give a shit about lesson planning - shows up, glances at the syllabus and just jumps into it - it ends up working in the end - believes in a work to learn method - he doesnt teach, he assigns projects and helps the kids out - so if the kid is like comp sci EXPERT they can just pop off and george doesnt have to worry - but if the kid struggles a bit heres there to help :] - the whole room is blue cause thats all he can see - he looks so uncomfortable when he wears like long sleeve button ups so you unbutton the first one every morning before he leaves  - refuses to wear casual clothing to school ever  - unless its pajama day ayeeee - once he was teaching the whole class how to download something or some shit and forgot to stop sharing his screen  - so he went to text you he was like “doing good love? see you later :]” - and everyone was like - “MR NOTFOUND??” and he was like “wot.” “YOURE NOT DATING MR WASTAKEN??” “no ofc not mr wastaken is ugly” - cue the sounds of breaking glass from mr wastaken’s room  - he has a tv on display outside his classroom where he showcases his student’s work - for his final he just gives them a theme and says “go off” - they could make a video, a game, a simulator - whatever they want - 1) its less work for george 2) its more entertaining - once made them all code valentine’s day gifts for you - you teared up ngl  - seems like he doesnt care but wants all his kids to succeed - is REALLY good at being patient and helping a kid out but loses all that patience when it comes to other teachers (sapnap, quackity)

karl: chem - absolutely loves the science goggles look. has them on his head always - also lab coats with sweater vest period ahh period uhh  - only doesnt give a second shit about any other science but chemistry - loves lab days like on GOD - the man lives for the one lab where u put sticks w diff elements in the fire and watch the fire change color - guys i swear im a stem major - sapnap comes to watch that lab everytime. every period. even if he has a class - knows sapnap pretends to date him and reciprocates it all through the year - but theres that one kid who remembers his “get to know me” slideshow at the beginning of the year where he had a picture of you two - “mr jacobs..i dont believe ur dating coach sapanp” “whaaaat, pshhh, u lying” - makes so many chemistry jokes with you - “hey baby i think we got chemistry” *giggles manically* “why did you say that” “its literally my job”  - cue a thumbs up from u and an eye roll from him - genuinely loves being a teacher tho - the interaction he gets with students >>>  - he loves the feeling when a student comes up to him after class or even after theyre finished with his classes and go “hey what you taught me really helped” - loves it when a student keeps in contact with him, making him tear up and shi

quackity: spanish - this one was quite..obvious - chaotic teaching style, it doesnt work for everyone - but ITS FUN - lives on teaching through games - kahoots, quiz, scavenger hunt, anything to get out of a slideshow he’ll do - and he figures it out - his quizzes and tests are generally harder than what the games cover but hes a fair grader like he gets that he made it harder - LMFAO HAS A UNIT WHERE HE TEACHES FLIRTS AND SHIT IN SPANISH - brings u in to teach - LMFAOOO “hola amor” “hi?” “what does that mean class” “hi love” “wtf” - laughs maniacally  - also this scenario - “hey mr q can i get extra credit for this” “for what” “ *student swears agressively in spanish*”  “....yeah ill give u some points dont tell principal phil” - jokingly pines over both coach sapnap and mr jacobs - “guys coach sapnap *heart eyes* and mr jacobs *heart eyes*” “please just teach us spanish” - but everyone knows its a joke and ur it for him - he LOVES the food unit - he borrows the kitchens from the home ec room to teach people how to make traditional spanish foods - but GODDAMN he cant cook  - so it ends badly - also he has a thing on his wall for the fifa world cup where its like an elimination thing - face painted his face the mexican flag when the game happened - was this close to cancelling class when mexico was out

wilbur: theater  - i wish he was MY theater teacher in high school - one of the only non-toxic teachers - wears a long ass coat i forgot the name - TRENCHCOAT. for dramatics. its giving severus snape  - always wants to put on musicals but phil said  “you can only do one musical per year” - does that tik tok trend where he has a wall of musicals and rips one off each day and the last one standing is the one they put on - tries so so so hard to get the rights to hamilton, doesnt obviously - so he does stuff like in the heights, dear evan hansen, etc - IF A KID WRITES A MUSICAL AND APPROACHES HIM YOU BEST KNOW HES ALREADY SAYING YES TO PUTTING IT ON WITHOUT A SECOND *THOUGHT* - he loves supporting his students in stuff theyre passionate about even if it isnt music/theater related - once went to the schools water polo game cause one his student mentioned offhandedly in class that they didnt have anyone coming - tommy is his teacher’s assistant person  - he runs the improv lessons while wil observes him teaching - “okay kids youre all aliens and ur abducting mr soot” “tommy..” - its so funny when theyre together  - rumor has it theyre brothers along with mr blade and phil is their dad - “class please, philza minecraft is not my father.” “okay son” “PHIL WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE” - brings u in one day with the excuse of teaching them how to be in love - in reality just has a whole class sing a long to disney love songs while u sit there like why am i here - you pressure him to put on shows YOU want to see - “wil put on high school musical” “nO! WHAT AM I in high school thats so basic” “yes. you are in high school. technically” - puts on high school musical - HES THE TEACHER WHO SHIPS KIDS TOGETHER in the form of making them play love interests  - its giving mrs darbus from high school musical - i was in high school musical i played sharpay 

lmk if u want to see more members as teachers!! :D and what else u want to see period sorry it was so long okay BYEEE

[likesplatterpaint]

Update for anyone that gives a shit lmao

I got a lot of nodding an acquiescing and I Appreciate You and your ideas but basically amounted to “I’ll see what I can do.”

