#as in now every song I listen to is about them

[natalchartnurtures]

PAC: Channeled Messages From The Person On Your Mind *Singles Edition*

Let's feed our delusions. (jk)

Pile 1: "You make me feel so good, like I'm on cloud nine. You make everything so, sooo worth it. I feel like a winner with you around... and the thing is.. you have no clue lol. I wanna win you over and show you off. You've no idea how you make me feel... you being your hot-ass self sitting there, looking so cute. I keep so much of my feelings to myself, but all I wanna do is overcome this impossible (and seemingly invisible) barrier between us! Ahhhhhh, it drives me nuts on some days, ugh!

You feel like a blessing to me. I didn't know somebody like you could exist?! Ahhhhh. I've been alone all my life, but you make me wanna not be alone anymore... it's not something I expected to feel, I have to be honest lol.

I'm not ready to come toward you right now, though. Trust me, I KNOW I must do something, but my anxiety holds me back... my limiting beliefs hold me, and I have no clue how to overcome them. I wish I could figure it out so I could BE WITH YOU ALREADY!

I'm being patient, though... with myself and with the situation between us. I keep my cards close, so you probably wouldn't even know any of this... sheesh, I don't wanna look like a fool in front of you. I'm scared you'd think less of me—it would KILL me if you did—so I keep you at arm's length.

Your presence TRIGGERS some very intense feelings inside me. I feel so exposed and vulnerable with you around, so overwhelmed, and it's not easy, you know? My heart's been broken before, and I'm afraid of getting it broken again. That's definitely a part of the fear you make me feel. I've had to be on the defense with people, especially from my past... relationships have not been easy, and so I guess I gotta work on that.

Go listen to Taylor Swift's 'Lover' anytime you miss me... that's a song I dedicate to you, sweetie, until I see you next time."

If you'd like to know more about your person's thoughts for you, you can book a reading with me! You can find the details here :]

Pile 2: "GIRL, I have been going THROUGH IT, sheesh... I've been holding on for dear life 'cause lately, it feels like everything is out to get me, uk? One thing goes straight to hell after another, and I've just been so caught up with everything. You know what's been keeping me going, though? You. I've been dreaming about you most nights... I think about you when I can, to help me get through what I need to get through. The thought of you gives me strength, girlie. Every time you cross my mind, I get so weak in the knees! I look forward to every time I get to see you... (even if we live in the same house lmao!)

I feel you all around me all the time—it's lovely. I love how you make me feel... you take away my troubles, even if just for a sec. For that, I am immensely grateful!

You're not in my life right now, though... but I'm PRAYING and WISHING and HOPING that I might have a shot with you. The hope of a possibility of being with you is what makes the hard days sooo much easier. I seriously want a solid relationship with you more than anything else! (If we aren't in one already 👀)

Right now, I'm getting my shit together, and I hope you'll be waiting for me on the other side, just like in my dreams. You give me hope in a hopeless world again. You're such a light to me... you don't even know it.

I'm always watching you, though... even when you don't know—ESPECIALLY when you don't notice! Haha, it's my favorite thing in the world. I think you've got the prettiest voice in the world. Gosh, I just wanna be with you, but BOY, I've got my hands tied up right now. I'm letting go and letting God decide when it's time for us to come together. You make me wanna have faith in something greater than us.

But I assure you, I'm coming for ya once I'm done figuring everything in my life. Oh, and I love you. ✨"

If you'd like to know more about your person's thoughts for you, you can book a reading with me! You can find the details here :]

Pile 3: "You make me so horny. I can't even sit right when I'm around you. WHY DO YOU HAVE THIS EFFECT ON ME?! (Not that I'm complaining tbh, I love it haha). But seriously, how can someone be so goddamn hot?! How?! Jeez, I LOVE your body! I get so many 18+ thoughts—it's insane. I apologize for being so direct, but it's just what you do to me, sorry not sorry :p

You make me wanna run toward you EVERY TIME I see you! All I wanna do is be all up on you, loving you, kissing you, and hugging you. Man, it's hard to be around you and not be close to you, especially when there's other people around. I LOVE TALKING TO YOU, and I don't ever wanna stop talking to you, ugh.

You make my heart explode! I've never had feelings this deep for anybody in my life (I WISH I was kidding, jeez). You make me wanna act mature and romantic n stuff... 🙃 (Usually, I'm not like this, btw).

I wanna be where you're at, vibrationally speaking, but I've got some things I gotta take care of. I've got some old cycles I've been on—my old bs. I'm working hard on it and releasing it as we speak, and this is helping me come toward you. Might take me a while, though, ngl 👀🙄. But I'll be there before you know it, princess!

I WANT our relationship to begin between the two of us SO BAD, but I can't see how that's gonna happen yet. It feels like it's not the right time yet? Idk... it's really frustrating, though. I'm trying not to do anything stupid to sabotage our new beginning, though. I'm just going with the flow of things and listening to my intuition about our situation. Don't worry!

I see you as my forever, my one and only. I can't explain it, but I just know. You're the one for me, and honestly, it's breaking my heart that I can't actively pursue you right now since it's supposed to be 'divinely guided' 🙄 Like, Universe, could you please hurry up and get me to MY baby, ugh.

You're so beautiful, you're my goddess, my other half. I can't wait to get to you and spoil you and have a PROPER relationship with you. I hate that we can't come together and confess to each other yet... it's maddening. I know we're destined to be, but the way things are going on the surface right now, it might seem as if we're not meant to be... hell, we might not even be talking to each other or you may not even know I exist right now! But as soon as the divine gives me the green light, I'll be coming running toward you to claim you all for myself." ✨

If you'd like to know more about your person's thoughts for you, you can book a reading with me! You can find the details here :]

[cowboylikeyouu]

yes omg finally people who understand!! i always see people on tiktok talking about fake scenarios but they all insert themselves and i just.. don't. never have, never will. i've been doing this constantly since i was like 7, and for the past 5 years it's been mostly winterhawk scenarios, but it all started out so batshit crazy i just have to write it down here, i apologize in advance lmao

it all started with filly unicorns?? i collected all of them and had a bunch of CDs and i was always imagining stories about them. ashia was my absolute favorite, she was the first one i ever had, and she always featured as the main character in every scenario.

then i got to the 4th harry potter book and was SO obsessed with it that i was like "i need ashia to go to hogwarts & be a part of the tournament!!" so that's exactly what i did. i made her attend hogwarts multiple times in my mind, she was a part of the marauders, of the golden trio, once she became a teacher afterwards, once she was minister of magic, that girl has done it all.

then i read gregor the overlander by suzanne collins and was obsessed with it for quite some time, so obviously ashia got herself a nice bat to fly on, and bc i kinda got attached to my own personal harry potter univserse, it just all kept existing in that same universe lol.

then came the hunger games obsession, so ofc i threw ashia into the arena, alongside some harry potter & gregor characters, and i all slaughtered them in my head at the ripe age of 11 bc HEY, it all in my head i can just rewind and they're all alive again yay!!!

mind you, ashia is still a purple unicorn lmao and it's impossible to explain the logistics behind all of this. she obviously took the role of katniss when i threw her into hunger games & used a bow & everything, and i have no fucking clue how that worked with her being a unicorn and all. but hey. MAGIC!!!!

most of the characters were in a band together as well at some point and went on tour and everything, bc being a hogwarts student, hogwarts teacher, minister of magic, hunger games victor & mentor and a commander in a weird underground war with gigantic animals obviously wasn't enough for our favorite purple unicorn ashia!! the band stuff was a crucial step tho that's still very present in my fake scenarios today lol bc i never had the ability to listen to music normally, i always had to imagine someone either performing it live or in a music video. so every. single. song. i listened to back then went straight into my daydreaming databank where i tried to find a way to somehow relate it to one of the characters so that i could imagine that they were the one who wrote & performed it.

at some point between this era and the next i decided that ashia being a unicorn was too ridiculous for me now, so i spent an entire day customizing her human design in my mind until i was satisfied with it.

