#also sorry that my english is not the best

[everlastingspring143]

Hello!

Okay, so I don’t really write any feedback/commentary on posts that I read because I’m awkward and I feel like it will just be cringe. But I really REALLY loved this fic, so I’ll try my best to write my thoughts.

Many fics of yours I have read and re-read. And you never fail to amaze me. In all of them, the thing that stands out most to me in your writing is the emotion spilling from it. 

I feel like what’s most important in any form of art is emotion. Whether it be painting, dancing, photography or in this case, writing, the artist strives to make the viewer feel something with their art. Like the famous quote goes “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable”. Art needs to make others feel.

And you, Sahar, do that incredibly well. So in my eyes, you are my favorite artist. :)

This story flows so beautifully, like music, dragging the reader in and captivating them with the emotions, language and characters.

My hopeless romantic ass was thriving while reading. Seriously.

The way you wrote love between the characters, so sweet, but passionate and just so so comforting, had me in a chokehold. 🩷

Another thing I really loved was the concept of time described here. How Hyunjin’s days dragged slowly before meeting the reader, but once their paths intertwined the days began moving quicker and quicker. 

I also absolutely loved the characters’ backstories! It all sounds so well thought out, so real and touching. 

And lastly, I love how passionate you are about writing. It reflects in your pieces, and I think that’s very beautiful. You have what we call in my native language “the writer’s vein” (I’m not sure if there’s a respective saying in English). So, Sahar, I hope you know how truly amazing you are! 🫶

Okay. I think that’s enough yapping for now. I’M SORRY THIS IS SO LONG. 😭😭😭

I hope this was not weird.

La déchirure 

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.

pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.

genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.

warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.

word count: 21.8k

author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU

Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.

But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact. 

Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too. 

You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.

Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault. 

You don’t know the person they’re mourning.

You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after. 

Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe. 

She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest. 

That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind. 

You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be? 

The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you. 

You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven. 

And she loved ballet. 

So, you had to love ballet too.

You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.

Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone. 

Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.

It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.

How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?

Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face. 

Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.

And she’s the only person who believes in you.

She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth. 

You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.

In you.

You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.

You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe. 

Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque. 

But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.

“I got into Julliard” 

That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow. 

Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.

But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”

You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents. 

You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life. 

You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.

It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”

A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.

For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?

For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead? 

You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried. 

You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave. 

Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.

“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt. 

You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.

“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin. 

You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.

“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record. 

“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone. 

You feel so horrible, for a millisecond. 

She was only seven. 

Her grave is too small compared to your body. 

But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.

“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing. 

“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?” 

“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.

He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin. 

But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?

“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you. 

“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.” 

He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too. 

Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face? 

The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful. 

“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel. 

He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you. 

“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard. 

What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go. 

He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks. 

“Thank you.” 

His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment. 

“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole. 

“I don’t want to burden you.” 

“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”

You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow. 

You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.

You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh. 

You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers. 

But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet. 

He looks like a good person. 

You wish to tell your good news to a good person. 

“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession. 

A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features. 

“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”

“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.” 

It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold. 

This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear. 

“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.” 

“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.” 

Four years later.

“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”

“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses. 

His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.

“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”

“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”

Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself. 

A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face. 

When does he ever? 

But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to. 

With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.

“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.

Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there. 

Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.

It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.

“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.

Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.

“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.

“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.

“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.

“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.

In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.

“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.

“Really? That’s amazing!”

“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met. 

“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”

“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.

“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away. 

He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.

“Hyunjin!”

His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then. 

“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.

“No,” he admits.

“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken. 

“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you. 

Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.

“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.

“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”

…

Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him. 

Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.

You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.

The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.  

Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you. 

He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.  

It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen. 

His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.

That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.

Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more. 

“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment. 

“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says. 

“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding. 

“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.

“I’m okay.”

The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”

You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.

“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.” 

Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.

Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too. 

“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.” 

“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.” 

The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.

But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table. 

“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.

“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”

Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.

Far more beautiful, too.

“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.

His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.

Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company. 

…

The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.

You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?

Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.

The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.

For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.

But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.

“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.

“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.

“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”

Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.

As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there. 

“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.

“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.

No one, except Hyunjin.

“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.

“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.

“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”

“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.

“Okay. Wait for me.”

… 

Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple. 

He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.

For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.

There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.

But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.

It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio. 

He hopes it is you dancing there. 

With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence. 

When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.

You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door. 

He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you? 

He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”

The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.

“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze. 

Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor. 

Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.

“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.

You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.” 

He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.

“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”

You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”

He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.

“Barbie?”

“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.” 

“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm. 

“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.

“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg. 

You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit. 

You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell. 

You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.

As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.

“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”

He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”

Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.

…

You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.

You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.

Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.

But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.

The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.

Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this. 

You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home. 

At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.

“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly. 

“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks. 

“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.

“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic. 

“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.

“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.” 

And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.  

You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.

And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.

But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask? 

Has she ever cared to? 

… 

The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.

You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.

He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response. 

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow. 

Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.

But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak. 

“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.

“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about? 

Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”

His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”

Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.” 

He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”

“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.

“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”

“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises. 

“She was. She is.” 

“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter. 

He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together. 

When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.

His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his. 

It is his very soul that twitched at your touch. 

“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps. 

Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.

“Comforting you.”

“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his. 

“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.

“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?” 

“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.” 

Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy. 

He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart. 

He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.

What does that mean? 

…

Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality. 

He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.

He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him. 

But something within him was shifting—unraveling. 

His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio. 

“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.

“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly. 

“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too? 

That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.

He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past. 

Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely? 

“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.

“Don’t worry about me.” 

Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.

It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place. 

What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?

Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.

“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.

“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.

“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him 

“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics. 

His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.

This isn’t normal. 

“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?” 

“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win. 

Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.

“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.” 

You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together. 

“There, sealed forever.” 

You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both. 

“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.” 

“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?” 

“I’ll be there to catch you.”

A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”

“Yeah, i do.”

“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink. 

Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.

“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”

And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.

He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice. 

He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.

You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent. 

He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume. 

It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.

“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.

Until you.

“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.

But to no avail.

He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.

He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.

He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.

Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.

But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.

He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.

He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.

But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.

That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.

He sees you in a whole different light, now.

Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.

Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.

Is his soul drawn to yours?

Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.

Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?

It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.

…

There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.

But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight. 

It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.

You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.

The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs. 

Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.

Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here. 

Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy. 

You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.

“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them. 

Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small. 

And then, a note. 

Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands. 

Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now. 

You’ve never had words that she addressed to you. 

The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening. 

The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.

Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.

I would love to dance ballet with you.

The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.

You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.

How horrible are you? 

Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart. 

“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her. 

“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils. 

“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.

“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?” 

“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment. 

“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!” 

“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?” 

“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”

You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.” 

Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little. 

You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.

“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.

It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance. 

Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off. 

“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind. 

His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you

He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?

“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.

“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”

His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.

“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.

“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.

But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.

Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.

With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.

“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?” 

“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.” 

Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine. 

“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”

Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.

“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”

He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”

Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.

He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.

“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.

He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.

Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.

It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”

“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.

“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.

And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.

You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.

You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.

You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.

Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten. 

The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.

… 

Hyunjin is beautiful.

This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen. 

But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you. 

You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole. 

But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.

There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.

He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place. 

His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.

You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.” 

Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”

He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”

“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.” 

You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new. 

Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells. 

Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees. 

He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise. 

You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first. 

Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.

He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.

“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question. 

How could he be anything but extraordinary?

“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.

“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows. 

Oh god. 

The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.

“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.

“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”

“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave? 

How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name? 

“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.

You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.

You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known. 

It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater. 

His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?

His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.

He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.

Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree. 

A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.

Please, not again.

His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet. 

He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.

Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.

“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.

In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.

“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.

“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.

He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close. 

His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.

“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”

It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of. 

“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.

Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.

Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality. 

The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.

“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce. 

“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch. 

“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”

He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”

“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”

He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.

“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.

Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.

But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?

His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins. 

Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for. 

You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms. 

“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”

“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.

… 

“So, how do we do this?”

Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.

“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red. 

He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess. 

“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower. 

In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.

“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”

“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).

Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.

“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”

“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?” 

“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”

Your sweet Hyunjin.

“I want that too, Hyune.”

Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom. 

He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall. 

“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you. 

“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.” 

“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses. 

“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious. 

Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching. 

And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now. 

“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.” 

“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”

Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life? 

But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.

You want to stay. 

It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him. 

And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after? 

…

Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids. 

But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart. 

Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp. 

He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once. 

Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher. 

In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness. 

He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.

You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.

It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.

In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both. 

“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?” 

“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.” 

His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”

Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand. 

“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.

That truth felt easier to confront with you near.

“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”

The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go. 

He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.

You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.

He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.

“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”

In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.

Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.

Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.

Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him. 

When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all. 

Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner. 

There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.

How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.

You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone. 

That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.

You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.

“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.” 

Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.

Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing. 

You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him. 

And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other. 

“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you. 

He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint. 

Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.

But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.

…

“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”

It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore. 

Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.

“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.

But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.

You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water. 

Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?

“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”

“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”

Oh.

You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.

You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.

“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.” 

You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.

“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”

“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”

He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.

“Of course, we will.”

It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin. 

“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.

“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.

Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans. 

He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.

Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.

… 

You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.

Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.

Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.

It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.

You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.

But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls. 

You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.

There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin. 

And you couldn’t afford that. 

You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.

The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.

There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?

You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.

With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.

“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.

You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”

“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”

“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.

“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.

“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you. 

“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.

“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.

“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.

“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”

“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.

You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”

You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.

“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”

“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.

“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”

And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.

“I love you too, my Hyune.”

“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”

You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything. 

“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”

The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.

Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him? 

… 

You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.

You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.

But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.

It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.

You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.

You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.

Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.

But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.

After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.

The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.

Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.

But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best. 

“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”

You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.

Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.

You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.

You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound? 

Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”

Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself. 

“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”

“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”

You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.

You now had an excuse to be there. 

You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?

Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.

It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.

Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones. 

He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too. 

Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being. 

He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him. 

You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?

It has always been his face for you. 

The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.

Then, he launches into the air.

The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth. 

Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock. 

Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.

Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.

And then he does it.

His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.

You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths. 

But not on yours.

Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would. 

Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater. 

Hyunjin’s name comes first. 

He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.

You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours. 

The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.

Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”

“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you. 

No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.

As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last. 

Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment. 

“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more. 

Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.

“Congratulations on your win,” you say.

“Congratulations on your graduation.”

He knows.

In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.

Or, you could speak now.

“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”

Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”

You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.

“For what?”

“For stealing you away.”

His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”

The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.

For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.

He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.

“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain. 

He yields first.

“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.

“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”

“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”

“I’m here tonight.” 

Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.

Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.

Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation. 

You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”

“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”

A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.

“I was always ever yours to love.” 

Epilogue. 

Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin. 

But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there. 

And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now. 

And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore. 

You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight. 

It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”

You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave. 

They are now meant for you, at long last. 

[lulufandom]

First part of a small comic I'm making for my au! (click on the images for better quality) next

Au masterpost context: When MK lift the staff, Wukong was finally free. He was surprise to see a human who can lift his staff, and since he was tired of being alone, he decided to take MK as his sucessor. So they got on their way to FFM to train, where they will see an old acquaintance of the Monkey King.

Btw it's my first time making a comic! it's very small since it's focus on a single scene, but I will make others!

(I may not make all comics in colors it take a lot of time)

[satellite-evans]

Juntos.

Pairing: Franco Colapinto x reader

Summary: Franco struggles with disappointment after losing his racing seat, but your support helps him feel less alone in facing the tough situation.

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: angst, little fluff

main masterlist

A/N:

Hi everyone, this is my first Franco fic so I am very excited!!! I am very new to Formula 1 so I will try my best to make the stories as realistic as possible. I dramatized this fic a little bc I could not help myself lol but I love Carlos sm and wish him nothing but luck in Williams. Also, I would not mind if you guys help me understand Formula 1 more xxx

hope you guys will like it :)

Also, the Spanish words I used are directly from Google Translate, if I made mistakes please feel free to correct me <3

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The dim light of the apartment cast a glow over the cozy space, the kind that usually made the room feel warm and inviting. Tonight, however, it felt different—heavier, subdued, as if the walls themselves understood the weight of the emotions filling the air. The scent of a faintly burning candle lingered in the background, a forgotten remnant of an attempt to lighten the mood earlier in the evening. Outside, the muffled sounds of the city hummed faintly, a stark contrast to the suffocating silence inside.

Franco sat on the edge of the couch, his head bowed, fingers tangled in his dark hair. His shoulders hunched forward, as though bearing the weight of an invisible burden too great to carry. The usually vibrant spark in his eyes, the one that ignited whenever he talked about racing, was gone. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the floor, unseeing, his expression hollow. It was as if the moment he walked through the door, all the fight had drained out of him, leaving behind a man who didn’t know how to put the pieces of himself back together.

You stood by the kitchen counter, your heart breaking at the sight of him. He hadn’t said much since he got home, just a quiet “Estoy en casa” before sinking into the couch. He used easy Spanish words around you since he knew you wanted to learn the language. That's how kind he was. You’d known this day would be hard for him, but seeing him like this was almost unbearable. The news had come down like a guillotine: Carlos Sainz was taking the seat. Franco was out, with no prospects for next year. No contract, no guarantees. Nothing but the crushing void left behind by a dream slipping through his fingers.

It wasn’t fair. You knew how hard he’d worked, how much of himself he’d poured into his career. The endless hours in the gym, the relentless study of data, the sacrifices he made, all for the pursuit of speed, glory, and a chance to prove himself on the biggest stage. And yet, it hadn’t been enough.

He’d tried to hide it at first. When he’d called you after the meeting, his voice had been calm, even detached. But you’d heard the slight tremor, the hesitation that betrayed his carefully constructed mask. And now, here he was, the man you loved, unraveling before your eyes.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over to the couch, a cup of tea in your hands. The steam curled softly in the air, a fragile whisper of warmth against the cold tension that filled the room. You set it down gently on the coffee table before lowering yourself onto the cushion beside him.

“Franco,” you said softly, your voice a lifeline in the quiet. He didn’t look up, but the slight shift in his posture told you he’d heard you. Gently, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand. His skin was warm, but his fingers remained still, unresponsive.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion. “I know how much this meant to you.”

For a moment, there was no response. Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, red-rimmed and brimming with unshed tears. The sight of him like this—so raw, so vulnerable—made your chest ache.

“I did everything,” he said, his voice cracking. “Everything. And it wasn’t enough. They just… threw me away. Like I don’t matter.”

Tears pricked your own eyes as you reached out to cup his face, your thumbs gently brushing against his stubbled cheeks. “You do matter, Franco. To me, to your family, to the fans who adore you. To everyone who’s ever seen you race and knows how talented you are.”

He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Talent doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have the politics, the money, the… connections. Carlos… he’s amazing, and he deserves it, I know that. But I can’t help feeling like I’ll never be enough, no matter what I do.”

“No soy suficiente,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. "I'm not enough." His words hung in the air, filled with a quiet intensity.

“Don' say that, you're more than enough,” you echoed, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “And I know this feels impossible right now, like the world’s closing in on you, but this isn’t the end of your story. You’re Franco. My Frankie. You’re a fighter, a dreamer, and you’ve never let anything keep you down before. This won’t either.”

His shoulders sagged, and for the first time that evening, he leaned into you, his head resting against your shoulder. The weight of him felt heavier than usual, as though he’d poured all his sorrow and weariness into the simple act of leaning on you. You wrapped your arms around him tightly, cradling him as if you could shield him from the pain of the world.

“No sé qué haría sin vos,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your neck. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

“You’ll never have to find out,” you replied, pressing a kiss to his temple.

His arms came around you then, pulling you closer, as though he was afraid to let go. You felt his tears dampen your shirt, and the sound of his quiet sobs broke your heart all over again. But you didn’t let go. You held him tighter, letting him pour out everything he’d been holding inside.

“You’re my everything, Franco,” you whispered, your voice cracking with emotion. “And I’ll always be here. No matter what. Together, we’ll get through this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy but filled with something deeper now—gratitude, love, and maybe a flicker of hope. Slowly, he leaned in and kissed you, his lips trembling against yours but charged with a fierce intensity. The kiss was deep and searching, a collision of his anguish and gratitude, his need to find solace in the one constant in his life—you. His hands cupped your face, fingers threading gently through your hair as though anchoring himself to you, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the kiss. It wasn’t hurried but deliberate, each movement a testament to the depth of his emotions. You could feel the raw edges of his heartbreak and the unspoken promise of his love, so consuming and desperate it made your chest ache.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing uneven, the faintest quiver still lingering in his lips. The weight of his gaze bore into yours, as though he was silently pleading for reassurance that you’d stay by his side. And in that moment, you both knew you were his safe haven, his reason to keep fighting.

“We’re going to get through this,” you repeated softly, brushing a strand of his hair from his face. “Together.”

A soft murmur broke the silence. “Juntos,” Franco whispered, almost to himself.

You blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Juntos? What’s that? An unreleased Sabrina Carpenter song or something?” you teased lightly, hoping to coax even a hint of a smile from him.