Which means nothing. I am tired of hearing both that my numbers are too low, but in the next breath hand wringing about us being a small school with not a lot of options. My numbers are low because of manufactured, year after year scheduling issues guidance refuses to address and because we only have 60 kids per grade lmfao.

“Relax girl, you got this”

I KNOW I GOT THIS

I DONT WANT TO GOT THIS

My ability to teach comp sci is irrelevant!! What is relevant is that I am politely trying to tell you that you are asking too much and it’s making me feel under valued. Don’t tell me all the resources I have to do this. Tell my liver not to flare when I’m stressed from teaching 5-6 separate courses when most of my coworkers have half that. Yknow. Like it did when you made me and bestie teach the whole goddamn campus when my elementary replacement folded.

Jesus h Christ why does competence only get rewarded with more work?

Teacher retention my puffer’s entire gaping asshole.

I am sad and I am tired. Great start to summer.

Meeting with principal at 11:30 to argue my case of “hey, I’ll teach comp sci next year even though it’s out of my certification and the wrong coding language compared to what I know but please take something else off my plate unless you want me to start trying to leave? Preferably vanish middle school? Please?”

Phrased more eloquently of course. And without putting a target on my back.

I realize this move could make me a load bearing coconut. But I do not want to be a cracked coconut :(

[izzycodes]

do you have any advice on how to make developer or comp sci friends?

How To Make Developer/Computer Science Friends?

Hiya! 💗

Yeah, finding developer/computer science friends can be hard, but here are some places I’ve tried and other suggestions!

Educational settings

If you're a student, the pretty obvious place would be at a school setting like universities, clubs, colleges etc!

Attend office hours

Also if you're a student, attending office hours is a great way to connect with your professor and other students in your class. You'll have the opportunity to ask questions and get to know other students who share your interest in computer science.

Attend tech events and meetups

Look for local tech events and meetups in your area, and attend them regularly or a couple over the year! You'll defintely meet people who are into computer science.

Join online communities

There are many online communities such as reddit and disocrd (made a post about it) where you can connect with developers and computer science enthusiasts. Participate in discussions and ask questions, and you'll start to build relationships with other members! This definetly worked for me when I joined several programming discord servers!

Collaborate on open-source projects

Contributing to open-source projects is a great way to meet other developers. You'll have the opportunity to work together on a project and learn from each other. Not only are you getting experince collaborating with developer but also making a friend - 2 birds with one stone!

Participate in hackathons

Hackathons are events where developers and designers come together to create a software project within a limited timeframe. Similar to collaborating on open-source projects, hackathons is a great way to meet computer science enthusiasts and work on a project together! Places like Dev Post, Devofolio and Hackathons UK.

Attend conferences

Attending conferences in your field! You'll have the opportunity to attend talks and workshops, and network with other attendees. Networking is super important!

Join a coding bootcamp

A coding bootcamp is a great way to learn new skills with a teacher. This idea is if you can - bootcamps can be very expensiive if you can't find the free ones! You'll spend a lot of time working together with other beginner developers on projects, which is a great way to build relationships!

Start a coding club

If you can't find a coding club in your area, consider starting your own. You can use social media or online platforms to connect with other developers and computer science lovers who are interested in joining! I'm considering doing this in the future for younger kids, hehe!

Volunteer at tech-related events

Volunteering at tech-related events, such as conferences or hackathons, is a great way to meet other developers and computer science enthusiasts. You'll have the opportunity to work with other volunteers and attendees, and build relationships with them.

Use social media

Social media is a great way to connect. Use places like Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram (made post) and Tiktok! Follow influencers and regular developers in the field, and participate in discussions and communities related to computer science. I made a couple developer friends on Instagram and on here this way! Instagram is super supportive, everyone wants to help everyone! Love the coding community on Tumblr and Instagram the most!

Participate in online coding challenges

Participating in online coding challenges is another way to improve your skills and connect with other developers at the same time. Join coding competitions or participate in coding challenges on websites such as HackerRank or LeetCode!

Attend coding workshops

Attending coding workshops are always going on, look online for one online or happening near you! Meet with other attendees and network that way!

Contribute to online forums

Participating in online forums, such as Reddit or Stack Overflow! You can share your knowledge and ask for help with coding problems, and you might find other users with similar interests who are looking to make new friends or even collab on a project together! One of my developer friends met his developer friends on Reddit - all online!

In terms of how to make friends, you guys already have something in common to talk about: programming/computer science. Work from there and I'm sure you'll be alright! 😎

I hope this helps and if anyone knows any other places, do suggest some please! Thank you for the question Anon! 🥰🙌🏾