THEN came the skulduggery pleasant obsession (especially the dead men obsession) and it was such a major obsession that i deleted the entirety of the harry potter x hunger games x gregor universe from my head, got rid off all the characters except for a ashia, and made her a part of the dead men (pretty much the avengers of the SP universe) & made dexter vex (one of the dead men) fall in love with her (i was SO obsessed with that man back then). i was always imagining them on missions & in wars, and ashia or dexter always got horribly injured, bc man i was always starving for the hurt/comfort.

i kinda missed the whole band-thing tho bc again, it was the only way i could actually enjoy listening to music, and bc i hadn't really understood the concept of multiple universes back then, i always felt like i had to squeeze everything i wanted for those characters into one universe, so i made the dead men split up, and ashia & dex became a super successful music duo, and then i always jumped back & forth in time depending on if i wanted dead men content or music content.

it went on like this for quite some time, until i finally discovered winterhawk in 2019.

it took me exactly one avengers tower fanfiction to be like "okay bye dead men" and start daydreaming about the avengers instead. ashia was still my baby tho, and dexter was her baby, so i took them both to the mcu with me. at first, i was still mostly daydreaming about those two becoming a part of the avengers & stuff, until i was SO obsessed with clint & bucky that my entire attention focused on them, and that hasn't changed one single bit since then.

the same music problem occurred, so naturally, the avengers became a band as well as superheroes. at the same time. makes total sense. that was also the time where i was old enough to really be on tiktok & shit, and i wanted social media to be a part of my daydreaming as well, so i made all the avengers couples adopt some teenagers who then had tiktok accounts. in retrospect, that was the cringes era by far, but i was 13/14 alright, cut me some slack.

anyways, that was also the time where i REALLY started discovering ao3 and reading 250k words a day, and at some point between a high school & a coffee shop AU i FINALLY realized i could just... create multiple universes in my head.

and since then i've been throwing bucky & clint in a different universe every week, watching a whole fanfic series about it in my head, and then going to a new universe or revisiting an old one (ashia & dex still feature regularly, my mind just can't get rid of them)

my favs include but aren't limited to: at least 7 different actor AUs, 5 musician AUs, 3 AUs where bucky is an actor & clint a singer/songwriter, 1 avengers band AU, 6 different college AUs, 3 different high school AUs, 2 doctor AUs, multiple teacher AUs including some teacher x single!dad stuff, a hogwarts AU, a hunger games AU, a skulduggery pleasant AU (notice how we're going back to my roots?), a model AU, and multiple productions of various relativ tv shows with the avengers as the contestants.

i definitely enjoy the singer/songwriter AUs the most bc i can & will find a way to relate every single song to them in that AU, even if it takes an entirely new universe where they're in completely different situations. i have so many playlists that are basically just fictional albums for different AUs, it's my fav past time activity.

whoah okay that was a long one, but yeah that's where i'm at rn. i'm always imagining those stories while falling asleep, but i do it at almost all other times as well. long car/bus/train rides? i'm daydreaming. taking a walk? i'm daydreaming. boring lecture? i'm daydreaming. zoning out of a conversation to recharge? i'm daydreaming. watching a movie/show? 70% chance i'm daydreaming while watching it so i'm basically watching two things at the same time. it gets annoying sometimes when i gotta be productive but the story in my head just hits too hard to stop thinking about it, but most of the time it's a goddamn blessing bc i can literally never be bored. there's always something to watch in my mind 🤷🏼‍♀️

anyways, sorry op for yapping in ur reblogs😭

i can assure you, you're not the only one who's doing this to a concerning degree <3

Anyone else's only way of falling asleep is to make up fake scenarios of fictional characters in your head?

Like, I don't even insert myself, I'm just writing movies and shows in my head at this point.

Tonight's episode, Wade and Logan, tomorrow's? Who the fuck knows!

(Seriously. I just write fanfiction of Wade and logan in my head to fall asleep. It's concerning, I know.)

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XLVI)

Chapter 46 : ‘Both of us, of the love which makes us one.’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! A little academic update for our lovely couple…

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so no minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3479

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

I loved you first: but afterwards your love Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? my love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me And loved me for what might or might not be – Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’ With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done, For one is both and both are one in love: Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’ Both have the strength and both the length thereof, Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

Christina Rossetti

The whatsapp group of the third-year students was busier than ever.

Texts after texts after texts were filling up the app, the screen constantly updated, a message chasing another.

The reason was simple. Professor Hozier-Byrne and Professor Y/L/N had been spotted chatting in a corridor… and they were standing very close to each other…

Were they touching?!?!

Nah… but they were leaning towards each other, it was adorable.

And Prof H-B was blushing. BLUSHING! And they were laughing like… I had never seen any of them so happy.

They’re definitely together. THE LOOK IN THEIR EYES LADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A string of heart-eyes emojis followed.

I’m betting on them.

So… does that mean that our two fav literature professors are also IN LOVE?! My heart!!

Oh

My

God…

Do you think Pr. H-B’s poetry is about… HER?!

OMG!!!

A string of messages taking God as a witness of the student’s amazement followed.

We need to find out. We need to be certain!

And that was how Operation Love Birds began…

“Do you have any questions about this poem?” Andrew asked his students, readjusting his glasses, closing his copy of District and Circle.

Silence, but his students were clearly listening carefully to him, as several of them shook their heads.

“Alright, then… I reckon that’s all for today. Don’t forget that you have an essay to prepare for next week! Enjoy your weekend!”

He was already packing his things, thinking about you and the coffee break you had promised after this class. He knew you were wearing this shirt he loved on you, that green one that made his heart stumble and lose all kind of rhythm. He had seen you leaving your shared home wearing it, but you had a class early in the morning, while he could take his time. He remembered the way it revealed just enough of your cleavage to drive him nuts, though…

He was almost startled by the four students standing in front of him. Marie, Sheily, Saoirse and Sean. He knew them quite well by now, and so did you. They had steadily attended his and your classes every semester since their first year.

He quickly recovered and offered them a kind and expectant smile.

“We wanted to ask you about the essay for next week. We haven’t found many sources about the poem we’re studying, and we’re not quite sure about our interpretation… could you tell us if we’re going in the wrong direction?”

His smile only grew a little wider, and he wondered why one of the girls was repeatedly blinking when he pushed his hair behind his ear.

“Yes, of course. I know that some authors we’re working on in this class, being contemporary to us, don’t have that many academic resources about their work. I’ll give you a push, if you need.”

He tapped on the screen of his phone to check the time.

“I have to run now, but come by tomorrow afternoon to my office if you’d like. We’ll take a look at what you’ve been doing, and I’ll give you directions to finish your essay.”

“Thank you! Have a nice day, professor!”

“Thanks, have a good one too.”

Andrew let out a relieved exhale as the students left, and hurried to pack once more. His phone vibrated with your name colouring his screen.

Got your coffee, waiting in our office.

Hurry up. I want a kiiiiiiissssss!

Love you! xx

Andrew grinned without even noticing, throwing his pencil case in his bag and running to the door. The few students who were still in the room looked at him with raised eyebrows, and exchanged questioning glances at the sight of his sudden hurry. He who was always so calm, so composed, almost shy…

Andrew ignored them, though. He didn’t even notice that they were there at all. Instead, he rushed through the corridors of the old university, until he had reached your shared office.

He opened the door more violently than he meant to, making you jump. You were standing there, by the window behind his desk, a coffee in your hand. You were wearing that top, alright…

He hurried to close the door, rushed across the room, bending to avoid the lamp hanging from the ceiling, and dropped his bag next to his desk.

“Your coffee’s…” you started, pointing at the warm mug on his desk, but you stopped when he took your warm beverage from your hands to put it down on a nearby shelf. “Huh… that was mine!”

Instead of answering, Andrew merely stared at you, letting his gaze rake the length of your body, and he didn’t try to hide the hunger in his eyes.

“You’re wearing that top.”

You raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smug smile tugging at your lips.

“Yes…”

“You know I love that shirt on you.”

“Hmmm… yes, I kind of do. That’s why I chose it this morning.”

“Oh, I see… you woke up and thought ‘hey, how can I torture my boyfriend today?’…”

“Torture?”

“You clearly chose violence with that cleavage, honey…”

You bit on your lower lip, unable to refrain your grin any longer.

“Did I now? And I thought I would make you happy…”

“Oh, I’m delighted, don’t get me wrong.”

You wanted to add some banter, but his hands came up to rest on your cheeks, cradling your face to pull you closer while he bent down to kiss you, and you were left too breathless to speak.

“You’re so beautiful, my love. Absolutely gorgeous…” he whispered, his lips a breath away from yours, and despite the obvious desire in his words, his tone was infinitely tender. Adoring, even. “How did I get lucky enough for you to want me, huh?”

You giggled at that, the most adorable sound in the world, and he didn’t even notice that he was smiling.

“You planned a devilish plan to get back with your ex with me.”

“Our exes,” he corrected you.

“Hmm… yeah, that’s how.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours in the process.

“I don’t think that’s how I did it…”

“No… You just had to be your kind, funny, handsome self…”

He rolled his eyes, and when you opened your mouth to protest, he merely closed the gap between your mouths, finally kissing you.

He was breathless by the time you pulled away, dizzy and happier than ever…

… how could you still make him feel this way after two full years?

You wrapped your arms around his neck to keep him close, and he held your waist firmly against him, partly to keep you close but also to help you keep your balance as you had risen to your tiptoes so he wouldn’t have to bend so much.

“Well, professor… if you’re nice enough with me today… I might let you take this shirt you like so much off me tonight…” you whispered in the most tempting voice, making him groan.

“You’ll be the death of me…”

While Andrew and you were finally breaking your embrace, sipping on your coffees while imagining very graphic scenarios of how you would spend your evening together, the whatsapp group of your students, now rebranded as OP Love Birds was on fire again.

I couldn’t make out the face of the woman on the picture, but she had the same hair colour as Pr Y/L/N. And there was a dog in the picture too. Black and white dog. (it was adorable btw).

Okay, so H-B is definitely NOT single. And it could be Y/L/N.

And can we mention how he weirdly just… BOLTED out of the room?

Like?

Sir?

Calm down! Those legs are long enough to carry you at lightspeed already…

Unless he wanted to go back to Y/N!

OMG… I want them to be together so bad, they would be so cute together!!!

God, you had to talk to Andrew.

You finally had received a response for the publication of your article. The email dropped during your class, but you managed to sneak a peek at it, and… the article was accepted!