For a moment, he just stared at you, and then, to your relief, a small, genuine giggle escaped his lips. It was the first time you’d heard him laugh all night, and it warmed you to your core.

He shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips now. “No, it’s Spanish. It means ‘together.’”

“Together,” you repeated softly, the word settling in your heart like a comforting balm.

He nodded, his gaze searching yours. “You’ve been saying it all night without realizing it. ‘Together, we’ll figure it out.’ ‘Together, we’ll find a way.’ You keep reminding me I’m not alone. And… you’re right. Juntos. We’ll do this juntos, no matter what.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time they were from the overwhelming love and gratitude you felt. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “Yes, juntos. Siempre. Always.”

A soft chuckle escaped him again, and he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. In that moment, the weight of the world didn’t feel as heavy anymore. Together—juntos—you knew you’d face whatever came next.

[acid-ixx]

Hiii, I have read all your work and it is very good :D!! I've read it several times and never get bored.

Can I ask about something? I'm curious about the characteristics or signs of yandere appearing in Tim. Will he be the last family member to become a yandere? Sorry I asked like this because I feel like he's not getting enough attention in drabbles, questions from other readers, or anything else. So I'm curious.

I hope you understand my question. Because English is not my first language.

— masterlist !

don't mind me using the tags here, i want to clarify a lot of things.

hi anon!! don't worry about your english, i understand perfectly and it's also not my first language too hehe. and to all the others who have asked about tim's (or any other characters') appearance in the series: fear not, nobody is getting ignored at all, i intend for everyone to have their designated events/moments that trigger yandere characteristics for the reader for each chapter. it's my plan to make them each as unique as possible with their intentions, motives and goals, not just them being simply "obsessed" with you, so i'm trying my best to add depth to the story.

that means the entire series will stretch out quite a lot (i already have outlined multiple arcs, flashbacks, and all the characters' individual traits and significance). it's not just going to be ten chapters, i want to remind others that there's more lore to just the neglect, your mother's dark past, and characters that haven't even been introduced to the plot yet, so if you guys prefer one-shots or something shorter, then the series is not for you folks, sorry 😭

as for tim, he is quite literally my favorite character (surprise!), so of course he's going to get special treatment. he's not going to be the last to become yandere, but his spiral to becoming a yandere takes quite a lot of time since compared to others, it's him who spends the least amount of moments with you. even in the non-neglected au i wrote, what triggered his obsession was mere curiousity.

though just because there're lesser events with him, doesn't mean there will be none. he certainly plays a major role in the "wild goose chase arc where the family tries to negotiate (kidnap) you whilst you try to escape to multiple cities/end up in a completely different country". he may not express his love for the reader well, but he most definitely knows the most about you.

oh! and the traits that he does have as a yandere looks tame when you compare it to others, but it's also because it manifests through his personal dialogue (as i reckon he's keeps most of his thoughts about you to himself most of the time (gatekeeper archetype) and he's the character with the most internal dialogue/thoughts too). he's the worst stalker you could have, the one who you should look out for the most with just how much he knows about you in such a short period of time. tim's intelligence and detective skills knows no bounds, and he won't stop exhausting himself until the very knowledge of what the blood pumping under your skin feels like and the exact temperature of your body— is extracted and stored into the terabytes of data he has into his personal batcave.

and spoiler alert: he's also the one who uncovers your mother's past and alongside bruce, what had happened between the period of time when you were dragged out of the closet and the other time in elementary when you were nearly kidnapped, which completely leads to another arc wherein it's where their obsession drives off to a completely different plane of existence, exalting vengeance on the people who tormented you; but tim's pettiness is just on a whole nother level.

and i have to stop here before i (excitedly) spoil the entire series' plot LMAO. my answer to this is a bit more casual to the other asks, so i hope it doesn't irritate anyone.

so thank you for asking this! i also have a question for you people too:

how is the current progression of the plot? i get that it isn't even 10% finished and some moments feel slow, but i try to be as immersive as possible to the readers. so for those who have read the entire thing, what do you want me to possibly add, or does anyone have other clarifications? can anyone tolerate a fanfic that can possibly lead to more than 250k words??? 😭

[fdelopera]

Here's a transcript in English. Bless Yoseph Haddad. He has the patience of a saint to try to get through to these ignorant, brain-rotted Hamasnik morons who have been twisted by white saviorism and Jew-hate.

.

Yoseph Haddad: … Can I like, get a little bit of knowledge about it? Can I get a bit more things about it?

Ignorant Hamasnik: I'm not the best to ask, because I'm not super knowledgable. Yeah…

Yoseph Haddad: Aren't you…? Sorry, I'm really confused, because this is really important. This apartheid is not okay.

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah…

Yoseph Haddad: And I tried to go online and search about it, and I saw a lot of talks. Like, oh there isn't apartheid, there is apartheid. And I said, I'm gonna come here and just gonna hear it from you guys.

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah…

Yoseph Haddad: But can I be honest? I'm really disappointed, because I thought you represent the Palestinian club, and you would know about it.

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah, no, I mean…

Yoseph Haddad: So, wait, is there apartheid in there?

Ignorant Hamasnik: If you're asking for a personal opinion, yes.

Yoseph Haddad: What do you mean "personal opinion"?

Ignorant Hamasnik: As in, that's just my opinion, yeah.

Yoseph Haddad: I'm a bit confused, sorry. Because like, the personal opinion does not matter. The fact does matter, like if there is an apartheid or no.

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah, I mean…

Yoseph Haddad: What's the apartheid? It's like, what do you do in that?

Ignorant Hamasnik: Like, the definition of … apartheid…?

Yoseph Haddad: Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Ignorant Hamasnik: (laughs) I mean, again, like, I don't have the definition with me. Um, I think from what I believe, I mean, you've got checkpoints? So uh…

Yoseph Haddad: Well, you have checkpoints also like in between countries, no? If someone from Argentina wants to go to Brazil, doesn't he go to a checkpoint? So, this is not exactly the definition of apartheid. Look, Amnesty said that they [Israeli Arabs] are part of the Apartheid as well, that they live under apartheid as well. They do? They do live under apartheid, the Arabs who live in Israel, as well?

Ignorant Hamasnik: To that extent, I wouldn't know. I've never been to Israel.

Yoseph Haddad: Oh okay. And the Palestinians?

Ignorant Hamasnik: I've never been to that side either, no.

Yoseph Haddad: So, they live under apartheid, or they don't live under apartheid?

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yes…

Yoseph Haddad: How is it like, implemented? How is it on the ground? The facts on the ground?

Ignorant Hamasnik: I mean … so like I said, so, checkpoints can be in an area. You've got things like uh, separate, like what is it, license plates?

Yoseph Haddad: The license of the car?

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah, it's like a different colour.

Yoseph Haddad: Why it should be the same? If like, a person from New Zealand has a license plate of New Zealand, and a person from Australia has a license plate from Australia. So, New Zealand is an apartheid to Australia? Or Australia is an apartheid to New Zealand?

Ignorant Hamasnik: I mean, that's different, because we're two separate…

Yoseph Haddad: Can I be straight honest with you? I'm not really "an Arab who lives in Israel."

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah…

Yoseph Haddad: And I don't know what people are telling you or not telling you. I don't know if any of those people who are in that club even speak Arabic like me as an Arab. There are problems. I will never say that there isn't a problem.

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah…

Yoseph Haddad: But I have to be honest with you, this is a branwash. It's a brainwash. I can vote. I can get elected. I can become the president of Israel, if I want right now to nominate myself. Whether I win or not, that's no difference. I don't have a different bus system. I don't have different judges. In fact, an Arab judge, an Arab judge in Israel, a Supreme Court judge, sent the Jewish Prime Minister and the Jewish President [to prison]. I don't want you to believe me. I want you to check the name. Salim Joubran. In an apartheid, that cannot happen. I have freedom of movement. I came to New Zealand with my Israeli passport, as an Arab. No one can stop me. And by the way, it doesn't mean that racism doesn't exist or discrimination. But you want to tell me that also in New Zealand racism and discrimination does not exist?? Unfortunately, it exists everywhere. And what about Hamas?

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah, no, I mean, it's rough…

Yoseph Haddad: It's rough?? Look, Hamas controls Gaza. Israel does not control Gaza.

Ignorant Hamasnik: Yeah, I'm aware.

Yoseph Haddad: So, Israel does not have even one inch. Hamas has a border with Egypt. And Egypt closed that border as well. So, why an Arab state closed the border with Arab Gaza?

Ignorant Hamasnik: …

Yoseph Haddad: Because of terrorism. Helping us is not lying nor about deaths or promoting the brainwash of this. I don't live under an apartheid regime. The Palestinians have problems, which we need to resolve. But the obstacle is not actually Israel. The obstacle right now is the terrorist organization from Gaza and the corrupted Palestinian Authority. I hope, I hope I managed to bear something, and also, maybe I did not change your mind, but maybe I made you ask more tough questions to the poeple who made you join this club.

Arab-Israeli questioning why Israel is accused of being apartheid when his personal experiences show him otherwise.

[the-lazyyy-artist]

i saw you in a dream a two-part Karasu Tabito x Filipina!reader story part one

Synopsis: The Japanese Occupation was far kinder than you expected, especially in his eyes.

Word Count: 19.1k

Content Warning: historical au (based in the Philippines), talks about the Japanese Occupation in the Philippines, glimpses of the events during World War 2, love despite the war, angst

Author's Notes: I tried to be as mild as I could with the information of the war, as well as the reader's situation. Based on my research, some families were exempted from the horrors. I tried to be as clear as possible with the story too, so if you have any notes after reading, please let me know thru the comments, reblogs, asks, or DMs! I would love to discuss things with you guys!

@fishii28 ✨

"We have to do this," your father iterated once more as he paced across the living room in anxiety, "It's for the safety of our family, Y/n, the safety of your sisters and your mother... most especially you. You're our eldest daughter, you have to understand."

"Compliance? For safety? How is that even a good thing, Papa? These Japanese are... massacring the country, our city! The best we can do is fight back!" You reasoned out, your voice raising in frustration. Of all people in the world, you would never expect your father to bend the knee to the colonizers. Sure, his allegiance is to the Americans, who also colonized your country after the Spanish did the same, but he held hope that they would be saved by them. For now, he has to think of the best way for his family to be safe, especially with the news going around about the abuses against women. He couldn't bear to live the rest of his life thinking that the women in his family would be facing the same fate as everyone, so compliance with the Japanese was the best option.

"My dearest, please. I don't want you to be..." he sniffled and lowered his head, then he cried in anguish. "I don't want to endanger all of you. The situation is hard, I understand that, but the best way for us to be safe is to side with them. Despite the crimes they're committing to our country and the people, we need to be safe. Think of yourself, Y/n. Think of your mother and your sisters. They're still so young." He walked towards you and pulled you into a hug, the tightest he had given you. "I love our country. You know that out of everyone. But right now, my love for my family overcomes that."

Two weeks later, a Japanese General, accompanied by his Lieutenant General, entered your home and had a written agreement with them, officially making your family untouchable from the atrocities of the war. You listened to their conversation from your room, peeking through the crack of your door. It was a surprise that the General had some English skills, which you then figured that maybe they had to learn for the invasion. From what you have gathered in their conversation, they have laid out some privileges for the family: you'll sustain your way of life and be exempted from the abuses, forced labor, and serve as entertainment for the soldiers.

That was good enough, you thought.

You then heard a cry from the other room. Your youngest sister's voice can be heard through the walls, and unfortunately, throughout the house. You saw the General and Lieutenant General perk up as soon as her cries spilled out. Your parents' bedroom door flew open, and out went your sister, crying for your father. "Maria!" You exclaimed, bursting out of your room to grab her before she could even reach the living room. You carried her in your arms despite her protests, but your eyes landed on the guests, specifically the Lieutenant General. He was about your age, a little stern at first glance. His blue eyes met yours, full of curiosity and a tinge of annoyance from the disturbance. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you said as you walked away, carrying your crying sister back to your parents' room, closing the door behind you.

A few moments have passed, and you heard the bedroom door open, revealing your father, looking more distraught than he should be. He looked at you with apologetic eyes, and your stomach flipped at the sight. "What did you do, Papa?" you asked, your voice anxious and breaking.

"I'm sorry, my dearest. It had to be done."

Lieutenant General Karasu Tabito became a frequent visitor to your home. The reason? He became interested in you despite your short presence that day, thanks to your good-for-nothing sister. You're forced to face him every day with soft fake smiles that never reached your eyes. You try your best to be kind, at least just for the facade, so your family would be safer. You try your best to entertain his stories, all interesting and questionable. You try to respond accordingly, just as how your mother trained you all these years when the time comes for suitors to arrive at your doorstep.

Karasu was nothing but patient and kind, though sometimes, his eyes gave it away. He would sometimes look like he was analyzing you, the way you move, the way you speak, the way you laugh. Then one day, he said, "You're faking." That caught you a little off-guard. You cleared your throat and shifted in your seat, pulling your skirt down your knees. "I beg your pardon?" you replied.

"I don't like the way you're faking your interactions with me."

Like any other person in this time of war, hearing that would feel like a death sentence, especially with the situation your family was in. You, acting like their sacrificial lamb to this Japanese soldier, and him, a wolf. You smiled at him and shook your head. "I don't think I understand."

"Y/n, I know you feel forced to talk to me almost every day. But I want to let you know that I'm not like anyone out there. I don't agree with what they're doing, and I would..."

"You would?"

"If there wasn't a war, things like taking an interest in knowing you better wouldn't be that hard. Because I want to know you more and take you as my wife," he continued, his eyes full of honesty.

It took a year before you agreed to marry him, which your father was more than enthusiastic about. For him, it meant that your alliance and complacency with the Japanese colonizers were now set in stone and that your family would be forever safe from the horrors you read from underground newspapers that often arrive on your doorstep. You made sure Karasu never found any of it every time he visited your home before the marriage.

Life with him was peaceful, or it seemed to be. You were away from all the noise, and Karasu ensured you would live as a married couple peacefully. Every morning, there was a routine of you two drinking coffee at the dining table, him reading the newspaper, Japanese issued ones, and you humming a tune. It was lovely. Sometimes, he'd hold your hand as he drinks his coffee, and you'd smile at him.

Mornings also included helping him into his uniform every time he's being called to the office, ironing it to perfection. You'd help him button up his shirt, then hand him his hat, sometimes dusting it off before you do. "I'll be back soon," Karasu would say with a smile, and you'd respond, "Take care."

Your afternoons are spent tending the garden and listening to the vinyl records your father gave you as a wedding gift. They were pretty old, and you played them anyway. You'd sway alone in the living room until you grew tired. Then it was time to prepare dinner for you and your husband.

He'd consistently arrive home at 6:00 PM, leaving his boots by the doorway before he walked to you as you worked in the kitchen. He'd give you a chaste kiss on your temple, whispering, "I'm home." You're always glad whenever he comes home because it means things haven't gotten worse yet.

One night after dinner, while you were washing the dishes, humming a tune you heard from one of your records, you heard Karasu rummage through the same shelf of records in your living room. You weren't concerned, no. It's just he never once had an interest in your collection, yet here he was. Then you heard him put on one of the records to the record player you had in your home.

"Y/n," he called out, his feet padded on the wooded floor of your shared home, "dance with me." You looked at him over your shoulder, giving him a kind smile. "Just after this, Karasu."

He sighed as walked nearer to the sink where you were and turned off the faucet. You faced him with a slight disappointment on your features and he just smiled at you. He took a towel hanging from the drawer handles, and then wrapped your hands with it, drying them for you. "The dishes can wait. Please, dance with me." You could only nod and walk back with him to the living room as the scratchy music filled the living room. Karasu placed his hands on your hips as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, beginning to sway with him. "We never danced before," he stated in which you hummed in reply. "I think the war hasn't let us, Karasu."

He shushed you softly as he shook his head. "No mentions of war in this home, Y/n. I told you that before, remember?"

"Sorry."

"It's okay. No need to. I want us to live away from it, even if we have to pretend. Keep your mind away from it."

Karasu sighed shakily as he pulled you closer to him, embracing you. You can feel the tension radiating from him, so you rest your hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Karasu, what's wrong?"

"You've been calling me Karasu for the longest time. Maybe it's time for you to call me Tabito," he said, his voice low, ignoring your question. You nodded and spoke his name. It felt new on your tongue, but it sounds much better now that you won't be calling his, and your, last name. Tabito rested his forehead against yours as you two were engulfed by the silence of the night and the hum of your record player.

It wasn't long until that peace slowly faded as Tabito would spend more time away from your home.

He came home with news of a possible battle, one that was inevitable. He told you in great detail what Japan would do to defend the Philippines from the Americans, and it would be bloody. You listened to him intently, holding his shaking hands. Tabito warned you of two outcomes: either they will lose and leave the country, or Japan will continue their reign over the islands. If you were asked right now, you don't know what to feel. If you were still 2 years younger, you'd feel overjoyed about the liberation of your country. However, now that you've come to know Tabito, and eventually, loved him more than you imagined, Japan losing would mean him leaving you behind.