You were over the moon, and got distracted during the end of your class, you would willingly admit that. You stammered, stumbled over your words a few times, but it was okay. You didn’t mind. You couldn’t mind losing your cool when you had spent so long working on this bloody article. But it was finally accepted, it would be published, with your name on it, printed in full and you wanted to cry from the sheer expectation of finally seeing it for real, on a computer screen, with the name of one of the most renowned journals at the top of your paper.

You hurried through the corridor, knowing Andrew was coming back from a class too, and would soon have a meeting with some of his students about an essay. There was no time to lose. You wanted to celebrate with him, and get lots of hugs and kisses and see his proud grin on his face…

He heard you running down the corridor when he was just a few steps away from the door of your shared office, and he raised a perplexed eyebrow as you rushed closer.

“You’re alright?” he asked, turning fully to you.

“IT’S ACCEPTED! IT’S ACCEPTED!”

His surprise turned into bliss.

“Your article, you mean?” he asked, and you nodded excitedly, rushing in his open arms.

You buried your face in his chest, and jumped up and down in excitement. Andrew laughed.

“Congratulations, darling! You worked so hard on it!”

“Yes, I did!” you quipped, looking up at him.

“I’m so proud of you, that’s amazing!”

“YES!”

He checked the corridor, but there was no one in sight, so he bent down to kiss you, loving and passionate and taking your breath away.

“I’m so proud of you, baby!” he cooed, holding you tight again. “That’s amazing, congratulations!”

“I mean, it’s not my first paper… but it’s my first on this subject, and in such a big journal too…”

“Babe, I’m incredibly proud of you! And you should be too! Now, we can drink that bottle of champagne I had stashed for this.”

“You bought champagne for this?”

“Of course! You were so nervous about it… I know how important it was for you.”

“Thank you,” you looked up at him with tears in your eyes, and Andrew fondly shook his head at you.

“It’s the bare minimum, honey.”

“It isn’t. You’re the best boyfriend since Mr. Darcy.”

Andrew let out a loud laugh.

“Wow… that is very high praise!”

“The highest.”

You finally pulled away, but kept on holding his hands in yours.

You jumped at the sound of giggles coming from the staircase that led to the corridor, and you both let go, reluctance making your movements too slow for Andrew’s students not to notice…

“Ha! Come in, let’s take a look at what you’ve found so far,” Andrew called his students, and you greeted them as well.

It took them thirty seconds after they were out of your office to text the group.

THEY HAVE TO BE TOGETHER!!!

THEY WERE HOLDING HANDS IN THE HALLWAY WHEN WE ARRIVED TO THEIR OFFICE!

WHAT?!

OMG!!!

We need more proof! It is pretty compelling, but were they really holding hands?

They were letting go when we arrived.

God, I’m certain they’re together. ADORABLE!

We need more proof, just to be sure…

There was something off with your students, of that you were certain.

Nothing bad, by any means. They were all pretty fun to be around, focused on their studies too. You couldn’t complain about that class, really.

Except that they had started being a little weird for the past few weeks. They were whispering when they saw you, especially if Andrew was with you. You noticed that they tried to drag the informal conversations you had with them towards your personal life. But your doubts turned into certainty as you overheard a conversation between three of your students.

“They have to be together. Saoirse said they saw them holding hands.”

“They weren’t holding hands, they looked like they had been holding hands.”

“I’m sure Y/L/N and H-B are together.”

H-B?

Your brain finally clicked… Hozier-Byrne. Right…

“We need more proof.”

“More proof than the way H-B looks at her? Gosh… he’s head-over-heels… I wish someone could look at me like that.”

“He already looked at her like that when we were in first year, Sheily. And they weren’t together for sure at the time.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The longing?! Now it’s more, ‘happily with the love of my life’ vibes. He looked sad every time she turned away back then.”

You decided that you had eavesdropped long enough and made sure to make a bit of noise before finally walking out of the classroom and into the corridor where your students were chatting. They fell silent as they saw you, but greeted you with a warm smile and polite hello.

You were to meet with Andrew at the library on the campus, both of you needing to pick up some books there. There was a sort of cafeteria nearby, where you wanted to pick up a snack and some coffee.

And Andrew was waiting for you, indeed, leaning against the stone wall of the library, with a hand in the pocket of his blue jeans, too busy looking at his phone to notice the way the students that passed by him were staring. It made you smile, the way he was truly clueless of how good he looked like this, with his hair let loose to reach his shoulders, white shirt, blue jeans and denim jacket, looking effortlessly handsome. Your heart skipped several beats at the sight. He must have felt you staring, because he finally looked up from his phone, readjusting his glasses, and immediately grinned as his gaze met yours.

“Hey! How was your class this morning?” he asked, and you saw the way he closed and opened his fist, longing to touch you but refraining as you were in public, and working.

“Nothing worth mentioning except… something I’ve overhead. Got tea to spill.”

He laughed, bright and loud as he opened the door of the library for you.

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear all about it over coffee.”

“See! I knew you loved gossips as much as I do.”

“Hardly.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Absolutely not.”

You playfully stick out your tongue, making him giggle.

“Well, you’ll be definitely interested in that one, because it concerns us.”

“Us?”

“Yep…”

“Why would it be about us?”

“I’ll tell you later,” you teased, walking further into the library to pick up the books you needed, throwing a teasing smile over your shoulder, and if he replied by a roll of his eyes, he was blushing too.

You met up again to borrow the books, and Andrew read the summary of the two books you were taking with you as you exchanged niceties with the librarian. He kept carrying your books as you walked out of the building and towards the cafeteria.

It was almost an accident as you spotted the three students you had overheard earlier that morning. You were walking and chatting with Andrew, who was asking questions about the books you had just borrowed, when you felt someone staring. And indeed, the trio was looking at you and Andrew, whispering before deciding to follow you towards the cafeteria.

“So, that’s the analysis you were talking about yesterday, that pushed forward the historical and social dimension in the plays?” he asked, a small frown creasing his brow, showing that he was thinking and that he was fully focused on your conversation. Your heart beat a little faster at the thought.

“Hmm. Yeah, that’s it.”

“Sounds interesting. A little… narrowing, but interesting.”

“The second one is linked to Bakhtine’s theories though.”

“Hmm… yeah, I see. So, you’re…”

“Andy.”

“Hmm?”

“Sorry, I know I’m interrupting, but… see the three students behind us?”

“The ones we’re both teaching you mean?” he asked, trying to discreetly look over his shoulder.

“Yeah… they’re the ones I overheard this morning.”

“Oh… and? What did they say?”

You opened the door of the cafeteria, and joined the queue.

“They were discussing whether or not we are a couple,” you said in a whisper so he would be the only one to hear, and Andrew had to bend closer during the rest of the conversation.

“What?”

“They were arguing on whether or not we are a couple.”

He blinked, taking a couple of seconds to process your words.

“Oh… I see… I guess we weren’t as discreet as we thought we were.”

“I guess not. They mentioned how you look at me a lot.”

His cheeks turned a bright shade of pink, but his gaze didn’t waver, remained fixed on you.

“Oh… I see.”

“Lovingly, apparently. You are ‘head-over-heels’ as they put it,” you teased, making him chuckle and blush even more.

“I can’t deny that,” he answered in a smooth tone that made butterflies erupt in your stomach. “It is hard to hide my thoughts when I look at you.”

“Hmm… I knew you adored me.”

He laughed.

“More than you could ever imagine,” he answered with a tender smile, while you took a step closer to the counter. “Although, not just that. I often imagine you in… interesting positions as well.”

You choked on your own breath at that, and Andrew sported a content smirk in return.

“Right… anyway. Apparently, we’ve blown our cover. Our students are catching up on us.”

“And what do you suggest we do then? I mean… we’re not breaking any rules, or doing anything wrong.”

“What are you saying?”

“That… maybe that’s okay if they know about us. I for one… wouldn’t mind that much.”

You couldn’t refrain your smile.

“At the beginning, you were adamant that we had to remain professional at Trinity.”

“Hmm… I mean, it was the beginning. I couldn’t be sure if it would work out between us. It was safer this way. Two teachers dating is gossip enough, without adding a break-up into the mix.”

“Hmm… but now?”

He looked away, turning to the list of pastries to choose a snack.

“What cake do you want?”

“A chocolate muffin.”

“I think I’ll take a blueberry one. And yes, you can have a bite,” he answered before you could ask the question.

“You didn’t answer.”

“Answer?”

“Why aren’t you worried about people finding out about us anymore?”

You saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way he tightened his hold on the books under his arm. His gaze was fleeing yours, still focused on the sweet treats in display, but he did answer, his voice so low and deep you barely heard him.

“Now, I know you’re the love of my life.”

You blinked tears away, staring at him, taking in a sharp breath at his words.

“So… I don’t mind if all our colleagues know, even students. I’m not afraid of you suddenly realising that you could have better and dumping my arse anymore. I’m not afraid of us not being able to make our lives align, or whatever obstacles might be thrown at us. I just… I really just want to stay with you forever, so… who cares if they know? I’m not afraid of a break-up anymore. So, I don’t mind.”

Finally, he looked down at you, frowned a little at the sight of shining tears caught on your eyelashes, but when you grinned up at him, he smiled too.

“I love you so much, you know?” was your only answer, and Andrew nodded.

“Yeah… I’m starting to believe in that concept,” he chuckled.

He didn’t move away when you touched his arm, hand moving down towards his. Instead, he took his fist out of his pocket, intertwined his fingers with yours.

“I really want to give these girls a heart-attack,” you confessed.

“You sure?”

“Hmm… are you okay with that?”

“Murdering students is illegal. Even if it’s not fully intentional.”

You chuckled, mumbling something about how silly he was. But then his stare caught yours, and you didn’t think as you rose to your tiptoes to meet him halfway, so you could kiss him.

When you pulled away, Andrew dropped a peck on the top of your head, before letting go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. You wrapped your arm around his waist too, while discreetly looking over your shoulder.

The three girls were going crazy.

“So?” Andrew asked, moving forward as someone was leaving the queue.

“We might have to call an ambulance.”

You both laughed, and you rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his warmth sip into your frame, filling you with quiet and love.

[imujings]

hai the event you're doing is so cute omg! what about puppy princess by hot freaks and vernon??? thank you!!

'cause i feel weak and your hands, and your feet are precious and i'll never feel your touch

wc <1k. warnings unrequited love, one (1) mention of a dick LMAO. jay’s musings this song is so good but so sad skfjdk do enjoy anon!! <3

Vernon’s exhausted.

His limbs ache for reprieve, fingers cramping from his eternal hold on the washcloth as he wipes down the table for what feels like the fiftieth time. He glances over at your booth like it’ll make his work any less tiring.

It does, in a sense.

Your beat up converse are up on the booth chair’s red and weathered cushion, little smiley marks and stars scratched out in pen decorating the material. You’re talking animatedly about something he can’t quite hear, hands waving back and forth as your mouth moves quicker than he can keep up with. A tray of fries lays before you on the table untouched.

And of course, Kim Mingyu sits across from you, his gelled black hair gleaming just right in the diner’s low light, leaning forward with his arms crossed and hanging onto your every word.

Sometimes, the man would steal a fry from your basket, and you would smack his hand away with a giggle. You two have been here for hours, showing up early into his shift engrossed in conversation and fingers intertwined.

“Yo, Vernon,” Mingyu had grinned. “Booth for two, the usual spot?”

It’s not like Vernon hated Mingyu—stars above, if anything, Mingyu was one of his closest friends. The countless number of fences they’ve hopped and movie theatres they’ve snuck into amounted to their bond.

No, the problem was you.

Lively, energetic and bubbly you. You, who was welcomed into his friend group with open arms, who knew all the blind spots to the rickety old security cameras at their mall’s theatre and who knew how to scale a ten foot wired fence without getting as much as a scratch. You, who bumped elbows with him in silent inquiry of Are you okay? Do you wanna dip? when he started spacing out for a little too long at a party. You, who smiled at him and wordlessly passed a wired earbud, listening to his favorite rock bands with him as the pair of you walked back from the corner store.

You, who he was totally, absolutely cool and normal about and definitely not head over heels for. You, who was dating his friend, Kim Mingyu, for three months and counting.

Yeah. Checkmate.

Vernon decides he’s had enough of scrubbing at the faded vindication of a phallus some emo teenager definitely drew, plopping the washcloth into the bucket full of soapy water and wiping his hands on his apron. As he makes his way towards the back he faintly hears your teasing remark at something Mingyu had said, probably in an effort to make you flustered. Laughter explodes behind him.

It’s unfair, he thinks. It’s unfair that your favorite diner is the one that he works at.

He remembers your study sessions after school as he tended to the many customers. You always ordered the same milkshake and basket of fries, hunched over your math textbook as if it had all the secrets to the world. Vernon would send refills over every time one of them got too low for his liking, trying to get you to crack that lovely smiley that made his heart flutter.

How did Mingyu manage to do it so effortlessly?

Vernon felt like a fool. He rings up your booth’s receipt and, on autopilot, walks back out to where you’re now resting your head against the diner’s white walls.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but the diner’s closing soon,” he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly as he places the check on the table right in front of you.

You perk up, eyes following his movements. “Thanks, ‘sol!”

Mingyu, rummaging through his pockets for some bills, is too occupied to notice the way Vernon’s breath stutters slightly at the nickname. Ever since you found out that Vernon was just the street name he went by, Hansol being his actual given name, you took it upon yourself to call him what he thought were terribly endearing nicknames.

He fumbles to pick up the check once a twenty dollar bill is passed over and just nods. You reward him with a little laugh.

“Keep the change,” you offer kindly.

Mingyu whines something about that being his money, but you roll your eyes. “Vernon is always dealing with our late night dates during his closing shift. The least we can do is pay him for putting up with us. Right, ‘sollie?”

Vernon makes a noise somewhere between a “mhm,” and a “sure,” causing another laugh to spill from your pretty lips. He wishes he could kiss them shut sometimes.

The world doesn’t deserve to hear your melodic sounds—only him.

He compartmentalizes those selfish thoughts away as you stand up, dusting crumbs off your clothes, and reach for Mingyu’s outstretched hand. Mingyu preens at the touch and you smile up at him.

“Good luck with closing, Vernon!” you wave with your free arm, eyes crinkling with friendliness.

His friend—your boyfriend, Vernon reminds himself—raises his own hand to dap him up. He barely feels the numbing sting of the handshake before the two of you are whisking away out the diner doors into the late night.

Vernon sighs and runs a hand over his face.

Good luck to him, indeed.

want to queue a song?

[wowzees]

Charles x reader day out on the yacht, just fluffiness

a/n: sorry this took so long! jst found out my dog has cancer and am trying to get the expenses to care for treatment, or ill have to put him down. hope you enjoy!

The sun glimmered on the water as Charles’s yacht, a sleek white vessel called Sedici, cut through the turquoise waves. You leaned against the railing, feeling the salty breeze mess with your hair, and a calm washed over you. It was like the whole world had melted away, leaving only the gentle sway of the boat and the rhythmic sound of waves splashing against the hull.

"Ready for some fun?" Charles asked, his voice low and teasing next to you. He handed you a pair of sunglasses, the lenses reflecting the bright sunlight.

You put them on with a grin. "Always ready for an adventure with you."

The day was a mix of sunshine and laughter. You lounged on the deck, sipping champagne, soaking up the rays, and letting the sun warm your skin. You took turns steering the yacht, the wind rushing through your hair as you steered through the sparkling water. Every now and then, Charles would steer the yacht off course just to mess with you, sending you both into fits of giggles.

You tried your hand at waterskiing, holding onto the rope as Charles expertly navigated the boat. Of course, you wiped out a couple of times, but Charles was quick to pull you back onto the boat with a big laugh. His joy was contagious, and you couldn’t help but smile, feeling lighter than you’d ever felt before.

Later, you swam in the crystal-clear water, your skin warming under the sun as you explored the underwater world with snorkels and masks. Schools of bright, colorful fish darted through the coral reefs, and you even saw a dolphin leaping through the waves, graceful and free.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows over the water, Charles led you to the bow of the yacht. He knelt down on one knee, the setting sun casting a golden glow across his face. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your breath catch in your throat. In his hand, he held a small velvet box.

"Y/N," he started, his voice low and full of emotion. "From the moment I met you, my life has been filled with a light I didn’t even know I was missing. You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever known—smart, kind, and beautiful. With you, every day is an adventure. Every moment is a new joy."

He paused, his eyes locked on yours, searching for the right words. "Will you do me the honor of being my wife?"

Tears welled up in your eyes as you nodded, too emotional to say anything. You reached for his hand, your fingers intertwining. "Yes, Charles," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Yes, a thousand times yes."

He slid the ring onto your finger, the diamond sparkling in the fading sunlight. Then, without a word, he pulled you into a kiss, the taste of salt and champagne lingering on your lips. Holding onto him, you felt an overwhelming happiness rush through you—a sense of completeness you never thought was possible.

Above, the stars twinkled brightly, silently watching over your love. On the deck of Sedici, under the vast sky, you had found your forever.

The rest of the evening was a blur of champagne, laughter, and whispered promises. Charles, always the gentleman, insisted on serving you a gourmet dinner under the stars. As you ate, the conversation flowed easily, filled with shared jokes, stolen glances, and talks about your dreams for the future. You talked about everything—your hopes, your fears, your plans—and it felt like the two of you were creating a beautiful, shared story.

As the night deepened, the stars above seemed to grow even brighter, filling the sky with a magical light. Charles, with a glint in his eyes, pulled out a guitar from a hidden compartment on the yacht. He started playing a soft melody, his rich voice singing a love song that made your heart swell with emotions you didn’t even know you had. You listened, completely mesmerized, as he poured his heart into the song.

Later, you lay side-by-side on the deck, the boat gently rocking, lulling you both to sleep. Charles wrapped his arms around you, his warmth melting away any remnants of tension. You snuggled closer, inhaling the scent of the sea mixed with his cologne. In that moment, it felt like nothing else mattered. Just the two of you, alone under the stars, drifting in a sea of love and peace.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of seagulls and the soft lapping of waves against the hull. Charles was still asleep beside you, his face peaceful and relaxed. You smiled, watching him, the magic of the night still lingering in your heart. You knew this was just the start of something amazing—an adventure filled with love, laughter, and endless memories.

As you got ready to leave the yacht, a wave of sadness hit you. You didn’t want to leave this perfect world you’d created with Charles. But as you looked into his eyes, you knew that no matter where you went, you’d carry the memories of this perfect day with you.