The news of Japan's surrender broke you.

The sight of Tabito running to you and apologizing broke you.

"I know I never told you this in our whole marriage but remember that I love you. I loved every moment with you, and I would trade everything to be with you," he cried as he cupped your wet cheeks. "I love you, I love you, Y/n."

He left the next day along with the other Japanese troops, leaving you in your once-shared home.

It's such a shame, others would say, that your Japanese husband left you without a child. That you were left alone with hopes of him returning to get you. That after 3 years, you ended up lying on your deathbed.

That your last words before you closed your eyes were his name.

A second part of this story will be posted soon, so keep an eye!

[couch-potato28]

Imagine being a Blue Lock manager! ⚽

Prologue

(a/n: Hey everybody! First time writing here, so please 🙏 excuse my poor looking posts and grammatical errors /let me know if u see any!!/ English is not my first language so pls take that into account O.O tyy ❤️) WARNING!-there's i think one swear word

wc: 2.8 k words im sry really, like i yap alot 😭

ALSO: please let me know if you're interested in the continuation

Imagine that in addition to your logical thinking, communicational skills and physical performance, Blue Lock also tests your mental health, because if you excel in these 4 areas, you might be worthy to become a manager of one of their players. However, competing with 199 other girls who are going through the same ordeal, let's admit, doesn't really calm your nerves. But how did you even end up in Blue Lock in the first place?

—————— Saturday morning, sitting in the corner of a nearby coffee shop, with your books open, laptop fully charged, your phone on silent mode with of course, a cup of caffeine on the side, you are ready to conquer those history notes. You had already started to memorize everything the previous week, so today was really about practicing and revising. After cracking your back and sipping some coffee, you began reading the first few lines on your laptop, occasionally peeking at the highlighted parts of your book in case you got stuck. Time passed quickly, and when you looked at the clock on your phone screen, it turned out that you had been revising ridiculously difficult names, dates, places and events which were described in an awful lot of detail for exactly 1 hour and 32 minutes. Seeing the time, you decided to take a well-deserved break, which actually just consisted of texting and watching funny cat videos.

Closing your laptop and books, you gave yourself half an hour to rest, so that time wouldn't double leading to you procrastinating and forgetting everything you'd just revised. Reaching for your phone and turning off the silent mode, you started reading the few messages that had come in during your study session. Most of them were sent from your best friend, briefly stating that she had fallen asleep and will probably have stay up all night to cramp whatever material she can get into her head, hoping that she somehow manages to pass on Monday.

“Told ya to set an alarm >:( Well, you should have accepted my offer to study together HAHAHA good luck btw :D”-you wrote in response, feeling kinda sorry for her. Then you went straight to your emails after seeing a notification, where you found a recently received message with a strange title.

“BLUE LOCK INVITATION”

What the hell is Blue Lock? And why did you get an invitation? Your initial thought was that it’s a scam and were trying to delete the email if your stupid finger hadn’t slipped, making it press and open the email. Great, now your eyes were glued to the screen, trying to read whatever was on the message.

“Dear L/N Y/N!

We are honored to invite you to the Blue Lock Manager Training Program, where you will be granted the chance to work with one of our future star football players. We hope you will consider the offer because this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If you are interested, please come to the following address and time.

Any further questions will be answered on-site!

Blue Lock Assistant and Health Manager,

Anri Teieri”

Um, what the fuck. Yeah, doesn’t sound sketchy at aaall…as you read the letter over and over again, trying to make sense of it, not understanding how they even knew about your existence in the first place and more importantly…how did they get your email address? Although that wasn’t the point, it piqued your interest. You had so many questions yet you could only get answers on the spot.

“Smart tactic.”-you said, before browsing the internet to find something about this Blue Lock project. After about 20 minutes though, you leaned back into your chair and sighed in defeat as there was not a single thing about Blue Lock at all. The only thing you had was this quite fancy looking email. Finishing the rest of your coffee, you began to think about the offer and whether or not to go. Your current job wasn’t good neither was the payment, which is why you recently had to take on a second job. But from what you read about the program, if you were to actually work with a soon to be star football player, the pay would probably be high. Plus, how hard can it be to manage a person, right?

After thoroughly thinking about the offer, you decided to give it a chance. Finishing the rest of your work, you came home and talked to your parents somehow persuading them to agree. Later that day you also informed your best friend as well. The weekend passed as you successfully finished your history exam on Monday and then you headed straight to the so-called Blue Lock building, the very next day. ——————

That's how you ended up in your current situation. On your first day there, they led you to a big hall where there were a lot of people. To be specific, young girls around your age. Looking around for a bit, you realized that there were a lot of girls indeed, but no boys in sight. Finding it a bit strange, but shrugging it off, you turned around to face a huge stage, where moments later a pink-haired woman appeared, whose name you assumed and now know is Anri, introduced herself and greeted you from a big podium with a mic in her hand.

Finishing the brief intro she then continued with a very thorough and detailed speech, revealing that if you agreed to the conditions of the program, you would technically be locked up in the building for the next 3 months and would participate in intensive training, where you potentially could be eliminated for poor results.

“There goes my money…”-you thought, since you never really cared about football in your life nor did you know anything about it. Which in retrospect, you should have done or researched a bit before coming here since you applied to be a football player's manager after all.

“Well, it doesn't matter now anyway.”-you told yourself for some comfort. After Anri had finished her monologue, she instructed everyone that:

“If you agree and ready to take on the challenge then please go through this door!”-pointing with her microphone at a huge dark blue door that was slowly opening.

Hesitating a bit, you thought about all the possible things that could go wrong, but after a not-so-long train of thoughts you managed to convince yourself. Also that little push by a girl running towards the doors sealed the deal for you as you slowly started to walk towards the unknown.

“I mean, what can I lose, right? My sanity is gone already and even if I get eliminated, I'm just going to go back to my normal life again”-you whispered and with a small grin you officially entered Blue Lock.

To your surprise, the facility was quite clean and not to mention huge since most likely somewhere on the other side of the building, boys were kicking balls and running laps. Following the crowd, you arrived in what you assumed was a large waiting room with multiple TV screens on the walls. After managing to squish yourself through the crowd, a sudden voice spoke from the speakers and an egg-headed guy with a strangely perfect bowl cut appeared on the screens, introducing himself.

“Hello, diamond grinders! My name is Jinpachi Ego, the coach of the players in Blue Lock and the overall boss of the facility. I guess you already know why you’re here so I won’t bother with that anymore. First, let’s start with a quick count, which is...currently 200 people.”-he said and you looked around with wide eyes. The fact is, there were indeed many people besides you, but you didn't think such a large amount of them would participate.

'Pfft, no worries…'-you thought, encouraging yourself, realizing that you’d probably get kicked out on the second day, if not today. You looked up to the screens again, and bowl cut continued.

“Out of these 200 people, the best performers will be given the best athletes to work with. But! You have to know what you’re doing. From now on, every minute of your time will be spent, from morning to night according to a routine and the underperformers will be eliminated. Understand?”

You nodded unconsciously, following those around you. This was serious and there was no turning back now. Even so looking at that man’s gaze somehow as he spoke made you shiver a little.

'What have I gotten myself into?'-the question suddenly popped into your head, making you doubt for a moment, if you being here was truly a good decision, but Ego's voice immediately made you get back on track.

“Great. Let’s start with a quick summary then. First, you will be divided into 20 teams, 10 people each. This division was based on your current abilities, but they can change over time while you’re here. Each week, the levels to pass are going rise and be harder and those who can't pass will automatically fail and get eliminated."-he said leaning back into his chair.-"Next, is the routine which the assistant will tell you about in detail later. The goal here in Blue Lock besides creating football players, is to produce ideal managers who have the perfect skills and attitude to fit with them, and to maintain their level, helping them until the end of their careers.-he suddenly raised his index finger and the screens showed what looked like an animation of whatever he was about to say.-"This includes, one: Strategic and logical thinking, two: A healthy and fit body and three: The highest levels of media and communication! If you perform well in these three main areas, then a job and the experience of a lifetime are guaranteed! Don't disappoint me! Now lock off and goodbye for now!”

With that, the egg-headed man finished his speech, disappearing from the screens and Anri, with a microphone in her hand, started to divide everyone up, while handing out papers with our new weekly routine printed on it. Seems like have been assigned to group number 10. That's not bad, but were your abilities really worth as much to be a team 10 member? So far you have only (tried) to manage your own life and your current football knowledge was equal to zero. But there was no time left for further thoughts, because after receiving the uniform you had to immediately start on the first task according to your assigned routine for the day.

—————— Okay. This was harder than you thought. Wiping off the sweat from your forehead, you started running your seventh lap around the damn track again.

"I’m gonna pass out.”-you muttered under your breath, as your newly made friend you’d just met a few ago appeared next to you.

“Same, I'm too tired to be running around in the morning!”-she replied, and after a few seconds the sound of a whistle was heard, signaling the end of the first part of the warm-up. Well, today was going to be long again.

Your new routine consisted of starting your mornings at exactly 7 am with physical exercises and then, you had a quick breakfast. After that you had to start on some brain work tasks for the day, followed by communication class and lunch. A 15 minute break later, media and IT started and before finishing the day with a small workout again, were language lessons waiting for you. Yes. You also had to learn languages. Unfortunately not just one, not two or three, but four fucking languages in which you had to reach a basic level. At least the variety was good, since now you knew how to say hello in French, German, Italian and Spanish. (multilingual queen slay) And then based on those you could decide which one you wanted to work on more and reach at least an intermediate level. If that was not enough, the knowledge of English was also mandatory, but at an advanced level. Also for every other day there were talks, activities and tasks about basic football for those (like you ^_^) to have a grasp on the topic. So there you were, in full uniform everyday for the last two months, suffering through training.

It almost hurts to admit, but on some days you started to miss your simple, slightly boring school life. Thinking back to your friends and parents who you hadn't talked with in a while, to those boring classes and your warm bed. Training was hard since other than having to excel at the 3 fields, worrying that you could get eliminated at any moment, if you lacked behind was stressing you out even more than you already were. On top of that, seeing that some of the girls were kicked out of the building was saddening, yet it worked like a charm to make you work even harder to survive till the end.

Sure, it’s not like it wasn’t good here since you arrived. Fortunately, you quickly adapted to the new environment, getting used to the shared bathrooms, roommates, the extreme routines and plans you had to follow and the surprisingly good canteen food. But the lack of 'fresh air'of the bustling Tokyo, the crowded places, the subways and the fact you could sleep in on the weekends certainly made a void in your heart. The mountains were a beautiful view, but you started to get bored of them after a while.

That's how you usually spent the rest of your days with. Time also flew a lot quicker with your new friends who you suffered with together until they finally announced the end of the program, ordering everyone to gather in the waiting room. Everybody arrived on time and just a few minutes later bowl cut finally appeared on the screens again. —————— “Yo, diamond grinders! Congrats on surviving till now. Looking at your data and statuses, I'm pretty much satisfied with everyone. Well, it doesn't matter now, since the results are already decided.”-Ego said in a voice that lacked emotions yet again. Still the boredom and lack of sleep were evident on his face, noticing his eye bags and the empty cups of ramen in the background that he didn't even bother to clean up. He coughed a little before continuing.-“After analyzing every single one of you on each field, I have decided on which player to assign you, based on these factors and scores. Let's start now, shall we?"-he asked and a little icon of the first girl who was about to be assigned, appeared on the TV screens, showing her name and the team she belonged to.-"First of all, congratulations to Aiko Hashimoto…”-he said a girl's name that felt unfamiliar to you, and then went on with, what you assumed was the player's jersey number and the name of who she would be managing from now on. Meanwhile on the big screens the footballer's little icon made an appearance as well next to Aiko's.

Ego soon continued with announcing the girls by their rank and time seemed to slow down the moment he started speaking again. After a while, at least 20 minutes have passed, yet your name was nowhere to be heard. Even your closest friend was now assigned to some boy while you were still waiting for your turn. 'Did you do that well? Maybe they just forgot to kick you out.'-you assumed after another 5 minutes passed. Listening to Ego as he was still announcing names, you glanced around at the remaining girls who seemed confident while standing, not hearing their names yet. They seemed certain that they were getting one of the top players you thought, while you, yourself were still unsure who you would end up with. Before any more thoughts could occupy your mind, you suddenly heard your name.

“Next up is L/N Y/N.”-you heard from the speakers and finally your little icon also turned up on the screens. Oh my gosh, it’s you! Wait who was before you again? What numbered player are we even at now?!

Blinking twice, you looked up to the main screen, staring at the miniature doddle of you, while Ego was about to say the lucky guy's name you were going to work with. A sudden rush of excitement and worry began to overwhelm you, anxiously waiting to hear the fruit of your 3 months of suffering. Sure, you did do well in all areas required and even gained some knowledge about football in general, but was it enough? Every girl here did their best, trying equally hard, afraid of missing the opportunity of a lifetime and getting kicked out of the facility.

You gulped ready to hear whatever and whoever was waiting for you on the other side of Blue Lock. Ego’s voice rang through the waiting room as he said the following:

“Congratulations L/N Y/N! Based on your results, you've earned your place in Blue Lock as the manager of player number…”

(Oh my gosh, this was a long one, hope you guys enjoyed it ^^; i wasn't sure about this story since it's my first one, so pls let me know if you are interested in a continuation and tell me, who you think will get u as their manager? (★‿★) tyy

[httpsdana]

hi sorry I’m an anon but can you do one for Gavi from the prompt 7 in jealousy . “I don’t like sharing what’s mine, and you, my love, are very much mine.” Where she was talking one the phone to her ex because they’re still “friends” and Gavi gets really really jealous also like if you can make her she’s quite soft and nice and quiet like she doesn’t talk much so the fact that she’s talking to her ex like with passion pisses him off even more and then when she’s crying after because he yelled at her and she’s quite sensitive he feels really really guilty and bad then can we turn it into fluf from promt 7 also. “I know it sounds silly, but I just like watching you be happy.” And he goes out with her and buys her a gift and stuff even though she only wanted ice cream

(I’m sorry for the bad English it’s not my first language)

Can't Help It~Pablo Gavi

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

7- “I don’t like sharing what’s mine, and you, my love, are very much mine.” (jealousy)

7- “I know it sounds silly, but I just like watching you be happy.” (fluff)

Her quietness and shyness were the things Pablo loved the most about her. He loved how sensitive she is, how her soft laugh fills the room with happiness instantly, how she had a different personality when she was with him, one that only he gets to see.

But as she sat on her phone talking to one of her ‘old friends’, one Pablo wasn’t particularly a fan of, he wondered if that friend got to see this side of her more often than he did.

She was laughing effortlessly, talking with such passion he had never seen before. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought about it too much if he didn’t know who that was. But this one person was the only person who knew her more than he even did. Her ex.

In other times, Pablo would’ve been smiling so widely at her genuine laugh, but this time he was getting mad, too mad. She had been sitting there for what felt like hours just catching up with her childhood best friend, her first love too.

And the jealousy was boiling in Gavi at how easy it seemed for her to talk about everything and nothing with him.

“You’ve been talking to him for hours. Aren’t you done?” His rude voice caught her attention, making her look at him confused.

“I have to go. It was nice catching up with you. Bye” she said quickly, hanging up before putting her phone down and looking at Gavi

“What’s wrong?” she asked, putting her hand over his except he snatched his hand away from hers, making her even more confused, even a bit hurt.

“Pablo?” she said, her voice barely above whisper.

“What y/n?” he said through gritted teeth, his anger and jealousy evident in his voice. “You’re just gonna act as if you haven't been sitting there for an hour catching up with your ex? Your fucking ex y/n” 

She flinched at the aggressiveness of his voice, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“What do you mean? You know me and him are still friends” she said, blinking away the tears that have started to form in her eyes. She hated how this was going to end because she knew it was gonna lead to an argument, and that’s the last thing she wanted.

“That’s the problem y/n” he said, standing up angrily from the couch as he started pacing across the room. “That’s the fucking problem. And what’s worse is that you can’t even see it!”

She let out a shaky breath, standing up to stop him from walking around the room.

“Pablo I love you. I’m yours, you know that” she stated in a soft voice, unable to hold back her tears

He stopped his movement, stepping closer to her. He looked down at her, his eyes full of anger, jealousy, and something else she couldn’t point out.

“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he murmured, “and you, my love, are very much mine.”

“You’re not sharing me with anyone Pablito” she whispered.

“Then why does it feel like I’m competing with a guy from your past y/n? Huh, tell me?” he raised his voice once again, making her step away from him immediately.

The tears streamed down her face faster, as she watched his angry expression, the jealousy in his voice and the uncertainty in his eyes.

“Pablo please” she said in a low face, her cheeks stained from her tears.

He turned to look at her, his anger melting into guilt as he watched her broken state. The tears on her face, her shaking hands, and the desperate look in her eyes.

“Oh baby” he whispered, walking closer to her. He wrapped his arms around her quickly, cradling her head against his chest, brushing a kiss over her hair.

“lo siento amor…lo siento mucho bebé” he whispered against her hair, swaying their bodies slowly. (I'm sorry love. I'm so sorry baby)

As she sobbed quietly in his chest, he couldn't help the guilt eating him up. He hadn't meant to make her cry, his jealousy and anger got the best of him and now he regretted every second of it.

After holding her for a few minutes, her sobs died down and she pulled away to look at him.

“Pablo…I love you” she mumbled, making him smile weakly at her.

“I know baby I know” he said, brushing her hair away from face.

“He's really just my friend. I don't like him anymore. I have you now.” she said, wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve.

Pablo's smile widened, yet he couldn't shake the weight of blaming himself for turning her happiness into tears.

“I'm really sorry amor,” he cupped her cheeks in his big hands as he gazed into her slightly red eyes. “I know I shouldn't have been mad at you but I couldn't help but feel jealous at how you were laughing and talking so passionately to him”

“but that doesn't mean anything. i told you he means nothing to me anymore” she said back, putting her arms gently around his waist.

He smiled with a nod, leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead.

“I trust you, amor. Let me make it up to you” he said, making her raise her eyebrows.

“How?” she asked with a smile

“Put a jacket on. we're going out”

As the two walked hand in hand around their neighborhood, the silence took over them. That was until Pablo stopped in front of the ice cream shop by the corner, looking down at his girlfriend.

“let's get some ice cream” he nudged his head towards the shop, making her grin widen as she tightened her grip around his hand

“This is so good” y/n hummed, as they stepped out of the shop, each one of them a cup of ice cream in hand.

Pablo smiled at her, humming in response. While they were chatting as their walk continued, a flower shop caught Pablo's attention. He smiled to himself before turning to her.

“Wait for me here,” he said, and without letting her say a thing, he rushed to the shop.

After about two minutes, he came back. A huge bouquet of red roses in his hands, and a wide smile on his face.

“And these pretty roses are for my pretty princesa” he handed them to her, watching how her face softened with a pout on her lips.

“for me?” she said in awe, while he nodded proudly.

“I’m sorry” he said, making her look up at him. She smiled widely as she looked at the gorgeous roses in her hand.

“These are so pretty. Thank you” she said, unable to hide her smile. He couldn’t help but smile as wide as her

“I know it sounds silly, but I just like watching you be happy.”

Her face softened at his little confession before one of her hands reached up to the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss him. She kissed his soft lips so gently, while his hand wrapped around her waist, and the other one steadied the bouquet in her hand.

“te amo mi niño precioso” she mumbled against his lips, making him smile. (I love you my precious boy)

“te amo más mi vida” he whispered back. (I love you more my life)

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty @n0vazsq @joaosnovia @ilovebarcaaa @f1lover55 @jajajhaahaha (lmk if you want to be added!!)

[mydeareid]

Until I found you ✦ Chapter 1

Spencer Reid x female!reader

summary: you became best friends when both of you needed it the most. life circumstances separeted you, but once again, destiny reunites you.

genre: fluff, angst, comfort.

word count: 1698

warnings: NOT TOTALLY PROOF READ. at the very beginning the characters are underage. besides that, i think there aren’t other warnings. please let me know if i'm missing one :)

note: hi! i'm @evanpetersmybf but different haha. i've been wanting to write for my spence and i finally had the chance to. i love him. i'm trying my best to keep him on character! also, sorry if there are any mistakes, english isn't my first language. i hope you enjoy it!

1998.

A tiny spark of sunshine peeked through the clouds. It was winter, and even though the sun was out, the air was cold as expected. Every exhale left a white trail dissolving in the icy breeze. Because of this, the park didn’t have many visitors, only some couples, a few families, and Spencer.

He loved the weather and the atmosphere. The peace of the calm environment felt comforting. Being surrounded by nature was simply beautiful; the way the leaves swayed, the sensation of the wind hitting his face and reddening his nose, the feeling of having a moment for himself was wonderful. His hands were shoved in his pants pockets as he walked down the pavement. The boy was probably freezing, but he didn’t care—it was such a nice day and he wanted to spend some time alone.

He clearly needed a break. For a long time, he had been taking care of his mother. He deeply loved her, without question. Much of what he knew, he owed to her, but being her caregiver from a young age had taken its toll, more than he would like to admit.

After walking for about ten minutes, he sat on a wooden bench in front of a frozen lake. Just when he was about to relax, someone took a seat next to him.

“Such a pretty noon, right?”

Spencer was startled by the way you broke the ice. He never expected that someone would sit right next to him out of nowhere, especially a complete stranger. He pressed her lips together and looked around. Perhaps you were talking to someone else, although when he saw no one nearby, his eyes landed on you. Torn between deciding whether to respond or not, he finally muttered a reply.

“Sure. it’s mesmerizing”.

Seconds passed as you pulled out a small notebook and a pencil. You began sketching the landscape while you hummed a song: Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson.

The man’s face showed an expression of doubt and curiosity. Why did you seem so comfortable sitting with a random person?

“I’m not trying to be rude, but do I know you?” As he spoke those words, his fingers were fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweater. He was nervous. What if you were a bully? Or even worse, a thief?

“Nope, we don’t know each other. But you seemed cool… And this is the best view of the lake. I needed it for my drawing”. You put down the pencil and faced Reid, giving him the sweetest grin you could. “Don’t worry, I’m almost done. And I’m sorry if I made ya’ uncomfortable”.

Spencer shook his head and his lips formed a small yet sincere smile. “It’s okay”.

Later, when you finished your art, you turned the page and sighed. “Can I draw you?”

Once again, he was flabbergasted by something related to you. It was weird for him to experience kindness or attention like this. After years of bullying, he wasn’t used to spending time with people his age. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. Eventually, he nodded.

You wasted no time and soon you made an accurate Spencer’s portrait. When you were done, you handed it to him. “I’m Y/N, by the way. Nice to meet you! You’re a great model”.

Reluctantly, Spencer took the paper with his slender fingers, his eyes fixed on the precious gift. He couldn’t believe someone had been friendly towards him. Usually, people mocked him for his appearance, his lack of social skills, and other quirks he had.

“Did you know paper was created in ancient China in 105 A.C.?” He was going to continue rambling, but quickly stopped, raising his hand as if to halt himself. “I… I’m sorry, sometimes I ramble. I’m Spencer. Thank you… For the drawing. It’s amazing”.

“Why are you apologizing? It’s always great to learn something new!”

The way you sounded so cheerful, so gentile, warmed his heart. People usually rolled their eyes and asked him to stop when he rambled, but you didn’t. This was new. So new that he didn’t even know how to react.

Nevertheless, you kept talking, and he kept listening, replying when you asked and when he had anything to say, and including some curious facts when he had the chance. Hours went by and you shared more about each other. You discovered that you were both seventeen, that he loved classical music and soap operas, that he graduated high school at twelve, and that he adored Doctor Who, Star Wars, and Star Trek. And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship—a bond neither of you expected but both desperately needed.

To Spencer, you were an angel, an oasis in the desert, a warm blanket in winter and a refreshing lemonade in summer. He knew that he could count on you and made sure you knew you could count on him as well.

1999.

After four months of knowing each other, sometimes, he went to your place when he felt more lonely than usual; when it happened, he’d spend the night at your house as if it were a sleepover, or at least that’s how you used to call it.

Your sleepovers consisted of listening to music: The Beatles, Michael Jackson, ABBA, Queen, The Cardigans, Bonnie Tyler, Kate Bush, The Police, among others. It also included reading a book or tackling school topics you struggled with—Spencer was your human encyclopedia.

During one of those spring nights, you and Spencer were on the sofa watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch, your pick for the evening.

“Oww, Salem is so cute. I wish I had a cat”. You said wistfully.

“Did you know that if a cat owner were to die at home and the body remained undiscovered, the cat could begin to eat the owner’s remains within a few days? Studies suggest that this behavior isn’t due to malice but rather survival instincts kicking in once the food supply runs out. It’s fascinating—” Spencer blurted out in his usual rapid speech, but stopped info dumping when he saw your jaw drop and the look of shock on your face.

“I didn’t know that. Now I don’t want cats, thank you very much”. You replied, half-laughing, half-horrified.

The genius smirked and let out a small laugh. It was fun to tease you that way—it was common for him to say unsettling facts about random stuff to annoy you.

Afterward, you decided it was time for your regular music ritual. Your playlist included songs like: Boys Don’t Cry, Cheri Cheri Lady, Take on Me, Running Up That Hill, Lovefool, Creep, Forever Young, and so on.

“Why are we friends, Y/N? People normally dislike me… Why not you? I’m strange, I’m a weirdo. I don’t understand”. Spencer mumbled while Fade Into You by Mazzy Star played softly in the background. He was anxious to hear your answer. Deep down, he theorized you felt pity for him and that was the unique reason why you accepted him in your life.

“You’re special, Spence. You’re charming and lovely. It’s rare to know people like you, y’know? So smart and with so much to offer. And why would you say you’re strange? You’re Spencer Reid. You’re you. You’re an amazing person. And if being ‘strange’ is part of that, then I like it. I like you just the way you are. And you should like yourself too, Einstein”. You smiled and grabbed his left hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Sometimes I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I hate it when you talk poorly about yourself”.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was blushing furiously. His brain stopped working when he listened to your enchanting reply. You were the friend he was waiting for since the day he was born. And he wasn’t planning to let you go.

When you finally got tired and sleepy, you drifted off on Spencer’s shoulder and he did the same, resting his head on yours. The music kept playing, and by the time you were peacefully asleep, Every Breath You Take was filling the room.

The scene was endearing; Spencer and you looked adorable and cozy like that, and that’s why your mother decided to take a Polaroid of both of you and made sure to hide it, so you’d never know the existence of that picture.

Months went on. The dynamic between both of you remained the same.

You were there for him when he decided to place Diana, his mom, in a mental institution. That was one of the hardest choices Spencer ever made. He would often feel guilty, that’s why he started to send her letters everyday, and also because he couldn’t visit her frequently. As a result, the now eighteen-year-old began to spend entire days at your home. He even spent the next Christmases and New Years with you and your family, until he turned twenty-one and he moved to Washington.

For a year, you stayed in touch via phone calls and letters, until one day he stopped writing to you and stopped taking your calls.

2003.

The last thing you knew about him is that he was admitted into the FBI as a profiler, and since then, he completely vanished from your life.

His sudden ghosting hurt you like a hundred stabs would. You persisted in trying to reach him, but after countless failed attempts, you gave up. Years ago, you both swore you were soulmates, that nothing would separate you. Now, it seemed like an empty promise.

Spencer’s reasons for disappearing were unclear to you, and at some point, you stopped wanting to know. In reality, he had done it to protect you. He was conscious of the dangers of his new job and didn’t want to risk your safety nor make you worry about him. He knew you very well and knew you would always be concerned about his well-being. He didn’t want to be a burden. Maybe he didn’t make the best decision, but if he had spoken to you one more time, he would’ve never been able to let you go.

[otherone12]

Wait, Are You In A Band?! (part2)

Basement!Gerard Way x Reader

-> Masterlist

A/N: Hey!! Giving more Basement!Gee for u and using the idea @fangirlinc gave me, here is part 2 of this fic! And about the requests, i've been recieved a lot requests (and thanks so fucking much for each one!), but it's going to take me a while to write them. On my masterlist, you can see the order in which they will be published. I'm also giving preference to requests! Well, I hope you like it <3

Summary: Your boyfriend is the leader sing of a band, and his band's first show, unfortunally will be in the same moment as your cheer practice. A couple lies, a stage dive, and a bit of blood, made that moment memorable.

If you didn't read the 1st part, HERE it is.

- Word Count: 3.680

- Warnings: Blood!

- Ps: I'll not use y/n…-

Ps2: I'm brazilian, so english is not my first language... sorry if i wrote something wrong.

___________________________________________

Reader’s 1st Person POV

Since that prom, that heated kiss, that dance, that moment that seemed like we were alone on that dance floor, Gerard and I started to date. 

We were by no means a conventional couple. He is a metalhead artist, with his leather jacket, black messy hair, faded band shirt, his talent and his amazing voice. And I'm a cheerleader who appreciates good music, with my high ponytail, skirt, pom poms and, just sometimes, band tees… 

In the beginning, I noticed the weird looks on the corridors when we walked holding hands. I didn’t care at all, but of course Gerard wasn’t used to the attention, and got adorably flustered every time.

Now, weeks later, we’re sitting on the floor for lunch as usual, laughing and talking like we always do. The sunlight streaming through the window highlights his features, but suddenly, his laughter fades. His smile turns shy, and there’s an edge of nervousness in his voice when he speaks.

- So… I was waiting to tell you in person… - the bit of insecurity creeped his voice when he said - My band… we are gonna play next sunday for the first time! Like, it is a small festival, and they are just gonna give us a beer after… but it's a beginning, right?

- Holy shit! - I almost screamed too loud, but his words reached me like a wave - Gee this is amazing! 

He didn’t respond at first, just stared at me with a shy smile, his face turning a bit red.

- You guys deserved this! You are awesome! - But my excitement was still bubbling inside of me - I can’t wait to be there, in the front row, screaming and cheering for you! 

- R-really? Uh, I mean… you’d really come cheer for us? - He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers brushing through his messy black hair.

He didn't look confused, just a bit surprised by my enthusiasm.

- Of course! - My hand ment to his shoulder, and I nodded - I’m your girlfriend, it’s like an obligation. And the least I can do is be there for you. 

- I’m not used to people doing this… it’s kind of a new thing… - His awkward chuckle was the cutest thing ever - You are the best girlfriend ever… I mean, you are my first, but… uh…  you know what i mean and…

- Gee, i get it. Thank you - I say, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. - You are the best boyfriend ever.

His grin widens, but before we can savor the moment, the shrill ring of the bell snaps us back to reality.

Gerard stands first, then offers me his hand, helping me up.

- See you after school? - He asked, still holding my hand.

- Sorry, Gee… I have to practice today…- I sigh, hating to disappoint him - but hey, I text you when I'm at home, okay?

- Okay… - He pouts, squeezing my hand one last time before reluctantly heading off to class. 

 During practice, the only thing on my mind was Gerard on stage. I could practically see him, his messy black hair falling into his eyes, his voice raw with emotion as he sang his heart out. The first of a million performances, I was sure of it. The thought made me smile, even as I tried to focus on the routine. He deserved this, being himself, doing what he loved, without caring about the jerks who liked to mess with him.

But my daydream was shattered by my coach’s sharp voice cutting through the gym like a whip.

- Well, girls, we’re going to have extra practice on sunday. - At first, I thought I was listening wrong, but she wasn’t kidding - I wanna see all of you here, no excuses. 

Her words landed like a punch to my stomach.

My eyes widened, panic bubbling inside me. Sunday. Gerard’s first gig. My mind spun as I tried to piece together how I could possibly be in two places at once. There was no way I could miss his moment. I couldn’t.

Almost tripping over myself, I made a beeline for her, my thoughts racing as I fought to find the right words. My chest tightened, and I let out a shaky breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

- Uh… coach? -  I called, my voice a little too high-pitched as I approached her.

She turned, raising an eyebrow at me. I plastered on a hopeful smile, even though I felt like I was about to combust.

- I kind of have an extremely important commitment on sunday and-

- Look, this has to be perfect. You want to stay on the team, don’t you? - She was serious, I froze, nodding mechanically, my heart sinking.- Great. Then I will wait you here on sunday. Like I said, no excuses.

In desperation, I was about to start begging. I wanted to explain how much seeing my boyfriend on the stage was, and I’m not lying by saying that I’m one of the best cheerleaders of the team.

- But-

I started, but she cut me off. 

- No buts. You’re dismissed.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of practice, but my world felt like it had just been flipped upside down. As the other girls filed out, chatting and laughing, I stayed rooted in place, gripping my pom-poms like they were the only things keeping me together.

I can’t be in two places at the same time, but I can pretend I have an excuse she can't argue with. The moment I stepped at home, even before texting Gerard, I sent a message to my best friend.

Me: Heyy… So, I’ll need a huge favor on sunday…

Her: HII! What u need?

Me: Me: I can’t be at practice on sunday… I need you to cover me. Say to the coach that I am sick or something. 

Her: Y'know that coach isn’t dumb right?

Me: Ik but I kind of have no choice here.

Her: What is so important that will make you miss practicing and lie?!

Me: Gerard’s band is gonna be performing for the first time. I CAN’T LOSE IT!

Her: OMG! YOU TOTALLY NEED TO BE THERE!

Me: So, can I count on you?

Her: Just because I love you. But you owe me BIG TIME.

Me: Thank u! Love u 2 <3

Gerard’s 1st Person POV

I spent the next few days in a haze of nerves, unable to think about anything else. Nothing mattered except being perfect. No, absolutely perfect.

I sang the same songs over and over until the words didn’t even feel like words anymore, pacing around my room like a caged animal. My voice cracked, and every mistake sent a jolt of panic straight to my gut.

How can I not be nervous?

This is our first chance, our shot at being seen, and if I screw it up, what if we never get another one? The thought made my chest tighten, my breaths coming in shallow.

And then there was her. She’ll be there.

My stomach twisted at the thought of her standing in the crowd, watching me. Watching us. What if I mess up in front of her? What if she realizes I’m not as good as she thought I was, that I’m just some geek wannabe with a leather jacket?