As you drove away from the marina, you glanced back at Sedici, its white hull glowing in the sunlight. It was a bittersweet moment, saying goodbye to this chapter of your life. But you also knew the best was yet to come. You had found your soulmate, and their love was worth more than anything else in the world.

The journey ahead was full of excitement and possibility. You had a wedding to plan, a life to build together, and a future full of love to look forward to. But as you drove away, you couldn’t help but glance back at Sedici, a soft smile on your lips. It was a reminder of the magic you’d experienced and the love that had blossomed under the summer sun.

And as you looked back, you knew that the magic of that day, and the love you’d shared, would stay with you forever.

[lightshowerrr]

𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

In which : is there anything so under doing as a daughter?

Father figure!Satoru Gojo x Daughter figure fem!reader

(this is platonic. I'm not doing incest tf)

Inspired by the song Die Your Daughter by Susannah Joffe !!

The air in Shibuya felt heavy, like a storm brewing on the horizon. The crackling tension from every direction seemed to close in around you as you stood in the shadow of the man who had always been your protector.

Satoru Gojo.

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to see him in this moment. But here you were, standing at the edge of the battlefield, watching as your father figure prepared to fight the curse king himself, Sukuna.

“Go,” Gojo's voice rang out, confident and unyielding as always, but there was something different in it today. The weight of his words settled deep in your chest as you clutched your hands, fingers trembling at your sides. “Stay out of this. You’ve done enough.”

“No!” Your voice cracked as you stepped forward, panic rising in your throat. “You don’t understand! You can’t— you can’t do this! Not without me—”

His smile was like a blade, sharp and cruel as he turned to face you, his hands resting casually on the cursed tools at his sides. “You want to stop me?”

“I don’t want to lose you, Dad,” you choked, your heart racing in your chest. It had never been easy to admit that to him. You'd never dared to call him that until now, but in the midst of this chaos, it felt like the only thing you could do to make him understand.

Gojo’s face softened for a fraction of a second, the flicker of his usual warmth shining through before the mask of strength and indifference returned. “Listen, (Name). Everyone is going to forget about me when I’m gone. I know that. I have dreams, I have love, just like everyone else.” His voice was unwavering, even as it seemed to crack under the weight of his own words.

You felt your breath hitch in your throat. You couldn't lose him. He had promised that he would always be there for you, that you would never have to face this world alone again. Yet now, it felt like he was slipping away, and you couldn't stop him.

“No…” you whispered, stepping closer, desperation lacing your every movement. “You’re not just a dream, Satoru. You’re everything to me. I’ve only ever had you, and now—”

He held up his hand, stopping you with a gesture so gentle it felt like a weight on your heart. “Promise me, (Name), promise me you’ll stay safe. You have your own fight to win.” His eyes were filled with something deep—something that spoke of the long, hard road ahead, a road where he would no longer be there to walk beside you.

The promise hung in the air like a sword, a vow that would be broken before the day was done.

“I won’t lose. I’ll win,” he swore, his voice strong again, but something flickered behind his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t so sure.

But you couldn’t let him leave. “I can’t bear it, Gojo! I can’t bear losing you!” The tears burned in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You wouldn’t break in front of him, not when he needed to be strong.

Satoru's gaze softened, and he bent down to meet your eyes. “You don’t have to bear it. I’m going to make sure you don’t have to bear anything alone. But you have to trust me, okay?”

And with that, he turned, and for the first time, he walked away from you, stepping into the jaws of fate, into the battle that would change everything.

____

Hours passed in a blur.

The screams, the chaos, the crashing sound of curses colliding, of blood splattering across the concrete.

But it was the silence that hit hardest.

The moment the battle stopped, when the earth seemed to still, you knew.

It was over.

Gojo was gone.

And you were alone again.

You stumbled forward, as if trying to reach him, your legs giving out beneath you as the weight of the truth crushed you. You could still hear his words in your ears—his promise. But now, it felt empty. A lie.

The strongest sorcerer was dead.

Your father figure was dead.

And there was nothing left but the hollow ache in your chest and the cruel reality that everything you had known was no more.

You sank to your knees, the world around you spinning, and the only thing you could hear was the soft, distant sound of your heart breaking.

"Everyone will forget about me when I'm gone..." Gojo’s words echoed in your mind, but they didn’t sound like a promise anymore. They were a warning.

You had never imagined what it would feel like to lose him.

Now you knew.

And it hurt.

The world would go on, and you would try to as well, but everything would be different now. Because without him, how could you ever move forward?

But deep down, you promised yourself one thing.

You would never forget.

____

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the cemetery as you walked beside Shoko Ieiri. The air felt heavy, filled with the weight of things unsaid, of grief that never quite left your bones. You had made this journey before, but this time it felt different. More final, somehow.

Shoko didn’t speak, her presence quiet yet steady, as you both walked towards the graves. It was a familiar place now—too familiar—but still, it was hard to come here. You never really knew how to feel when you stood before Satoru Gojo’s grave. After all, you had never expected to be in this position.

He had been your everything. The man who had given you love when you had none. The one who had saved you, pulled you from the wreckage of a life that didn’t know how to love you back. And now he was gone.

But you had to come. You had to say goodbye.

Satoru’s grave was right beside Suguru’s—two names etched into stone side by side, forever tied together. It seemed impossible, a cruel reminder of what had been lost. You knelt before them, your heart clenching tightly in your chest as you placed a single flower at the base of the gravestones.

Shoko stood behind you, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes tracing the graves with a quiet solemnity. She had been with Satoru and Suguru through it all, and she had known Satoru in ways that no one else could.

"You never really get used to it," Shoko said, her voice soft, though it carried the weight of the years they had spent together. "Seeing them here, like this."

You nodded, your fingers still resting on the cool stone of Satoru’s grave. It was a strange, bitter comfort. To be so close, yet still so far away.

It wasn’t just Satoru who had left, though. Suguru had been the one to make the choice. The decision that had split their once unbreakable bond. The day Suguru had turned his back on everything, on everyone.

But you could never forget the days before that. When Satoru had told you about Suguru—their friendship, the laughs, the memories. The way Satoru’s eyes had softened whenever he spoke of him, a hidden sadness there that no one but Shoko had ever noticed. He had said it once, just after they had lost Suguru, that he would always remember their bond. That nothing could truly break it, not even death.

And you remembered how he had told you everything, how he had found you after Geto left Jujutsu High. You were nothing back then—lost, broken, abandoned. But Satoru had picked you up. He had taken you under his wing and promised that you’d never be alone.

He had told you about his past with Shoko and Suguru in that soft, almost wistful voice. The laughter they shared, the arguments that only friends who had been through everything could understand, the quiet nights they spent talking about their hopes and fears for the future. He had trusted you with those memories, even though it had hurt him to speak of them. Because he knew that you would understand, that you would be the one who would remember when no one else would.

His words played over and over in your mind as you knelt before his grave: "No one will remember me when I'm gone, but I'll always have love. I'll always have my dreams. I'll always have you, even if it's not the way I want it."

You closed your eyes, remembering the warmth of his smile, the way he made you feel safe when everything around you was chaos. And then, you remembered the last time you had seen him—the way he had looked at you, so full of unspoken promises. He had never said goodbye. It had been his way to make sure you knew he’d always be there, even after death.

But now, he was gone.

Your breath caught in your throat, the sharp sting of tears threatening to spill, but you fought them back. You weren’t going to cry. Not here. Not in front of Shoko.

Shoko stepped forward then, her voice steady despite the hurt beneath it. "He would have wanted us to keep living, (Name). To keep going, even when it feels impossible."

"I know," you whispered, your voice barely a breath. "But it’s so hard, Shoko. So hard to accept he’s really gone."

Shoko’s gaze softened, and for a moment, she let the silence stretch between you both. Then she placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch a quiet reassurance. "You don’t have to do it alone, you know. I’m still here."

You nodded, grateful for her presence, but there was a part of you that felt an unspoken distance between you and everyone else. A part of you that would always be tethered to the man who had been more than just a mentor, more than just a protector. Satoru had been your family. And now, you had to learn how to live without him.

The wind whispered through the cemetery again, rustling the leaves of the trees above. You stayed there for a long time, eyes lingering on the gravestones of Satoru and Suguru. In some strange way, it felt like they were still there, still watching over you. The memories were vivid in your mind—Satoru’s laugh, his soft teasing, his quiet moments when he would lower his guard just enough to show you a glimpse of the person he used to be before the weight of the world crushed him.

But the world was cruel. The world didn’t care for the strongest sorcerer, for the one who had given everything to protect it.

And yet, you would carry his memory with you. You would remember the man who had made you feel seen, who had given you everything when you thought you had nothing.

With a final breath, you whispered into the wind, "I won’t forget you, Satoru. I promise."

Shoko gave you one last look before she turned to leave, her footsteps soft against the earth. You stayed there for a moment longer, the ache in your heart as sharp as ever, but there was a sense of peace settling over you.

Maybe it would never get easier. Maybe you would always miss him. But you knew one thing for sure.

You wouldn’t forget him. Not ever.

[duhshereadz]

A collection of random angsty head cannons I have:

Jinx:

1. **Catlike Sleep**: Jinx can’t sleep deeply in beds. She curls up in random places like on top of shelves, under tables, or wedged into corners, feeling safer when she’s hidden away. Her sleep is fitful and light, as if she’s always waiting for something to go wrong.

2. **Toy Soldier Graveyard**: She keeps a box of broken inventions—bombs that didn’t detonate, scrap toys she made as Powder, and even the remains of her childhood monkey bomb. Sometimes she talks to the pieces like they’re old friends, asking them why they failed her.

3. **Ink Therapy**: Jinx tattoos herself every time she feels like she’s survived something traumatic. Her chaotic body art tells a story only she understands, each piece representing her victories, losses, and guilt.

Vi:

1. **Old Gloves**: Vi secretly still has the tattered gloves Vander gave her when she first started fighting. They’re too small for her now, but she keeps them tucked in her pocket during missions, like a lucky charm. She’s terrified they’ll wear away entirely one day.

2. **Loner Nights**: Vi sneaks out at night and wanders Zaun, sitting in quiet alleyways just to feel connected to her past. She sometimes leaves small tokens—flowers, coins, scraps of metal—for the ghosts of Vander, Mylo, and Claggor.

3. **Scar Stories**: Every scar on her body has a story, and she remembers each one. Sometimes, when she can’t sleep, she traces them with her fingers, recounting every fight, every failure, every moment she wasn’t strong enough to protect someone she loved.

Caitlyn:

1. **Sniper Rituals**: Before using her rifle, Caitlyn has a strange ritual where she whispers a silent apology to her targets. She doesn’t know why she does it—she just hates the idea of taking a life, even when it’s necessary.

2. **Tea for Two**: After particularly bad days, Caitlyn sets out two cups of tea in her room—one for herself, and one for a person she wishes she could talk to, whether it’s her father, her mother, or even Vi when she’s not around. She rarely drinks from the second cup.

3. **Trophy Room**: She has a secret drawer in her room filled with small tokens from cases she’s solved: a piece of fabric, a photo, a bullet casing. She uses them to remind herself why she fights for justice, but sometimes they just remind her of the people she couldn’t save.

Ekko:

1. **Clockwork Comfort**: When Ekko feels overwhelmed, he builds tiny mechanical birds and insects, winding them up and watching them flutter around his room. It’s his way of reminding himself that he can create life instead of just fighting against death.

2. **Grief Journal**: Ekko keeps a notebook where he writes letters to the friends he’s lost. Each entry starts with their name and a memory of something happy they shared, but by the end, he’s usually crying, scribbling apologies for not being able to save them.

3. **Old Music Box**: He has a broken music box from his childhood that he refuses to fix. It belonged to someone important—maybe his mother or a close friend—and though it no longer works, he listens to the silence as if it still plays their favorite song.

Jayce:

1. **Blueprint Guilt**: Jayce has a hidden vault of failed inventions that never worked as intended. Each one represents a moment where he feels like he let Piltover down. Sometimes he dreams of these blueprints exploding, the fragments injuring everyone around him.

2. **Crumpled Speeches**: Jayce writes letters to Viktor, confessing his regrets and insecurities about how their partnership fractured. He never delivers them, leaving them crumpled up in his desk drawer, afraid that nothing he says will fix what’s broken.

3. **Forge Visits**: Late at night, Jayce visits old smithing forges in Piltover. The hammering of metal on anvils calms him, a reminder of simpler times when all he had to worry about was crafting weapons, not leading a nation.

Viktor:

1. **Silence of the Undercity**: Viktor dreams of the Undercity, but it’s always eerily quiet—no voices, no machinery, just him wandering through empty streets. He wakes up sweating, unsure whether he’s relieved or sad that it was only a dream.

2. **Hidden Garden**: Viktor secretly tends to a tiny plant in his lab, hidden behind stacks of books and equipment. It’s the only living thing he cares for outside of himself, and he fears that if it dies, it’s a sign that he’s lost touch with his humanity.

3. **Staring at the Stars**: When Viktor feels the weight of his mortality, he goes to the highest point in Piltover and stares at the stars. He wonders if he’ll ever leave a mark on the world big enough to be remembered—or if he’ll just fade away like the stars in the morning.

Sevika:

1. **Cracked Mirror**: Sevika has an old cracked mirror in her room, one she refuses to replace. She hates looking at herself, especially the scars and the mechanical arm, but she forces herself to stare into it every morning as a twisted form of penance.

2. **Family Photo**: She carries a faded photo of her family—parents and siblings she hasn’t seen in years—tucked in the lining of her jacket. It’s the only thing from her past she hasn’t burned, but she doesn’t let anyone see it.

3. **Card Games Alone**: Sevika sometimes plays cards by herself, recreating the games she used to play with her gangmates. She cheats against herself, muttering curses and laughing bitterly, pretending they’re still around to play with her.

[jisokai]

You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 6: & yet i’ll always choose you.

sero hanta x reader ch 6/6 | 15.8k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: violence between family members (a singular slap) notes: ready to run by one direction, shelter by porter robinson & madeon, all the stars by kendrick & sza (this is not a songfic; i forgot that song existed when i chose the title and then when i properly listened to the lyrics i realized it fit LOL)

you make a decision.

✰.

"How do you help a family miracle? You hug your sister."

- Bruno, in Encanto

Looking back, your life has primarily moved forward through a mixture of obligation and chance. There was never any sort of choosing or clinging, just an acceptance of what needed to be done. Things worked out on their own, oftentimes with you as the stagnant one and the events happening around you—through you. You lived as if life was predetermined, as if a wide length of silk has been wrapped around your chest and tugging you through life.

So it’s hard, when something—someone appears, and you want to choose him.

Silk is slippery. It’s woven water that slides against every surface including itself. With unpracticed hands, every knot will come undone, unraveling before you until it’s a puddle on the floor. You only ever learned how to sew and stitch, to bind fabric with a needle and thread. You’re the opposite of Hanta, who knows the raw silk itself—hanging for him to play an endless game of tangling and escaping. He knows the knots intricately, how to bind or set himself free in an instant.

Hanta is sad when he has to leave. You see it in his watery eyes and hear it in the crack of his voice. But he has some sort of unfathomable trust that things will work out in the end. You should too, given how your life has led so far, but you can’t.

You want him. You want him and Momo and Kendou. You want the circus and the costumes and to see the world together. You want to make beautiful things, impossible things, things that can only be forged in a place where everyone believes in magic with their full being. You want it all.

You don’t know how to chase it.

Maybe it was purposeful—choosing a dream you always thought was out of reach, one you never considered a real possibility. It’s safe here, where the choices are made for you, or never presented in the first place. But now that you finally want something… how do you start?

When the week passes and the circus is gone, in some ways it feels like it was never there. How could something that’s everything to you, everything you want, fizzle into nothing but faded memories in an instant? You cry and you hurt and you long for something that’s gone.

It feels like grieving.

Grieving, you realize, is another thing you haven’t done before.

Abuela is steeped into every detail of your life—her wrinkled hands the ones you always reached for first. She’s the one who taught you to sew, the one who called you her tucán. Abuela is the reason you and Hanta crossed paths for the first time in Quito, the reason you found yourself in Milan and by Midoriya, and ultimately Hoshi no Sākasu.

When you think about it, abuela is the thread that has been pulling you forwards.

But she’s gone—a fact you haven’t come to terms with.

The grief rolls through like a tsunami, a high wall of powerful water that roars forward with the intent to destroy and submerge. Maybe it should have been predictable, the week with the circus your earthquake, the shifting of plates radiating seismic energy through your foundation. But the water comes by surprise and at full force, knocking you off your feet and the breath from your lungs. 

You packed your schedule ahead of time with work, the following weeks filled with costumes and gowns and dresses. It distracts you, like you knew it would, your hands and your head focused on nothing but the bounce of a needle stitching fabrics. It keeps you from thinking about the circus in Switzerland, three hours away by train. Life has shifted with the absence of the circus, and you’ve found yourself back into the stagnant routine that existed before. 

Except, now you cry while you work.

It happens unknowingly at first, only noticing when dark blotches appear on the fabric between your hands. You pause, lifting the pad of your finger to trace the tears collecting on your waterline, the wetness taking you by surprise. But when it rains it pours, and you have to take a break to let the clouds of your irises clear before forcing yourself to resume sewing.

Normally there's a ghosted feeling of abuela’s hands hovering over yours. They're familiar and faint, kept at a distance and bringing just the twitch of a somber smile to your lips. But now they're firm and dense, like real skin and flesh and blood. The sensation makes you cry harder. Your crying makes them feel more real. Your hurt and your grief brings her closer, brings her to life.

You don't do anything but work and cry the first few days following Hoshi no Sakasu’s departure. You complete one dress through hours of tears. 

Your friends find you this way, sobbing with bunches of chiffon in your hands, wiping your eyes and nose with the sleeve of your shirt.

“Oh,” Chiara coos, immediately running a hand through your hair before holding your cheeks.

Davide grimaces behind her as his eyes sweep over you and your desk. “Nuh uh, we are not letting this continue.”

You clutch the fabric tightly when he tries to pry it from you. “I have orders to finish.”

Chiara scoffs. “They can wait.”

But they can't. You busied yourself strategically, so you wouldn't have time to do things like cry.

“You always manage somehow. You can take an hour break.”

It's a struggle, but you end up on your couch cocooned by a blanket and flanked by your friends. You grip the tea they made for you spitefully, the heat of the mug burning your palms. You bite your tongue, too annoyed to respond to their gentle questions, but they're Chia and Davide—eventually you cave.