I could almost see it: her face falling, the look of disappointment in her eyes. Maybe she’d finally notice all the other guys out there, guys who are cooler, more confident, better. Guys who deserve her way more than I do.

The spiral was relentless, like a storm in my head that wouldn’t let up no matter how hard I tried to shut it out. I kept telling myself, “You’re doing great. Everything’s gonna be fine.” I tried to believe it, but the words felt hollow, like they were bouncing off a wall I couldn’t break through.

“She loves you. She wouldn’t trade you for anyone, no matter how bad it gets.”

But even that wasn’t enough to stop the sinking feeling. What if I was wrong? What if I wasn’t enough for her? What if I mess it all up? 

I sat down on the edge of my bed, my heart was pounding, my palms were slick with sweat, and I felt like I might throw up at any moment.

- Pull it together, Gerard, - I muttered under my breath. But my voice wavered, even to my own ears. 

The show is tomorrow, and I will make this perfect. No matter what. If I have to do stage diving... that's a good idea actually.

Reader’s 1st Person POV

Finally the day arrived and I was excited, not just in a happy way of excitement, but I was afraid. Afraid that something could go wrong; afraid that my coach noticed that I was lying. My stomach was churning with that anxiety, but here I am, in front of the mirror, applying my eyeliner and getting ready to get out and meet Gerard at his house, where Mikey, Frank and Ray already were.

Didn’t take too long and I was there, too. My clothes are really different from the ones I used to wear at school. Nothing like my usual cheer uniform or the light academia outfits I wore. I was simply with one of Gerard’s faded band tees, my ripped jeans and boots. 

I rang the doorbell, and in one second Gerard opened the door. I could see how nervous he was, his shoulders were tense, and his smile hides his anxiety, even if it was really noticeable. 

- Hey, Gee! - Not waiting for his invitation, I hugged him tight, and his arms hung awkwardly by his side before he hugged me back. - So… today is the day, hum?

- Yeah… I-I guess so… - His voice above a whisper. 

- Don’t worry… - I backed off just enough to look in his eyes, I rested my hands on his chest as his stayed hesitantly on my waist - You’re gonna be perfect. 

- D-do you think so? - He furrowed, his voice shaking - I mean, what if-

- Gee, babe… I don’t think so. -  I cupped his face, my thumbs brushing his cheeks - I know so. 

He gave me a small smile, and I closed the space between us, kissing him, a quick pack, but enough to make his cheeks turn pink.

But the moment didn’t linger too much.

- Hey… not to interrupt the lovebirds here… - Mikey said, approaching - but we’ve got to go.

- Yeah, you are right… - Gerard blinked, snapping out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. He grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers as we headed to the car.

The drive was a blur, and before long, we arrived at the park where the festival was happening. The small stage was already buzzing with activity. Crowds of people milled about, grabbing food and beer from the stalls, while speakers blared music to set the mood. I felt Gerard’s hand squeeze mine, while he looked around, frozen in his place. His eyes wide and his breath was coughing in his throat.

- I-i don’t know if I can do this… - he muttered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd. His eyes fixed to that stage - There’s so many people. And it hasn’t even started yet… I should go back home and-

- Hey… Look at me… - I stepped in front of him, holding his hands in mine. - You are amazing. I can’t think of any other guy who can rock a show like I know you can. You are so talented, and you rehearsed so many times… 

His wide, panic-filled eyes met mine, and my heart squeezed at the vulnerability there.

- But what if they didn’t like it? - His voice cracked, and the raw insecurity in it broke my heart. - If all these people thought I'm a joke?  

- Babe, your lyrics are fucking awesome, and you are the greatest singer i’ve ever met. - My gaze didn’t leave his, I gave him a confident smile and gripped his hands a little tighter, my voice steady but firm. - You are not a joke, Gerard. You have more passion than anyone in that crowd could ever dream of. And I’ll be here to scream for you, no matter what, okay?

He nodded, even if he was still trying to convince himself that I was right. He took a deep breath before looking back to that stage.

- I got this…

Gerard’s 1st Person POV

I will not lie here. I was about to throw up. My mind was racing and I could barely pay attention to the other bands who played before us. Before I noticed, we were all on the stage, Frank, Mikey and Ray setting their instruments as I looked for my girlfriend in the crowd. When our eyes finally met, I let out a breath that I didn't even realize that I was holding.  

The stage lights were blinding, hotter than I’d expected. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of my chest. The roar of the crowd… Well, it wasn’t a huge crowd, but it was big enough to send a shiver down my spine, buzzed in my ears, mingling with the feedback of the amps.

Mikey adjusted his bass strap while Frank fiddled with his guitar. Ray did the same… all of them looked calm and collected. How were they not losing their minds right now? My hands trembled as I gripped the microphone, and I forced myself to take a deep breath. You can do this, I thought, though my stomach was flipping like I’d just swallowed a swarm of bees.

I closed my eyes, feeling the sensation of the song on my ears. And before i noticed i was singing “Honey, This Mirror Isn't Big Enough for the Two of Us." like it was the most normal thing ever. When we played “Vampires Will Never Hurt You” I was already walking and jumping on the stage, just like I've dreamed of; like I practiced in my room; like I always imagined in the shower.

I caught glimpses of my girlfriend in the audience, her wide smile shining brighter than the stage lights. She was singing along, her hands raised high, and I swear it felt like she was holding me steady with her gaze.

And then came the moment I’d been thinking about all week.

I gripped the mic stand, leaning into it as the last notes of the previous song faded out. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

- This next song… - I paused, my voice shaking just a little as I scanned the crowd until my eyes locked on her. - This one’s for my girlfriend.

Her face lit up while the crowd erupted. 

- This one’s called… - I smiled, just for her, even if everyone was staring… - ‘Demolition Lovers.’!

Frank started playing the opening riff, and the sound was enough to drown out the world. My voice was steady as I sang, but my heart felt like it was beating in sync with every word.

It was like the song had been written just for this moment. Every lyric felt sharper, more personal, and the emotions poured out of me like I was confessing something sacred. My eyes kept flicking back to her, and every time I saw her smiling, mouthing the words back at me, it was like the rest of the crowd disappeared.

By the time we hit the final note, I was a sweaty, breathless mess. The applause was loud, filling every corner of the park, and it felt like I could float off the stage.

But I wasn’t done yet.

Without thinking, I stepped forward, holding my arms out wide. Damn I felt like a real rockstar. 

For a few wild seconds, I was weightless, the hands of the crowd catching me and pushing me up. The adrenaline was a roar in my ears, louder than the cheers and laughter around me. My arms flailed as I tried to stay balanced, but I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

And then, bam.

Someone’s elbow smacked square into my nose, and a sharp, hot pain exploded across my face.

- Fuck! - I yelped, but my voice was drowned out by the noise. My hand flew to my face, and when I pulled it back, there was blood smeared across my fingers.

The crowd was still moving me, oblivious to my minor injury, and I had no choice but to laugh. By the time they passed me back toward the stage, my nose was still throbbing, but I was too high on adrenaline to care.

Reader’s 1st Person POV

I was almost exploding when he finished “Demolition Lovers”. I didn’t care about my cheer team, didn’t care about my coach or about how out of the team I would be if she discovered. At that point, I just knew that I was supposed to be here, not anywhere else. 

I screamed, and when noticed, Gerard jumped on the crowd. I wasn't close enough to hold him, but I couldn't stop jumping and applauding while the crowd moved him like a wave.

But when he was back on the stage, something caught my attention. His nose. Was bleeding.

I don’t know what, but something in that made something inside of me shifted. I was worried, of course, I didn’t want him to get hurt. But I could help but keep staring with admiration. 

I don’t know if it was his confidence up on that stage, or just the way the red of his blood looked so pretty on his pale skin. His blood was almost shining on his face, dripping and meeting his lips… his face framed in locks of hair glued with sweat around his face, fire and amusement on his eyes… Damn he is so hot. 

I made my way to the backstage, passing through the crowd in an attempt to talk to him. I squeezed through the crowd and finally reached the band. The sound of clapping, shouting and laughter filled the atmosphere, both in the crowd and backstage.

- Gee! - I yelled, and he turned to face me.

Without thinking he runned to me, wrapping his arms around me. 

- You did it! - I said, still hugging him - You were perfect! I’m so proud of you!

My arms still wrapped around his neck, we parted just enough to look at each other. His hands holding my waist again, 

- I-i… I think I really rocked… - His smile was wide, but a bit shy - Thanks to you, cause if you didn’t encourage me, I’d probably never get to that stage.

- But… are you okay? Your nose… - I started, cupping his face. 

- I’m fine… just I got elbowed - He chuckled, whipping the blood on his nose. - But it was kinda nice, right?

- Are you kidding?! You made a fucking stage dive! This was more than just nice - My eyes wide and my smile grew even more - You are a rockstar, Gee. My rockstar.

His shy smile faltered for a second, replaced by something hungrier, something that made my heart pound harder. His hands tightened on my waist, pulling me closer, and his gaze flickered down to my lips.

I didn’t give him a chance to overthink it.

Grabbing the collar of his leather jacket, I yanked him forward, crashing my lips against his. He froze for a split second, probably startled by my boldness, but then he melted into me, his arms wrapping tighter around my waist as he kissed me back with everything he had.

The taste of him was intoxicating—salty sweat, a hint of metallic blood, and something unmistakably , his lips. The blood from his nose smeared against my lips, warm and sticky, and instead of recoiling, it only spurred me on.

My fingers tangled in the lapels of his jacket, holding him as close as possible while his hands roamed my back, pulling me flush against him. The kiss was messy and desperate, teeth grazing, breaths mingling, and I couldn’t get enough.

I pulled back just enough to catch my breath, my lips brushing against his as I spoke.

- You’re bleeding all over me, - I whispered, my voice teasing, but my eyes betrayed the heat still coursing through me.

He let out a breathless laugh, his forehead resting against mine. 

- Sorry… kinda messy, huh? - His cheeks were flushed, and his lips were stained with both blood and the remnants of our kiss.

- Messy suits you, - I said, my fingers tracing his jawline, smearing a little more blood in the process. I leaned in, biting his lower lip gently, and his sharp intake of breath sent a thrill down my spine.

- If I didn’t know you, I would say you’re enjoying that too much - he murmured, his voice rough and low, his hands gripping my hips like he needed to ground himself.

- Maybe I am - I replied, my lips brushing against his again.

I kissed him once more, slower this time but just as intense, savoring the way his body pressed into mine and how he clung to me like I was the only thing keeping him steady. The noise around us, cheering, laughing, the distant hum of the crowd, faded into the background. In this moment, it was just him and me, tangled together in the aftermath of his chaos.

When we finally pulled apart, his lips were swollen, his nose still dripping faintly, and he looked like he’d just stepped out of a dream, or a nightmare, depending on how you looked at it.

- You’re… unbelievable, - he muttered, his voice filled with awe, his thumb brushing over my cheek.

I smiled, breathless and exhilarated, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and laughing when I saw the streak of red. 

- Guess we’ll both need to clean up after this.

- Worth it, - He said softly, his gaze locking with mine. And in his eyes, I saw it: the fire, the vulnerability, and the overwhelming gratitude that made my chest tighten in the best way.

- Come on, rockstar, - I whispered, taking his hand. - Let’s go celebrate.

And just like that, we went out to grab a beer, and I couldn't care less about my lie.

___________________________________________

- So, that's it! Hope u liked! <3

- Tag List: @bossiestbitch @mimilovesnumetal

[miiilowo]

slightly over-engineered red leader tord design because i really really reaaaaallly like military uniforms & i thin k he deserves better than a hoodie under a blue trenchcoat. he doesnt tbh but i maybe deserve to see it. anyway

[flowerakatsuka]

my shimamatsu artbook came in so i finally got to see the rest of the unreleased teacher set...

scans of gym teacher oso from this set can be found here!

choro's a math teacher, which i feel like is pretty fitting for her. they drew her very cute, peak froggy expression.

ichi's a science teacher, like in teacher matsu merch by movic. he's also setting a bad example for his students by wearing open-toed shoes which is against standard lab safety rules, for shame smh.

jyushi is an art teacher! very cute, he's definitely fitting the bill of the zany art teacher stereotype.

totty's an english teacher. he's really meant it when he said he doesn't want to work bc he's giving us NOTHING in that awakened art. his outfits are very cute, though.

" gee, mj. where's kara? wasn't he the one you were the most curious about? " wELL. i waited to share him last bc...

when i tell you that i opened to this page in art book to find this set, saw kara, and then immediately closed the book...

he's a japanese / literature teacher, which i do think fits. ( still such a missed opportunity to have him as a music teacher... ) * puts my face in my hands * he's such a dork.

[lem0nicle]

MEET MY NEW POOKIEE

I HOPE THERE ARE NOT (SO MANY) MISTAKES AND THAT ALL IS OK!!! :)

im going to post about my ocs here!!!

closeupsss

[natasha-in-space]

Take Your Breath Away

Pairing: Saeyoung/afab!reader;

Notes: !Minors do not interact! This one contains smut! Set in RAE timeline, with you getting together with Saeyoung after RAE takes place. Lots and LOTS of pet names. This was a gift fic to a friend, so keep that in mind while reading, as the dynamic between you and Saeyoung was written in a very deliberate way <3

Summary: No birthday is exactly the same, no matter how many years go by in your shared life with Saeyoung. Catching a private moment with your husband can be a bit difficult when there's a whole group of dear friends eager to celebrate yet another year of his life. Which is why a little private celebration was in order.

AO3 link - 8k words (what);

Credit: Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Despite your hushed footsteps against the smooth, wooden floors of your apartment, you knew Saeyoung probably heard you already. Not that you minded. While sneaking up on him was fun, you had nothing to hide from him anymore. The surprise was ready and waiting. And this was just the ideal opportunity to finally bring your plans to reality.

His birthday was finally today, the day you had been anticipating for weeks now. Though, to prevent him from being overwhelmed with too much attention, you kept your excitement mostly to yourself up until now. From what you could observe of him over the years, Saeyoung was still only getting used to actually celebrating his birthday properly, so you naturally assumed that doing something big and loud wouldn't be something he'd be very happy with. And your wish was for him to spend his birthday with a smile on his face. This year around, his birthday just happened to be on your day off work as well, so you two could spend the entire day together for the first time in a long time.

Given that the rest of the day was set aside for Saeran and the RFA, you made the natural decision to arrange a private surprise that was only for you and him alone. Plus, Saeran seemed to approve of this idea, even creating a small gift for his brother that he entrusted to you to give him. Whether it was due to bashfulness or something else entirely.

It wasn't unusual for you both to be fully awake at midnight. Night was a special time for you, and not just because of the stars now sprinkled across the inky black void of the sky above, twinkling dimly against the bright lights of the city bellow. It was a time when the world slowed down, grew quiet, peaceful. A perfect time for meaningful conversations and sweet moments hidden away under the comforting solitude the night would bring with it. Many of the precious memories you now cherished dearly were made during the night. You supposed that was only natural, considering you both just happened to be night owls through and through, as opposed to Saeran and his beloved, who were more like a pair of early birds.

It was just you and Saeyoung in a cozy space you now called your home, no one to disturb you, and no one to steal the attention back onto themselves. The apartment was a perfect mix of peace and quiet, a welcome reprieve from all the hustle and bustle of the day prior in preparation for the twins' birthday party tomorrow. The living room of your apartment was already decorated for the celebration ahead, with balloons scattered about and a small collection of gifts from you, Saeran, Saeyoung, and Saeran's  partner already waiting on the shelves to be opened.

So, you take your chance while you still can.

"...Happy birthday, love," you whispered at last as you leaned over the back of the couch with cake in your hands, a small smile playing on your lips in anticipation of the upcoming reaction from your husband.

Upon seeing him looking up at you, you gave him a small giggle, knowing that his evident expression of surprise was mostly due to the small cake you had in your hands. Saeran made it himself only a day ago, but you did provide some assistance of your own. You both made sure that Saeyoung was kept in the dark about it up until today, though. When Saeran sought your advice on what gift to give to his big brother, you both decided that a present made by hand would be the best starting point, though it wasn't anything extravagant or expensive.

But Saeyoung had more than enough money for all three of you, after all.

As you placed the small cake on the coffee table, Saeyoung blinked up at you and swiftly glanced back at the clock hanging by the front door, squinting rather adorably. Without a doubt, it was just past midnight. June 11th. Today was the day of his birthday. And the day he was now officially 29 years of age.

Almost hitting his 30's.

"...Oh," Saeyoung blurted out, sounding slightly embarrassed, and immediately you sensed a slight feeling of guilt rising within him as he looks down at his lap for a split second, almost as if he wasn't sure what to say or how to react to your quiet congratulation. Feeling melancholic on this day, particularly at night, wasn't something new to him. Regardless, he quickly shook it off, smiled up at you, and swiftly wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you down onto his lap with practiced ease. "You didn't have to-"

"Oh hush," following his lead, you settled on his lap, giving him a small, affectionate smile. "It's your birthday. I want to treat you. Even if it's something small and intimate. I figured tomorrow will be mostly about Saeran and RFA, knowing you. So I wanted to make a little something just about you."