You speak quietly and nonsensically, unsure how to explain everything that happened in the past couple weeks. Maybe they'll think you're crazy and chalk it up to delusions.

But they're Chia and Davide, so they don't.

“Dammit,” the latter answers. “This guy is stealing you away!”

“Davide,” the other scolds. “Be fair. From what Tucano says, he is not just a guy.”

“Neither of you are helpful,” you grumble.

“We're processing,” Chiara quips.

Davide nods. “Poorly.”

They sigh in unison, but with different tones. Davide's is whiny and tired. Chiara’s is thoughtful.

“Why didn't you say anything?” Davide eventually asks. “It's been days since they left.”

You groan, turning your head to bury into the blanket over your shoulders. Chiara watches you pitifully.

“She's been dead for months,” you eventually spit. You have to separate the words from their meanings to keep a sob at bay. Your eyes water. “I figured it was some weird delayed grief that would go away after a few days.”

Davide looks at you pitifully too now, though on his face it's more akin to disgust. “Babe…”

You avert your eyes.

“You know that's not how this works.”

All you manage is a grunt. You don't care if you're being stupid. You know you are, deep down, but it's easier to play into the ignorance.

Chiara sighs again and leans back against the couch, and then onto you. Her shoulder bumps yours, head tilting to rest in the crook of your padded neck. She speaks softly, “Haven't seen you cry since she first died.”

They're simple words, nothing incredibly deep or metaphorical, but they make your chest hurt. You purse your lips as fresh saltwater pools in your lashes, cascading down your cheeks. Your sob is a broken sound, jolting your body so harshly that Davide takes the mug from your hands at the near spill. Chiara scoots closer to you, body turning to face yours as her arm comes around your waist.

Davide keeps his distance, never the most physically affectionate, but he slides a hand up and down your arm, a soothing assurance that he's here too.

“I miss her,” you choke suddenly. The words spill out. “I think about her every day.”

Chiara hums affirmingly. “We know.”

“I—” you hiccup. “I loved her more than anyone else.”

And it's true. Abuela was your everything, the one you looked up to the most, the one you always wanted to be. You loved her more than you loved anyone. You loved her more than you loved yourself. You loved her… more than anyone else loved her.

The thought sits bitterly in your stomach, like a weight that keeps sinking and sinking and sinking. 

“What's that face for?” Davide interjects. 

You blink, neutralizing your expression when you realize you were scowling. You groan again. It's an ugly thought, no matter how true it is to you. Ugly thoughts are meant to be kept inside, not spread where they could hurt others or… be disproven.

He pats your leg quickly, a sign he won't let you escape answering. You wince at the thought of vocalizing that part of you: raw and possessive and self entitled. The part of you that justifies never going home, to keep abuela's remains to yourself. Here, in Italy—where she died in your care.

“Nobody else cared about her like I did,” you nearly whisper.

“Oh.” 

“Tucano…” Chiara trails off hesitantly. “You don’t know that.”

But you do. You’ve known it for years, eyes always taking in the room and the dynamics between your family members. You think of mamá when she raised her voice, speaking in an uncharacteristic irritation at abuela’s deteriorating mental state. Your sister was the avoidant type, feigning ignorance when she noticed something wrong or conveniently busy when help was needed. Tíos and primeros would chip in, but also hurried to pass abuela to the next person.

They cared when she was in Italy, when she was finally gone and they didn’t have to be the ones looking after her. 

They didn’t deserve her, you concluded.

You don’t answer, and your friends don’t press. Chiara stays leaning against your side while Davide rubs your arm. You know the skepticism sitting in their throats. You know Davide wants to ask why you’re only looking through a small lens, through your limited perspective. You know that Chiara wants to ask why they don’t even deserve to see her. You know that you want to ask yourself why you have the right to keep abuela from going home.

Nobody says a word. Instead you all sit there quietly, together.

“You’re going on holiday,” Chiara demands when you try to return to the studio an hour later.

“What? I was just on holiday for a week.”

Davide’s eyebrows nearly fly off his forehead. “You were literally working for the circus and you were in the studio while they were here.”

You try another angle. “I have deadlines! I can’t take time off—it’s unfair to my clients.”

“You always give them longer estimates than it actually takes. Just say you had a death in the family.”

“That happened months ago!”

“Then say you had some suppressed trauma come up in your grief counseling and you need to work through it!”

You stare blankly at Davide. He widens his eyes and flips his palms as if he’s waiting for you to accept the obvious answers he’s offering.

“I can’t do that Davide, they already paid.”

“Then it’s PTO?”

You rub your eyes in annoyance. You’re tempted to claw them out entirely.

Chiara pats your back. “We’ll figure something out. But you need a break, and you can’t deny that.”

Your stomach aches like you might be sick. Maybe you do need a break, for your mind and your heart and to finally get to the grief you’ve been ignoring for months. But you can feel your lips tightening at the thought, your stomach twisting in fear. The sewing helps take you from the real world, to give you something else to focus on.

You’re worried that if you take a break, you won’t be able to start again.

The next weekend you’re hugging Davide and Chiara at the train station. Their arms awkwardly come around the giant backpack latched around your hips.

“Let us know when you get to your hostel,” Chiara demands.

“And when you’re back in range,” Davide adds.

You nod.

The pink line takes you an hour closer to your destination, whizzing north along the industrial and suburban outskirts of the city. Fields and farmlands start to populate along your route, parallel roads of green. Eventually you’re humming along the beginnings of mountains, the forests close enough that you can make out the edges of individual trees. They’re brown trunks and naked branches, fans of grey poking from the earth. But between them are clusters of green—evergreen bunches. The further you go, the taller the peaks rise, dusted with white.

You exit the train in a city situated by a lake, a large pool of blue that lays calm—still. You only see flashes of the water before you’re parked in the station, scanning your ticket and walking out onto black tile streets. The buildings are smaller here than Milan, with more space between their exteriors. A looming mountain pokes through the alleyways, a slab of white limestone erupting from the ground, topped with sparse green and heavy snow. Your heart races at the sight while you speed walk towards the bus stop. 

Soon.

It takes the bus an hour to drop you off at your destination, despite covering less than a fourth of the train's mileage. You don’t mind. Instead you sit comfortably with your bag on your lap, staring out the window as the clunky vehicle winds through the mountains. You grin the entire time, already imagining the hot cocoa you’ll make yourself tonight, huddled by the window of your hostel with a scarf around your neck.

It’s exactly what you do, peering up the edge of the mountain the building resides on. You send a message to your friends to let them know you’re fine, a selfie with your drink. Just as your thumb hits send, your phone flashes with a call.

It’s from your sister.

For the first time since abuela died, you hesitate, before eventually turning off your ringer and setting it down to go to voicemail.

You spend one night in the hostel and five in the mountains. You hike up and down summits during the day and tend to fires in the warmth of small cabins at night. The peaks are jagged rocks, granite teeth wedged in the gums of the earth, at first overlooking the northern cities and lakes before you lose the buildings behind shrouds of rocks and trees and snow. 

You don’t speak to anyone for three days—in the thick of your hiking. Your only companions are the swifts that fly ahead and the occasional owl in the trees. You curse when one takes flight, spreading glorious spotted wings. You wish you knew more of the birds here. The only other animal you catch is an ibex standing precariously on a cliffside—suspended only by mere chips in the wall. It looks unfazed by the height and the minimal footing, instead at peace, giant horns proud atop its head and sure steps carrying it upwards. You wish you could call out and ask for advice: to ask how you can do the same.

In contrast, you spend your day treading through white crystals up to your knees. It’s exhausting, your body moving slowly and through the entire day to reach your next bed. But it’s good for you; it’s what you need.

Crying comes as natural as walking, tears clumping as ice in your lashes. You huddle your body further under layers of wool and down, face burying into the cloth of your scarf. Every few kilometers you pause, catching your breath and blinking through the sun to see where you stand: high above the rest of the world. The brown of wintery grass rolls beneath you with those spiky leafless trees and clumps of evergreen. The balds are tinted yellow with harsh edges of silver from scattered boulders. You breathe in crisp, cold air—the kind that burns your lungs.

When you turn to continue walking ahead, the snow around you glistens. Sunlight strikes the frozen dust, light refracting in a pile of white sparkles. Millions of sparkles, like every star in the sky was plucked and tossed atop this mountain range—for you to shuffle your boots through and sob while you wander through thoughts and memories of abuela. You’re walking north, in the direction of Switzerland. But by now it’s been over two weeks since Hoshi no Sākasu left. They must be in Austria now. East.

The nights are cold, infinitely colder than the city. The air bites at any exposed skin, rubbing it raw to bloom splotches of red. Even so, you leave the warmth of cabin fires for extended periods of time to stare above you, into that other world in the sky. Stars twinkle in response, shining and winking and falling. They’re abundant, like every grain of sand and every snowflake on earth was scattered into the night. 

Your eyes trace the constellations you know: simple ones like Ursa Major and Orion. When you run out, your mind starts to connect the stars on its own, searching for patterns from your life. You see Santi and you see Marco. You see your sister and your mother. You see abuela.

You see Hanta.

In this moment, in all the moments from these days in the mountains, you realize again that you are a speck. You are nothingness and everything, something painfully unknown while entirely familiar. The mountains and lakes and vastness of blue atmosphere remind you that everything you don’t know is waiting for you, patiently, sitting outside of your blood and flesh for you to start heading towards it. The tiny snowflakes and speckled sky and clumps of morning ashes remind you that everything you ever need to know has been within you all along.