Saeyoung was only able to produce a small 'urgh' sound and shake his head in amusement, but you just laughed and winked at him cheekily. The way you were able to read him like an open book could be borderline unnerving to him at times. But hey, occasionally, he needed to be called out. And you were always eager to do just that, keeping him in check when needed.

"Touché... You know me way too well sometimes. It's unfair," he whined with a playful pout, wrapping his arms more securely around you and leaning back against the couch with a long sigh. Giving your cheek a small kiss, he looked back down at the small cake again, now resting nearby on the coffee table. "You made the cake yourself?"

"Nope! Saeran did. I know you're not as big on sweets as he is, but giving you another box of Dr Pepper seemed kind of ridiculous. Sometimes some good old sugar is not so bad, I think. Saeran worked hard on this for you," you chirped, perking up a bit after hearing about the cake. As you glanced between the dessert and Saeyoung, you smiled and tried your best to observe his reaction.

"Saeran...?"

Saeyoung's eyes widened as he stared down at the cake, a whole cocktail of various emotions filling his gaze behind his thick glasses. That's a reaction you well enough expected of him, just letting him take his time before responding. Even after all these years, he was still adjusting to not being the one who took care of Saeran in their relationship. Saeyoung would often find himself feeling choked up and overwhelmed with even the slightest hint of affection from his younger twin. Even so, he was improving year by year. And you could not be prouder of him.

Considering the time and ingredients that Saeran invested in this little project of his, you were very proud of what he achieved after hours of tireless crafting. Compared to your brother-in-law, baking was not your strong suit. But buying a cake was just not the right choice for you either. So, you delegated that task to Saeran, while you observed him from the side and acted as his inexperienced baking assistant.

The cake was not particularly large or grandiose. Just a simple homemade cake that was medium-sized and decorated with cherries and delicate flowers made of frosting. Though you were certain that there was more hidden meaning involved here than you were aware of. Saeyoung was the one who needed to figure that out, however. The cake was also decorated with a few candles and a traditional 'Happy Birthday' written on top with syrup. Simple, but endearing nonetheless. There was also a small, neat envelope tucked next to it. Something Saeran added there as a sort of bonus. Out of respect, you haven't peeked inside yet.

"...Wow. Yeah. That is definitely a lot more incredible than giving me more Dr Pepper. He really went all out with this... And for me nonetheless," Saeyoung said eventually, chuckling under his breath and gazing down at the cake with softened eyes. He carefully picked up a small cherry from the top and popped it in his mouth, chewing on it with far more care than was necessary. He ended by licking the syrup off his lips after swallowing it. You tried not to stare excessively. You tried even harder to resist kissing him right then and there, but you were interrupted again by his warm voice: "Mm, it's really good! You said Saeran made it himself... how many times did he have to mess it up until this one?"

"Oh, he got it right on first try. Compared to us, he's practically a pastry chef," you groaned a bit, leaning back on his lap comfortably. "If I was to try and bake you a cake myself, it'd take me at least a dozen of ruined cakes before I'd get to something at least decent enough to eat."

Saeyoung snickered as he shook his head when he saw your pouty face. It was obvious that he'll be bothering you about that comment later. That was not important right now, though. He looked at the small envelope next to the cake, raising a curious eyebrow instead.

"And what's that?" he asked.

"Oh, a small letter he wrote for you!" you grinned after following his gaze, looking back down at his face with a small, knowing twinkle in your eye. "-Yeah, yeah, I know it's a bit silly and cliché, considering you'll see him tomorrow morning. But I think it's sweet. Plus, it's something for you to keep and return to! The cake will be eaten, after all."

Saeyoung's expression was once again one of surprise before he reached out to take the envelope and study it.

"...Wow. You guys are... really spoiling me this year 'round. I didn't even hit 30 yet," he chuckled softly, looking back up at you. "Will I finally get a kitten next year, then?"

You only laughed at that, giving his shoulder a playful push, to which he shot you a cheeky grin of his own: "Don't get cocky."

This was the usual banter between you two, one that was familiar and comfortable.

Without further ado, Saeyoung carefully opened the top of the envelope and extracted the letter that was folded inside. He opened it and held it in front of him while quietly reading it fully, his expression changing occasionally as his eyes moved through the written words. You got closer, Saeyoung turning the letter to ensure both of you could read it.

Saeran did state to you that it was not particularly noteworthy. Just a written expression of his feelings, since he found it easier to express himself like this, instead of using direct words. You understood that perfectly.

The letter read: 'Dear Hyung. Whether you are reading this on the very day you were given this letter, or sometime later, I can stay assured that what I wrote in here remains true. I want to wish you a happy birthday. I never thought I would get a chance to say that to you like this, much less for so many years in a row. And not with us both now being adults. You were always my pillar of strength and my other half, as far back as I can remember. I used to be so full of anger at that... So full of anger, and of hurt, but I'm wiser now. In part, thanks to you. I know now that you were always there for me. You were always thinking of me, just as I was thinking of you. We were always connected. I'm grateful for everything you've done for me, Hyung. And I'm grateful to be your twin. I wish to be your pillar of strength now. I want you to know that you can rely on me with whatever that may trouble you. There's no need for you to hide your true self from me anymore. Ah... It's tradition to make wishes on birthdays, right? I suppose I should wish you something... And I think I want to wish you peace, Hyung. You've fought long and hard for my sake. I want you to rest now, with me, and Y/N, and RFA. I wish for you to find your promise of happiness, as I did mine. Maybe we'll even share it, like we shared everything. Let's eat some ice cream tomorrow. I can't wait to watch the clouds with you - Saeran :) ❁ '

Saeyoung slowly placed the letter on his lap all while still observing the handwriting, his fingertips tracing over the scribbled words, feeling the settled ink under his skin. His expression softened significantly, his usual relaxed face now filled with a strange mixture of fondness and... something else you couldn't quite put your finger on. Something fragile.

"God... You two are going to make me cry on my own birthday..." he muttered quietly, raising his hand to rub a bit at his eye, on which you did not comment to avoid embarrassing him. With clear tenderness in his movements, he folded up the letter and placed it aside before wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your shoulder with a deep, shaky sigh. "He sure has a way with words, doesn't he?"

His voice was muffled by your shoulder, but you heard him loud and clear nonetheless, his words laced with familial affection you loved so much. Your stomach was fluttering at the precious moment between you. Seeing these brothers reconnect and rebuild their relationship step by step always made you feel incredibly happy for them both.

They deserved to live in peace.

You laughed softly, wrapping your own arms around his torso and giving him a small hug in return. Your heart was warmed by the knowledge that Saeran's words have truly touched him. You knew how important this was to Saeyoung, after all.

"Yeah, he sure does. But all he wrote in there is true, you know?" you hummed while tilting your head to the side to nuzzle into his hair, feeling the soft curls tickling your cheeks. "He want you to be happy. As do I."

Saeyoung sighed hesitantly, raising his head and pulling back slightly to gaze up at you again. His expression appeared vulnerable, almost teary-eyed. Although you weren't surprised by that, it still made your heart lurch a bit. Reaching out, you cupped his cheek tenderly, to which he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, making you smile.

"I am happy," he responded, his voice soft. "You make me happy. You and Saeran. You are my two angels I will treasure forever."

You giggled at that sentiment as you leaned in to gently rest your forehead against his, allowing him to bask in this moment of genuine affection he was still trying to adjust to sometimes.

"You're the angel in my eyes, love. Maybe all four of us are angels. Wouldn't that be sweet? A featherly family of four. Although, that would be pretty dusty."

Saeyoung laughed at that, letting out a couple of small sniffles here and there, and you let him, not saying a word. After a few minutes of comfortable silence have passed between you, you pull back and settle on his lap as he looks up at you. You gave him a more cheerful smile.

"-We just wanted to give you something that would show you how much we care. This is your day, as much as Saeran's," a sheepish grin tugged at the corners of your lips as you shrugged. "...And I won't lie that I didn't want to sneak in a small private moment, just for the two of us. I want you to be happy, too, you know?"

Saeyoung was quiet for a second, a somewhat pensive look now falling over his face... before he shook his head and leaned back against the couch with a small huff.

"Well... there is something I'm not very happy about."

You blinked and tilted your head to the side curiously.

"What's that?"

With a soft exhale and a growing smirk, he suddenly tightened his strong arms around your waist and pulled you in towards him: "...You're wearing too many clothes."

After a brief pause, you blinked once more and raised your brows incredulously. Well, that was random. Still, this wouldn't be the first time Saeyoung caught you off-guard. Far from it, actually. As you looked down at him with a knowing smile, you chuckled softly.

"...Aren't you going to try out the cake first? Saeran worked hard on it, you know."

You let out a small pouty sigh, quickly falling into step with a familiar game you two would play with each other whenever things got a bit heated.

Saeyoung raised his eyebrow at you and rolled his eyes with a playful whiff.

"Oh, I'll save it. I want to show it off to everyone tomorrow! Plus, it wouldn't feel right just eating it by myself like this. I want to do that with you and Saeran," he whispered, running his hand up and down your back while observing the cake with one last thoughtful look. And just like that, his attention was now fully on you, his golden eyes twinkling alluringly in the dim light of the nearby lamp. "...Not to mention, I'm not sure if I'll be thinking about the cake right now when I have something way better to bite into right in front of me…"

Despite his words and actions making your body shiver slightly, you giggled again. While still sitting on his lap, you rested your palms on his chest and gazed down at him, quite enjoying this view of him from above.

You could get used to this.

"Well, I suppose that's one way to start your birthday off," you mused playfully in an overdramatic show of reluctance, your voice dropping an octave or two, growing more hushed and sensual in nature, the tension between you two rising steadily. Like a small spark of fire steadily growing in size and shining brighter with every second.

With a radiant grin now plastered on his face, Saeyoung slid his hands down to grab your thighs and pull your body taut against his, eliciting a tiny gasp of surprise from you: "Get over here then, starshine."

You just smiled at that, enjoying the teasing sensation of his hands now trailing up and down your thighs. Then, unexpectedly, his palms slid around to grasp your at backside, making you jolt and squeak far louder than you would have liked to. A response that was clearly in his favor, judging by the burst of laughter that rumbled in his chest as you shot him an embarrassed glare. Before you could open your mouth to grumble, he interrupted you.

"-And, frankly, this is the best way to start off my birthday," you could feel the slight vibrations of his voice reverberating in his chest in your palms, the noticeably deeper tone of it quickly making your head start to get all fuzzy. "And also my favorite way."

God, you loved it when he talked like that.

With a gentle tug, Saeyoung grasped the back of your thighs with his hands, pulling you in closer and shifting your position until you were sitting more directly on top of his legs. He then gently rocked you forward, grounding you against the growing erection straining in his jeans, your fingers grasping at his shirt in response. The way your voices merged together into one intimate melody in the form of a shared gasp that left your lips' was truly dizzying, in the best way possible. He gently moved his hands up your sides and then slipped them under the edge of your shirt to feel the warmth of your bare skin under his fingertips, your back arching into his touch.

The way your body felt in his hands was something you absolutely adored, as if it was made to fit into his arms. His expert care left your body buzzing with the rising heat of desire that blossomed between your thighs as you shivered in his grasp. It was nothing new, Saeyoung was always a highly perceptive person. It was only natural that this trait of his translated into the bedroom as well. What he lacked in skill and experience, he would compensate with attentiveness to your body's responses and eagerness to learn. Over the years, he has truly mastered the art of making you come undone in so many wonderful ways. As you did with him.

As his lips glided across your neck, you closed your eyes and tilted your head to the side to give him more space to work with, sighing lightly. His lips left a heated trail of small kisses up the side of your neck, before pressing directly against your ear.

"I need you, buttercup," Saeyoung whispered in a deep, hoarse voice. "Right now."

"...Shouldn't I be the one treating you, though?" you contemplated quietly, raising one of your hands to comb through his curly hair, eliciting a pleased hum from him that caused you to shiver in turn. "It is your birthday, after all. Not mine. You should be getting all the attention tonight."

"Oh, you're more than welcome to treat me," Saeyoung murmured softly against your skin, his warm breath creating a tickling sensation on your neck as he moved his lips downwards, planting kisses towards the lower part of your throat, nearing your collarbone. "It's just that my favorite treat just happens to be you."

His hands firmly gripped your thighs again, gently massaging the soft flesh with growing greediness that always tended to come out of him whenever you two got intimate. A greediness you've always welcomed happily. Then, gradually, he moved up to your hips and settled on the small area of exposed skin between your pajamas shorts and shirt. His lips now touched your collarbone, leaving a trail of lovebites in their wake, then moved towards your shoulder, all while his fingers started to trace back and forth along the border of your shorts, gently touching the delicate skin there. It was impossible to focus on anything but his smothering presence overwhelming your every sense. Not that you wanted to. You would happily drown in his touch, each and every time.

"Saeyoung..."

"-Besides," he mumbled, his breath warm against your skin. "You're all I want, anyways. As long as I have you right here, with me, I'm good for the rest of my life, trust me on that."

Despite the circumstances, you managed to give out a hearty laugh at that.

"...You are such a dork," you said with an obvious fondness in your voice, shaking your head at him slightly. You glided your finger across his black button-up, tracing his chest where it was casually unbuttoned, the small shiver that ran through his body at your delicate touch making you grin to yourself. After all, he was just as affected by you as you were by him.

"Well you married this dork, thank you very much," Saeyoung smirked as his own finger trailed down your chest in return, mimicking your gesture. With a mix of love and longing in his eyes, he raised his head and looked up at you. "And this dork needs you bad, right now."

"Well, who am I to deny the birthday boy?"

With that, you slid down and gently cupped his cheek with the palm of your hand, pressing your lips against his at long last, tasting the sweet cherry flavor on his tongue with a pleased hum. A gentle sound of pleasure rumbled in the back of Saeyoung's throat as he immediately reciprocated the kiss with equal fervor.

You quickly molded your body into his as you shared a tender, lingering kiss that only grew in passion as seconds trickled by. Although he was clearly more than eager to move on to the next step with you right away, the affectionate and unhurried kisses seemed just perfect as they were. He slowly moved his hands up your abdomen, lifting your shirt as he went and feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his touch. You effortlessly lifted your arms for him, allowing him to smoothly remove your shirt from your body. Breaking off the kiss only for a moment, he swiftly did just that, discarding it somewhere on the floor, and then pulled you back in closer for another kiss, seemingly unwilling to be away from your lips for too long at a time.

Your seamless communication without any words being spoken was clear on display as you acted in perfect harmony with each other, your bodies moving as one. There was a certain beauty in that. To lose yourself in another's warmth and touch, letting yourself surrender and become a part of something special. A testament to the years of trust and experiences together.

Or maybe you were being a bit too sappy for your own good.

As Saeyoung pulled you closer for yet another kiss, your fingertips skillfully unbuttoned at his own shirt, gently brushing away the soft fabric to caress his warm chest, his skin smooth under your fingertips.

Saeyoung let out a soft moan into the kiss, feeling your hands trace over his muscles and scars reverently. By this point, you knew his body in all of its tiniest of details, as he did yours. Every freckle, every scar, every dip and crevice. You knew the stories behind all of his scars, shared in quiet conversations under the cloak of the night.

His scars were a reminder of his perseverance. And they made him that much more beautiful to you.

Meanwhile, his own hands eagerly explored your body, firmly grasping and squeezing in all the right places to make you jolt and shudder against him, as he explored the contours of your figure he already knew so well.

Saeyoung gently broke the kiss and looked back at you, his eyes now fully glazed over as you two panted, regaining your breathing from the heated exchange that just took place between you two. You shivered as you saw his lips, now plump and reddened as a result of your own actions, his cheeks dusted with a pretty shade of cherry-red that made his freckles even more prominent, the shade of his blush almost matching that fiery hair of his you loved so much.

He looked good enough to eat like that.

"You always know how to take my breath away, starshine..."

Saeyoung leaned up and gave you a gentle peck on the cheek that made your heart flutter in your chest. Then, he moved his hands lower to take hold of your ass again, but this time, with clear intention rather than a mere tease. He began to lift you up effortlessly, to which you only gave him a questioning look, but went along with it nonetheless, wrapping your arms around his neck and hooking you legs over his hips to help him out. He grinned at that, giving you another quick, appreciative kiss. This time, on the tip of your nose.

He carefully guided you off his lap and instead positioned you onto the coffee table next to the cake, settling you down with your back against the armrest of the couch and your lower body now resting comfortably on the edge of the table.

Your breath caught audibly as you observed his every movement with reverence. Your eyes were half-lidded, just as captivated by him and perfectly oblivious to everything and anything else in the room at this moment. You couldn't control it even if you wanted to; he was incredibly attractive, almost painfully so. Since that first silly selfie he sent to you in the chatroom all those years ago, you had always believed that to be the unrebukable truth. And even after everything you have experienced together over the past few years, he still managed to leave you utterly breathless.

His own expression was almost mesmerized and he smirked a bit to himself, taking in the captivating sight before him.

"Told you my favorite part of my birthday is already right here," he whispered softly while sinking down on his knees in front of you.

"Jesus, Saeyoung..." you exhaled shakily, your heart pounding all the way up in your temples, a mix of excitement and admiration gripping at your chest.

His hands rested on your thighs, his thumbs gently caressing the smooth skin there. Gradually, Saeyoung parted your legs, positioning himself between them, and lifting your legs to rest comfortably on his shoulders.

As he gazed up at you with amber eyes now darkened by desire, he formed a knowing smile that almost made you whimper from the sight of it alone.

Even though you tried your best, you wriggled impatiently on the coffee table while he touched you, kneeling before you in such a breathtaking manner. The mere sight of him in that position for you ignited a strong sense of lust within you, and it only intensified with every passing moment. However, you held off on the urge to rush him - as you usually do with him - even though you knew he wouldn't mind you being demanding with him. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Your knuckles turned white as you tightly grasped the edge of the coffee table, your breathing inevitably quickening in anticipation and making your heart beat ever faster, pounding against your ribcage and sending blood pumping to the growing knot of desire in the pit of your stomach.

"You look just like an angel like that, you know..." Saeyoung whispered, not at all helping with your growing state of lust-filled turmoil.

With that, he bent down to plant a series of kisses along the sensitive inner flesh of your calves, slowly moving up to your inner thighs, towards the aching spot between your legs where you needed him most. He firmly grasped at your thighs with his fingers, holding them open for him while he gently and sensually kissed up, nearing the edge of your silky shorts. The warmth and scent of you were driving him wild, intensifying his craving for more, to bury his face between your thighs and taste you on his tongue.

However, he, too, refrained for now. He made sure to spend enough time with you to savor you like you deserved, kissing you gently everywhere but where you really wanted him, until he breathed on the thin fabric covering your core.

"...Are you seriously about to eat me out on your birthday? Like I said, it should be me treating you, not the other way around," you murmured, your voice hoarse and breathy, a clear sign of your ever-increasing arousal.

"But you are treating me," Saeyoung said matter-of-factly, his breath touching your skin. "And this is the best treat you can give me, love bug, trust me."

He was driving you crazy, dear god.

You couldn't quite understand what had gotten into him today, but you definitely weren't complaining in the slightest. His every action caused your breath to catch in your throat and your chest to fill with nervous excitement for what would happen next. Seeing him in this state, kneeling between your legs, so eager and willing to taste you without you even having to ask...

Wow, you really hit the jackpot with him, huh? Though, it's not like you were unaware of that. But it was truly surprising to you that he was doing this for you on his own birthday. By all accounts, it should have been you pleasuring him, not the other way around. And yet, he was more than eager to focus on you instead. That damn lovable goofball.

Your breath was shaky, and your hand instinctively reached down to gently stroke his hair, wishing to show him some of your affection and gratitude, to which you felt him hum appreciatively against you, making your legs shake a bit.

Saeyoung moved closer, positioning his face directly between your legs now. He lowered his head and nuzzled his cheek against one of your thighs, taking a moment to just breathe in your scent and soak in your warmth. Then, slowly and deliberately, he turned his head and planted a firm kiss directly on your clothed core. He could feel the heat practically radiating from you by this point, and he made a soft sound of approval, closing his eyes for a moment to just enjoy the feel of you.

In a way, it was to remind himself that you were really here. Real. Even now, he would still find himself doubtful and paranoid of this fragile happiness you have built with him so generously. The mere fact that you have chosen to give your heart to him was a miracle he will cherish for the rest of his days on this Earth, of that, he was certain.

The least he could do was make you feel good like this. Show you his appreciation through his touch. Ravish you like you deserve.

Saeyoung leaned closer, pressing his face against you, sensing the dampness that could already be felt through the soft fabric of your thin shorts. He raised his head slightly to lock eyes with you, then trailed his nose along the curve of your hip, feeling the soft fabric of your shorts against his skin.

The eye contact was just too much.

"Can we please get these shorts off me?" you whined softly, uncertain how much longer you could handle being teased like this, even though you knew he wasn't doing it intentionally.

Yet.

Saeyoung chuckled at your request, his warm breath tickling your skin. He obviously noticed how your body trembled with every movement, and it only fueled his desire to playfully taunt you with all that he had. However, right now, he only wanted to taste you, to make you come undone for him, above all else.

"Roger that, my lovely 606," he whispered in a hushed and raspy voice. "Lift up for me, starshine."

You complied without any extra guidance needed, raising your hips from the table all while taking in the familiar combination of nervousness and eagerness buzzing in your chest.

Saeyoung took a moment to appreciate the sight before him, admiring you in your vulnerable state. Your body was now fully exposed to him, laid out, and ready for him to enjoy. He slowly moved his hands up your legs, observing how your muscles responded to his touch, twitching and tensing in anticipation. With care, he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your shorts and smoothly pulled them down along with your underwear, discarding the soft pieces of clothing along with your shirt in a messy pile on the floor. As soon as you were completely bare from the waist down, Saeyoung moved closer and placed his hands back on your hips. Without much delay, he once again buried his face between your thighs, no more barriers getting in the way of his desire.

You trembled a bit, attempting to avoid squeezing your legs together around his head. A soft whimper escaped your mouth as you felt him finally touch you where you needed him most, your heart pounding in your chest, your pulse reverberating in your temples. You reached down with one hand and gently stroked his hair again, not tugging at it quite yet. Though it will probably happen eventually as the night progresses. His hair would always end up a mess after this. A very lovely looking, fiery mess.

As Saeyoung exhaled, his breath was hot and heavy against your folds, feeling the warmth and wetness now pressed directly against his nose. He had no shame in expressing his enjoyment of it all. He couldn't contain himself and let out a soft, eager moan as he savored the first taste of you, his tongue quickly getting to work as he swiped it between your folds in a painfully slow motion, savoring the feel of you against him.

He observed how your muscles tightened as a result of his ministrations, the sounds of your soft gasps going straight to his groin as he fought back the urge to squirm on his spot. This was about you. He'll get his share later. He gently glided his hands down from your hips to your thighs, encouraging you to relax.

"Relax, buttercup," Saeyoung murmured against you, his warm breath touching your core and making you tremble. "Just let me treat you..."

He turned and placed a few more leisurely, heated kisses on the inside of your thighs before diving back in, his whole mouth now fully on you, leaving nothing to imagination. He savored your taste with a deep, primal moan as he finally got what he wanted. His gentle pressure on your legs kept them apart for him, his hands holding you firmly while you twitched uncontrollably, keeping you exposed to him.

His tongue gently teased at your entrance, gathering some more of your juices, then moved higher to circle around your clit, his lips sucking on it gently, his gaze now fully focused on your face.

As you threw your head back with a needy moan, you realized that this was going to be a long night.

Taking deep, unsteady breaths, you tried your best to soothe your pounding heart and the lingering tremors that were a stark reminder of your passionate lovemaking that took place only minutes prior. With you now resting on Saeyoung's chest, you both reclined on the couch, gradually regaining your composure.

You finally broke the comfortable silence by letting out a soft chuckle after a while.

"So... That's certainly one way to start off a birthday," you repeated your earlier words, your fingers drumming against his bicep lightly.

The sound of Saeyoung's breathless laughter quietly vibrated within his chest as you rested against him. He smiled at you, tracing delicate designs on your skin, his hands gently stroking your back.

"One of the best birthdays I've had, I'd say," he said with a slightly hoarse voice as a result of your previous activities together. Though, you loved how he sounded when he was like this. All breathless, a bit raspy, and gravely. Because of you.

He adjusted his position slightly, bringing you in closer to him, relishing in the messy sensation of your sweaty, naked body against his. He tucked his face into your hair, taking a moment to unwind and soak up the warm afterglow with you. This time, he was the one who broke the silence, his voice now being more gentle and contemplative than playful: "...Seriously, though, what did I do to deserve an angel like you, hm?"

You expressed your irritation by rolling your eyes and playfully bumping his bare chest with your fist.

"Hey, none of that. Especially on your birthday. Or I'll have to kiss you senseless to shut you up for good."

Saeyoung's eyes were quick to sparkle with lighthearted mischief as he grinned up at you: "...Is that supposed to be a threat, starshine? Because I'm afraid I won't mind that at all."

He reached out to gently hold your chin, tilting your head back a little, his lips hovering mere inches from your own.

"Maybe you'll give me a demonstration, my little alien? Shut me up, will you?" he whispered, his eyes filled with silent challenge for you. One that you took with not much thought.

"Gladly," you chuckled, leaning in and securing his lips in a soft, lingering kiss as the afterglow of your latest lovemaking washed over you in a pleasant, relaxing buzz in your achy muscles.

Your affection was immediately reciprocated, with Saeyoung emitting a soft moan and tightening his grip on your chin ever so slightly. Your lips touching his so gently and unhurriedly created a warm and contented sensation that has wrapped his heart in a soothing embrace he was unwilling to let go of. Gradually, he turned you both over, positioning your back against the couch, all without interrupting the kiss. His body now towered over yours.

Gradually, what started out as a simple press of your lips against his has escalated into a full-blown makeot session, with Saeyoung's tongue entering your mouth and savoring your taste all over again, never once getting tired of it. After all, he would often find himself getting insatiable when it came to you. He firmly grasped your waist with one of his hands, keeping you close to him.

His embrace made you tremble, as his passionate kisses caused your breath to get caught up in your throat all over again. However, you still retained enough awareness to pull back a bit, placing your hands on his chest, and gazing up at him with glazed over eyes and flushed cheeks. In this moment, Saeyoung appeared absolutely stunning. He was positioned above you, with the light from the ceiling creating a tinted shadow over his face, his skin glistening from the thin layer of sweat covering his body.

Now that's a sight for sore eyes.

"I can't get enough of you..." he murmured against your lips once he pulled away, his breaths shaky against your lips, his voice deep and husky once again. "Never could. Never will."

With genuine affection in your gaze, you gently stroked his cheek, letting out a soft, shaky giggle.

"I still want to be able to walk straight tomorrow for your birthday party, you know."

Saeyoung chuckled quietly at that, the sound resonating deep within his chest. Leaning closer, he was clearly enjoying the sensation of your touch on his cheek, even closing his eyes in contentment. At this point, he would likely be vibrating with his entire body, if only he could purr. A thought that made you laugh to yourself with amusement.

"Eh, can't promise anything, love bug," he whispered back with a slight playful smirk now playing on his lips.

His hand, which was previously resting idly on your waist, glided down to your inner thigh, applying gentle pressure and caressing the delicate skin there, but not doing anything more than that.

Nonetheless, you expressed your disapproval by lightheartedly rolling your eyes at him and adjusting your position slightly to raise yourself up onto your elbows.

"Come on, we do need some strength for tomorrow," you gave his cheek a gentle kiss. "Let's go start up a bath and go to bed for tonight. It's almost 2 am now, anyways."

Saeyoung gave out an overdramatic sigh, feigning disappointment. His eagerness for a second round was evident, maybe even a third, if you were willing to let him. Nonetheless, he did acknowledge that you both indeed needed some rest.

"You're right, you're right," he conceded. Before getting up from the couch, he gave you one last kiss on the lips. "I'll get the bath ready, you go get the towels, deal?"

"Deal."

He caught one last sight of you swiftly standing up after him and walking away to get the towels and spare clothes for you both. His eyes scanned over your body, appreciating your every movement and the way your skin glowed smoothly in the light of the apartment, noticing the small marks he had left on you. He sighed once more and then entered the bathroom to begin preparing for the bath.

Meanwhile, you retrieved some towels and pajamas for both of you to change into after the bath. Satisfied, you headed back to the bathroom with pep in your step, eagerly anticipating the simple pleasure of relaxing in the warm, soapy water, ending this already wonderful evening on a very positive note.

When you entered the room, Saeyoung quickly turned his head to look at you, flashing you a wide grin.

"You can set those on the counter!"

He pointed towards the towels while still adjusting the water in the bathtub to ensure the temperature was just perfect for you. After turning off the faucet, he stepped away from the bathtub and observed the gentle movement of the bubbly water against the sides.

Unable to resist, he stole another appreciative glance at you, his eyes fixating on your physique before finally speaking again: "...You're going to give me a heart attack one of these days looking like that, starshine."

With clear disbelief, you looked over at him and raised your brows incredulously.

"...I'm literally just standing here, love."

Your blunt response was clearly more than amusing to him, as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter: "Oh, I know. You just look angelic doing absolutely nothing, buttercup."

You entered the soothing bath with a slight snort and a shake of your head, exhaling a satisfied sigh as the fragrant water cleansed your sweaty body. The sweet scent of blackberry quickly surrounded you in a pleasant cloud of tranquility, and you even found yourself closing your eyes in pure bliss.

As you immersed yourself in the water, Saeyoung's eyes once again scanned over your body, observing your every move with warm affection in his gaze. Nonetheless, his attention was still directed towards the various marks he was the direct cause of: proof of his existence now scattered across your skin like a temporary tattoo. Small marks in the shape of his lips and fingers that were now turning a pretty shade of red thanks to the heat from the water. A familiar feeling of fulfillment rose within him at the sight, knowing that he had left his trace on you, that you were his in body and spirit, as much as he was completely yours in turn. He was even tempted to leave a few more, but he realized it was far too late in the night to bother you with that. You both needed to rest, and above all, he just wanted to hold you in his arms and feel your warmth.

"Hey, scooch forward a bit. I'm getting in," he said, tilting his head toward the water.

And that was exactly what you did, quickly adjusting your position in the bathtub and gazing up at him with a small smile of anticipation, waiting for him to join you at last.

Saeyoung stepped closer to the bathtub until he was right behind you, and then slowly lowered himself into it, taking a seat and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. He drew you in toward his chest, keeping you close and placing you snuggly between his legs.

"Mmm. Much better," he whispered to you softly, nesting his face into your neck and planting a few light kisses on your skin. "God, I love holding you like this, starshine."

As you leaned back against him, a gentle smile tugged at the corners of your lips, letting out a contented sigh. The delightful aroma of the soapy water and the affectionate touch of your husband had you in a truly happy mood. Taking a bath together was like shooting two birds with one stone: both cleansing yourself as well as finding solace in one another after engaging in some rather intense activities with him. You gently rested your hand on one of his arms, which encircled your waist beneath the water and kept it there, your thumb running over his skin in slow circles.

As he leaned back against the bathtub, Saeyoung felt the sensation of your warm skin against his chest, almost completely pressing against you. He slowly moved his hands down your sides, gently touching your skin while he buried his face in your hair.

"Happy birthday, Saeyoung," you said in a hushed voice.

His warm breath touching your ear, Saeyoung released a gentle laugh.

"You already gave me the best gift I could ask for," he replied, the tone of his voice deep and playful. He delicately held the lower part of your jaw and tilted your head upwards before planting a series of slow, leisurely kisses on your neck after shifting one of his hands from your side. "...You."

[astranauticus]

link click yingdu ep 1 is truly the gift that keeps on giving the more you think about it the more layers you unlock. at first i thought the 'video call with phone in shirt pocket' trick is a pretty effective way of replicating their dives with like.. normal human technology without their powers and then i realised that's probably because lu guang specifically thought 'this is a situation that would call for a dive except cheng xiaoshi doesn't know about the whole time travel powers thing yet, what would be a good and reasonable approximation of that that i can spring on him rn'. also, we know this is not the first time he's experiencing this day because he was checking the clock before he proposed the whole video call phone camera thing, implying that he had the 'script' for this day just like he did with the anime convention, but even then he could only warn cheng xiaoshi about the guy behind him with the bat right before he was about to get hit - probably because cheng xiaoshi kept 'doing unnecessary actions' and messing up the timeline/lu guang's 'script' and forcing him to improvise. once again, lu guang's trying to protect cheng xiaoshi while also hiding information from him and cheng xiaoshi's failing to follow lu guang's instructions and putting himself in danger because of his own kindness and impulsivity - their entire dynamic moving forwards, captured in their first (arguably more like.. the 0th) 'job' together.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Screaming from the crypt (or how the past haunts the present on Midnights)

I know it's been discussed so much since Midnights came out but just.

I love how there is such a clear narrative throughout the album (and perhaps especially on the 3am/Vault tracks). About questioning and regret and choices and coming to terms with all of it. It is one long story about how we're all a mosaic of the choices we make, each one taking something from us and leaving something else in its place.

(And now a disclaimer: I'm looking at this mostly through a narrator/subject lens, and trying not to dive too deeply into real-life events or speculation except for in a general sense. For this purpose I like to look at the body of work as art, like literature, because I find it makes it easier to see the common threads in the different songs and cohesion in the narrative.)

In looking at the 3am+ tracks in particular, it's fascinating how some turns of phrases or themes repeat themselves in different songs, in different contexts. (I'm only focusing on the non-standard tracks because there are too many songs and I'd be here all day but I bet I could do a part two lol.) I know many people have pointed out the parallels throughout her discography already and I’m not saying anything groundbreaking by writing this, but I love how these parallels run through in the same album, because it makes it seem like it's one long story, or at least, one long rumination on many different stories that are coalescing into a single narrative.

Battle (let’s go)

For instance, the one that jumped out at me when I started writing this post the other week was, "Tore your banners down, took the battle underground," in The Great War and "If clarity's in death, then why won't this die? Years of tearing down our banners, you and I," in Would've, Could've Should've. It's a story about staying stuck in the same cycle of reliving trauma and coping mechanisms and bad habits over and over again and fantasizing about how taking the “antagonist” out and gaining the upper hand for good would bring closure (WCS), but the truth is that nothing ever will. All that cycle does, though, is repeat itself in other situations, and in this case pushes someone away the narrator cares for (TGW). The difference is that the imagined battle in WCS is a two-way street in her mind (that is ultimately unwinnable because it was never a fair fight), but in TGW it's one-sided -- she's the one fighting dirty, taking shots, the way she'd been doing in her imagination (or nightmares) all these years. But the person in front of her isn't fighting back the way the person in her mind in WCS would, because their intentions are honourable instead of exploitative.

And that's paralleled in another pair of lyrics from the two songs, "And maybe it's the past talking, screaming from the crypt, telling me to punish you for things you never did," (in TGW) and "The tomb won't close, I fight with you in my sleep," (in WCS). In both cases, the funeral imagery makes it seem like this past event should be dead and buried in WCS, but it keeps rising from the dead, haunting her no matter what she does and in TGW, another (or perhaps the same?) tomb that won't close keeps unleashing new ways to hurt her and in turn the new person in her life. In other words, the trauma from the past continues to bleed into the present.

(Again from a literary point of view, I'm not saying the events of the two songs are linked IRL, but they're fascinating textual parallels on the album as a string of chapters, which is why Dear Reader is so compelling, but that's a whole other essay.)

To keep the battle motif going, there’s yet another parallel, this time between TGW’s "[You were a] soldier down on that icy ground, looked up at me with honor and truth," and You’re Losing Me’s "All I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier, fighting in only your army.” In the former, the subject is laying down his armour in the war she’s projecting onto him, waving the white flag, and she realizes that she’s about to destroy something if she doesn’t put her sword down too. By the time we get to YLM, the roles are almost reversed; at the very least they’re supposed to be on the same team, but in this case she’s doing all the heavy lifting, fighting for their relationship in contrast to his apathy killing it. It’s also pretty interesting (if not outright intentional) that one of the 3am+ editions of the albums starts with The Great War, where they find themselves in conflict (even if it’s in her head) that ends in a truce, and ends with You’re Losing Me signalling the end of the relationship, evidence that the resolution in the first song wasn’t an ending but merely a ceasefire before the last battle.

Putting the rest under a cut because this is waaaaay too long now ⤵️

(There’s also another metaphor there in The Great War with its battle imagery: World War I, aka The Great War, was supposed to be the war to end all wars, because loss on its scale was never seen before and when it ended, most thought never again would the world embroil itself in such battle, the horrors and implications were so devastating. Two decades later, the world found itself in WWII, with an even larger scope and more horrific consequences, the intervening time between the two a period of festering conflicts and resentment leading to some of the worst acts the world would see. Bringing real life into it for a second, there’s something a little poetic, though sad, about The Great War the song being about a fight that could have ended the relationship that they ultimately resolved and was meant to be evidence of the strength of their love, but so too did it end up being a period of détente, the greater battle coming for them years later. But that is not the point of this post.)

If one thing had been different

Another major theme in these editions is pondering the "what ifs?" of life, but I think it takes on even more significance in the broader context of the album in the lyrics of "I'm never gonna meet what could've been, would've been, should've been you," in Bigger than the Whole Sky and the repetition of would've/could've in Would've, Could've, Should've (I would've looked away at the first glance, I would've stayed on my knees, I would've gone along with the righteous, I could've gone on as I was, would've could've should've if I'd only played it safe, etc.) In both songs, the narrator is mourning an alternate course their life could have taken* and questioning what they could have done differently, in the aftermath of trauma and loss, and the regret that comes with that loss, and with the loss of agency in the situation because ultimately it was never in their hands. In an album full of questions, wondering about the path not taken, or the forks in the road that have led to a different version of your life, it's digging deeper into the contrast of choice vs. fate, action vs. reaction, dwelling on the past vs. moving on. When you're supposed to let go of the past, what do you do when it is holding your future hostage?

(*I know there are different interpretations/speculation about BTTWS which I am not getting into on main. I'm just saying that whatever the song is about, it's grieving something that never came to be. The literal origin of the song is less important to the album than the sense of loss it portrays. Whatever the inspiration is, it's crafted to tell part of the story of Midnights of ruminating over how, to borrow from her previous work, if one thing had been different, would everything be different?)

(Also I was today years old when I realized that the words are inverted in the two songs. Apparently I've been hearing BTTWS wrong this whole time.)

There's also an interesting tangent in the role of faith in both songs: in WCS, the events of the story cause her to lose her faith (e.g. "All I used to do was pray," "you're a crisis of my faith,") and question all the things she felt had been unquestionable until that point in her life (e.g. "I could have gone along with the righteous"), whereas in BTTWS, she questions whether that very lack of faith is to blame for the loss in that song ("did some force take you because I didn't pray? [...] It's not meant to be, so I'll say words I don't believe"). It's like pinpointing the moment her life changed and upended her beliefs (WCS), but as a result then leaving her unmoored in times of crisis because ultimately there's no explanation or comfort to be taken from what she used to hold true before that (BTTWS). The words she once relied upon to guide her have long since lost their meaning, but in times of trouble it leaves her wondering if that faith she once held then lost could have prevented this pain.

(Shoutout to WCS for being Catholic guilt personified lol.)

To keep on with the vaguely faith-y notions, an obvious parallel is the line in Would’ve Could’ve Should’ve about, “I damn sure never would've danced with the devil at nineteen,” and, "When you aim at the devil, make sure you don't miss," in Dear Reader. All of WCS is about her fighting with an antagonist who haunts her, with whom she wholly regrets ever becoming involved. DR could be seen as a reflection on that fall from grace, warning the audience that if you choose to go after the person (or thing) haunting you, make sure you do so clearheaded enough to be decisive. Again, these “devils” may not be related in real life: the IRL devil in DR could be speaking about her naysayers, or Kim*ye, or Scott & Scooter B, etc., meaning not to cross your enemies until you know you can win. But taking real life out of it and looking at it textually, I am intrigued by the link between WCS and DR, so that’s what I’m going with here. And perhaps that’s even the point in a wider sense; there will be multiple “devils” in your life, or threats to your well-being. If you’re going to commit to taking them down — whether it’s an actual person, or the demons inside you that refuse to let you go — make sure you have the right ammo so that they can no longer hurt you. (Of course, one lesson from these experiences is that sometimes you can’t win, and you have to live with the fallout.)

(Sidebar: I know that “dancing with the devil” is a turn of phrase that means being led into temptation and engaging in risky behaviour, as opposed to describing the actual person. Given the religious metaphors in the song, that could very well be/is the intention, particularly when it’s preceded by, “I would have stayed on my knees” as in she would have continued to follow her faith — in whatever sense that means — had she never met this person, which could also be a more eloquent way of saying she would have continued to be live her life in a way that was righteous (even naive) and seen the world in black and white. Either way, it’s a force she wholly rejects. Like I said, multiple devils, same fight.)

Regret comes up too: in WCS, she says, "I regret you all the time," obviously directed at the person who manipulated her and led to her perceived downfall, citing him as the one impulse she wished she'd never followed, because it won't leave her no matter how hard she’s tried. In High Infidelity, she tells the person to, "put on your records and regret me," and on the surface, it’s like she’s turning the tables, painting herself as the one now causing the regret in someone else, the one inflicting the pain this time. Yet the verse preceding it and the lines following it in the chorus depict a partner who is also emotionally manipulative and vindictive like in WCS (“you said I was freeloading, I didn’t know you were keeping count,” “put on your headphones and burn my city,”). It’s not so much that she’s intentionally harming the person (the way the person in WCS does to her), but rather that the venom in the subject’s feelings towards her seeps through; she’s imagining the way he’s going to feel about her when she leaves, hating her just for by being who she is. (There could be another tangent about how in both songs she’s there to be a “token” in a game for both of the men, who play her for their own purposes.) The regret is dripping with disdain. It’s as though she’s picturing how the person is going to hate her for doing what she’s thinking of doing the way she hates the person who first hurt her.

Sadness, unsurprisingly, shows up in a few lyrics. In BTTWS, “Everything I touch becomes sick with sadness,” sets the scene of a person so overcome with grief that it permeates everything around them; they cannot see their way out of it and feel like the fog will never lift. In Hits Different, it’s, “My sadness is contagious,” the result of a breakup where the person’s grief again touches everything and everyone around them, pushing them further in their despair and loneliness. The reason behind the grief in either case may vary, but regardless of the source, the feeling is overpowering and isolating. They may be different chapters in the story, but the devastation is hauntingly familiar. (As is a recurring theme in Midnights as a whole: there are situations and feelings that present themselves at different points in her journey and colour in the lines in different ways along the road. Like revisiting an old vice and realizing the hit isn’t quite the same as it was in the past.)

Death by a thousand cuts

She also writes about wounds on this album, which isn't surprising I suppose given that the whole conceit is that these are things that have kept her up at night over the years. WCS is perhaps the driving narrative on this never ending hurt when she sings, “The wound won't close, I keep on waiting for a sign, I regret you all the time,” suggesting that no matter what she does, the pain of this experience has permeated everything she’s done afterwards. (Not unlike the overwhelming grief in BTTWS, for instance.) Elsewhere, in High Infidelity she sings, "Lock broken, slur spoken, wound open, game token," and in Hits Different, "Make it make some sense why the wound is still bleeding.” Again I'm not suggesting they're about the same events; the line in HI is about a situation where a partner crosses a boundary, hits below the belt, picks at an insecurity (or creates a new one) and treats the relationship like it's transactional, opening the floodgates in turn. In HD, the wound seems to be more self-inflicted, where she's pushed the person away. (Over a situation real or imagined she feels she needs distance from.) But again, something has picked at her like a raw nerve, and just like in the past, she's hurting, even in a different time and place and person. Almost like the wounds of the past break open over and over again to create new scars. If one were to extrapolate further, it wouldn’t be the biggest leap to wonder if the wound open in WCS, then torn apart in HI makes the one in HD hurt even more.

(I once wrote a post about how I think as time goes on, WCS is going to turn into one of those songs that will be found to drive so much of her work, because it’s just… kind of the unsaid thesis statement of so much of her songwriting.)

Another repeated theme is that of the empty home and loneliness. In High Infidelity, she sings, "At the house lonely, good money I'd pay if you just know me, seemed like the right thing at the time," painting a picture of someone who may have everything they'd want to the outside world, but in reality feels metaphorically trapped in their home (or at least alone amidst abundance), a symbol of a relationship gone sour and a failure to build connection. She just wants someone to understand her, want her for her, but as she's written earlier in the song, she's just a pawn in the game, a trophy from the hunt. Home, in this case, is lonely, isolated, an emblem of her fears. In Dear Reader, she continues this thread, then singing, "You wouldn't take my word for it if you knew who was talking, if you knew where I was walking, to a house not a home, all alone 'cause nobody's there, where I pace in my pen and my friends found friends who care, no one sees you lose when you're playing solitaire." It's the same idea, admitting to listeners that the gilded cage she lived in kept her distanced from her loved ones and real connection, keeping her struggles close to the vest but feeling desperately lonely amidst her crowning success. She's pushed people away and it may have felt like the right thing at the time, but in the end maybe felt like she was trapped. And when you push people away, eventually they take you at your word and stop pushing back; you’re a victim of your own success at isolating yourself. What starts out of self-preservation then further perpetuates the underlying problems.

(There's another interesting link about "home" also feeling unsafe with HI's "Your picket fence is sharp as knives," which further leads into the theme of marriage/domesticity feeling dangerous, which is a whole other thing I won't get into here because it's another discussion and may derail this already gargantuan word salad.)

In a slightly similar vein, we have the metaphor of bad weather for a rocky road or unstable relationship, in High Infidelity again with, "Storm coming, good husband, bad omen, dragged my feet right down the aisle" and You’re Losing Me’s "every morning I glared at you with storms in my eyes.” They aren’t speaking of the same situation or even same kind of breakdown, but it is pretty interesting how the idea of clouds/storms/floods/etc. play such a role in Taylor’s music to signal depression, apprehension, fear, uncertainty, etc. In HI, I think the “storm” coming is the looming threat of commitment to a partner who makes the narrator uneasy (if not fearful). In this case, the idea of making a life with this person is not one that incites joy or comfort, but instead makes the narrator feel that dark times are ahead if she continues down this path. Perhaps in some way, the “storms” in YLM have made good on the threat in HI in a different way; it’s a different home, a different relationship, but the clouds have settled in regardless, and some of her fears have come to fruition in ways she did not expect. The person she once trusted no longer sees her or her struggles (or worse, doesn’t care), and the resentment and pain build with each passing day.

Coming back to heartbreak, one of the obvious "full circle" moments is the beginning of a relationship in Paris, where she says that, "I'm so in love that I might stop breathing," clearly enthralled in a new love that allows her to shut the world out and grow in private, capturing the all-encompassing nature of the relationship. This infatuation has consumed her in the most wonderful way (in contrast to the sorrow of some of the previous songs), and it feels like a life-altering (or even life-sustaining?) force that is so strong she may forget what it’s like to breathe. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) By the end of the album, though, in You're Losing Me, that heart-stopping love has become a threat: "my heart won't start anymore for you." In the former, her racing heart is full of excitement, but by the latter, her heart has given out completely under the weight of the pain she bears. (YLM is full of death/illness imagery which I already wrote about awhile ago so I won't hear, but needless to say that song deserves its own essay for so many reasons.) She's gone from the unbridled joy of the beginnings of a relationship to the unrelenting sorrow of its end, two sides of the same coin.

Love as death appears elsewhere in the music too, for instance, in High Infidelity’s, “You know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love, the slowest way is never loving them enough" and You’re Losing Me’s “How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying? […] My face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick.” Though not completely analogous situations, they both tell the tale of one partner’s apathy (or at least denial) destroying the other. In the former, the partner’s actions (or inaction) are more insidious, if not sinister; in the latter, the lack of momentum (or admission of a problem) is passive. In both cases, the end result is the narrator’s demise; it’s a drawn out affair that chips away at her morale and her health and her sense of self. (Breaking my own rule about bringing in alleged actual events into the discussion, but the idea that the relationship in High Infidelity, which was obviously fraught with unease and even fear, ended in a similarly excruciatingly slow and hurtful death by a thousand cuts as the relationship in You’re Losing Me almost did at that time must have been so painful. It almost feels like YLM is wondering why what used to be a source of light in her life was mirroring a situation that caused her such pain in the past.)

From the same little breaks in your soul

I said early on that part of what is so compelling about Midnights is that it feels like an album about ruminating — on choices, on events, on people — and the two final “bonus” tracks of the album depict that as well. In Hits Different, she sings that, “they say if it’s right, you know,” an ode to the confusion of a breakup and struggling with the aftermath of calling it quits. It’s a line that has always intrigued me, because the typical use of the phrase is in the sense of, “you’ll know when you meet the one,” but here it seems to have a double meaning, a reassurance perhaps from the friends (who later on tell her that "love is a lie") that she’ll know if she’s made the right decision in calling it off, but could also be her wondering if the relationship is right, she’ll know, and want to reconcile. In the final bonus track, You’re Losing Me, she sings, “now I just sit in the dark and wonder if it’s time,” this time leaving no doubt about the dilemma she faces, though it’s no less fraught. She’s wondering, perhaps for the last time, if now is finally the moment to end the relationship for good. They say that if it’s right she’ll know, and now she’s wondering if that feeling inside her (that once told her her partner was the one, which is why it hit differently), is telling her that it’s time to go for good. Wait Alexa play “It’s Time To Go.” These are not only the things that keep her up at night, but the things that play over in her mind like a film reel in her waking hours.

Midnights as a whole is a deeply personal album, as is most of Taylor's work, but the 3am+ edition tracks seem to dig even deeper to a lot of the issues raised on the standard album. Almost like the standard tracks are the things she wonders about on sleepless nights, but the bonus tracks are the things that haunt her in the aftermath. The regret, anger, sadness, grief, relief, even joy— they’re the price she pays for the memories she keeps reliving. Midnights might be the most cohesive narrative of all her albums, and really does feel like we’re watching someone work through her journal over time, stopping short of outright naming those giant fears and intrusive thoughts (except for when she does) but making them plain as day when you connect the songs together, and perhaps never more clearly than in the expanded album. It’s incredible how the songs stand on their own to relay a specific moment in time, but that they are also self-referential to each other (whether thematically or overtly) to weave a larger web over the entire work. We’re so lucky as fans to have these stories and to keep peeling back these layers as time passes. (And my literature-analysis-loving ass loves her even more for it.)

This is obviously by no means an exhaustive list, and I know there are more parallels and probably even stronger links (particularly when you add the standard version into the mix), but these were the ones that particularly struck me and I’m just glad I’ve had a chance to sit with this and think it through. ❤️