By the time you’re back in a hostel, showering and running laundry and packing your bag to take a bus and then the train home, there’s a resolve in your chest. You don’t know what it is quite yet or what it’s pointed towards, but you are determined to do something.

Your phone charges overnight, but you don’t turn it on until you board the bus. Rows of notifications populate your screen when it flickers to life. You clear them all and open your messages.

The most recent one is from Hanta.

You haven’t spoken since he left, not sure what to say or if you want your relationship to unfurl over text. He must feel the same uncertainty, if it’s taken this long to reach out. His message is straightforward—a quick pleasantry followed by a check in, since apparently Momo tried to reach you just after you started your hike. You can sense his apprehension through the little grey bubbles.

You respond with a photo from your third day on the mountain, the endless layers of ridges settled beneath the sky, bluer and bluer as they get further away. There’s a moment of hesitation before you send another, this one a silly selfie you took the day before—sporting icy eyelashes and red cheeks. You quickly add a third message, a brief explanation that you were on holiday without service.

After replying to the other crucial messages you turn your phone off and stare out the window, watching as forests become farmland and farmlands become cities.

Settling back into your work routine comes naturally. Your hands glide through thread and fabric, not without hiccups, but with confidence and security. There’s an ease to your movements, an embodiment of patience and distance from your craft. Navigating the shift of deadlines and compromising with your clients was awkward, but it happened.

Hanta responds to you, a little message that says your trip looks fun—and cold. You give him a short reply, a simple It was. The phone is heavy in your hand as you stare at the screen. Eventually you cave and ask him how Switzerland was, and what he thinks about Austria.

Something opens between you two after the initial hurdle is cleared. You don’t message every day, but you talk often. Hanta sends photos of him at different restaurants and landmarks—mostly with Shouto—and you respond with pictures of your sewing projects. Seeing his face brings an urgency to your chest, one that makes you want to run to the station and board the first train North.

You send a picture of your most recent gown, sheer black fabric that twinkles, sewn with pearls and metal discs. This time you take the photo in your mirror, awkwardly giving the headless mannequin bunny ears with your free hand. You stare at the picture with a furrowed brow, retaking it a couple times before you get one that you look less stupid in. After sending it you grimace. 

Your phone pings nearly immediately, several times with messages from Hanta. He says ‘SO PRETTY’ followed by a string of heart emojis. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the idiotic grin you know you’re wearing.

The phone blares your ringtone, nearly making you drop it from surprise. Your heart races, thinking it’s Hanta, so you almost answer it before you check the contact. You freeze when it’s your sister’s name on the screen.

You don’t turn off your ringer and ignore it this time. Instead you stare at it, thumb hovering over the answer button until it eventually goes to voicemail.

You call her three days later.

It doesn’t go through, since you do it in the morning. Back home it must be the middle of the night. That choice may have been purposeful—easier, if you know she won’t pick up.

In the afternoon you get an assault of messages from her: all caps, swearing, littered with typos. She calls you again and again, but you don’t pick up.

You pick up for Hanta.

He calls when you’re settling into bed for the evening. You answer while yawning, drawing out the words of your greeting. 

“Sorry,” his voice murmurs through your speaker. “Is this not a good time?”

He sounds tired, the softness of his tone filling you with warmth. You could fall asleep like this, easily.

“It’s perfect,” you reply. A twinge of guilt runs through your stomach. You don’t pick up for your sister like this.

You talk until you fall asleep, mostly hushed conversation about what you two have been up to in the past weeks. He tells you stories about Switzerland and Austria and preparation for Germany. You talk about your current projects and your time in the mountains.

The turmoil you’ve faced regarding abuela and your sister remains unspoken.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but in the morning you find that the call has ended, a morning greeting from Hanta in its place.

You call your sister again. This time it’s at a reasonable hour, but still during her workday. After three rings you think she won’t answer. But she picks up.

“Dio, quiero estrangularte,” she immediately bites through the speaker. The sound of her voice makes your breath catch, her threat completely going over your head.

“Te extraño,” you answer. I miss you.

She yells at you through the phone while you sit and listen. Or, partially listen, mostly basking in the fact that she’s speaking to you at all. The words don’t fully process, but you assume they’re threats and complaints and demands that you come back with abuela and an explanation. The berating lasts several minutes, you biting the inside of your cheeks to keep from smiling the entire time. Her voice cracks towards the end, choked noises separating her words. She’s nearly panting when she finally finishes.

“Lo siento,” you manage to whisper.

“Just—” her breath hitches. “Just shut up.”

You nod, waiting for her to continue.

She doesn’t. It’s silent for minutes. You can imagine her face, her lips parting as if to speak before they close in apprehension, the mix of a pout and glare she wears when she doesn’t know what to say. Normally you would ask her questions to get her started, intuiting what she wants to talk about. You don’t know if that’s something you can still do anymore.

You know she wants answers from you: to ask why you did what you did, how you could stomach making such a decision. But you also know that she knows why you did it. She knows you, knows how you feel towards abuela and towards the rest of your family. She knows how you are, running away when things get hard—running away, but always caving and coming back. There’s no point in asking; you both know this.

“Tía abuela is so mad at you.”

Tía abuela—abuela’s sister and your great aunt. You nod, lips pursed. “I can imagine.”

The huff of your sister’s amusement crackles through the speaker and you feel a confidence that everything will be okay.

You call frequently, every few days at the minimum. It’s awkward for the first few minutes of every call, until someone breaks the ice and eventually you’re laughing and gossiping like you used to. One of your tías is getting a divorce, your primero is newly engaged but his mamá doesn’t like the girl, and a family friend just lost an absurd amount of money in recent investments. You listen intently, eagerly taking in everything you’ve missed these past months.

“You kidnapping abuela is the hottest drama though,” your sister states blankly. “Mamá can’t escape it. People still bring it up every chance they get.”

Your stomach twists with guilt. Mamá’s always been soft to you, a stark contrast to abuela’s quips. “How is she faring?”

“Fine.” You can visualize the roll of her eyes on the other end. “She was sweet on you, but you know she’s ruthless to the others. Tía abuela is giving her a lot of shit, but she’s still the new head of the family.”

There’s a pause. You know what she’s going to say.

“I told her we’ve been calling. You should talk to her.”

You exhale. You should, to at least apologize for stealing her mother and her child all at once.

“Maybe,” you hum, and that’s the end of it.

“I’m moving to Japan,” you blurt the next time you call. It takes you by surprise, not the words you meant to say. You almost drop your phone. Why did you say that? You never came to a decision about whether or not to work for Hoshi no Sākasu.

“What!?” your sister screeches on the other end.

“What?”

She whines, “Ay, Dios mío.” You nod. After a few minutes of silence she asks why.

“I got a job offer,” you explain quietly.

“For…?”

“… A circus.”

You hold your breath during the silence that follows. She laughs. The sound brings a wave of relief through you. You aren’t sure why you were anxious to tell her—why you assumed she wouldn’t understand what it means to you.

She understands; she always does. “How’d you land that?”

You smile. “A miracle.” 

The miracles being Hanta and Midoriya. Kendou and Momo. Abuela.

“You taking her with you?”

It’s a jab and you know it—feel it. It’s your sister pleading, Come home. 

Later when you hang up, you sit quietly with yourself, phone tucked in your palms. The little rectangle is heavy with the weight of your conversations. It should be heavier, also holding your messages with Hanta and Chiara and Davide, stored with photos of abuela and mamá.

It takes several calls with Kendou before you give her the official acceptance of the position. Despite your confident claims to your sister, a piece of you was anxious the opportunity was no longer available, even with Kendou’s assurance that they could wait. When you finally breathe the words out over the phone, they don’t feel real. You ask her to keep it a secret for a little while, at least until the news settles in your own heart. Right now it’s a riptide, a violent storm within you as you sift through the emails of contracts and information.

You let her tell Momo, so long as she keeps it to herself, and you’re greeted by a warm message welcoming you to the team. Your eyes water while you respond. Your time with Momo isn’t up—there’s no longer a maybe lingering around the thoughts of being able to work together again.

It takes two weeks to tell Hanta.

He’s brushing his teeth while you mumble about your day, his phone propped up against the sink. The circus just landed in France, this being his first night in Paris. You’re on the couch, swaddled in blankets while your eyes linger around the interior on his end—marble walls, white towels, a random photo in a black frame.

“Are you rooming alone?” you ask when you finish your debrief.

He shakes his head, leaning to rinse his mouth before he wipes the residue on the back of his hand. He reaches for you and your heart races, thinking he’ll touch your face—only to jostle the screen while he leads you out of the bathroom. It’s a funny angle, the underside of his chin. It reminds you of looking up towards his face while laying on his chest.

“Nah I’m with ‘Roki. That’s how it usually is,” he answers. The next second the camera falls as if he dropped it, shaking violently with smears of creamy white and black splotches before he bounces into frame, beaming as he lays on his stomach on one of the hotel beds. His grin blooms an ache in your chest. You wish you were there with him.

You hum, saying, “That’s too bad,” before you can stop yourself.

“Huh?”

You pause, realizing where your mind was going. Heat creeps up your cheeks while Hanta stares at you through the camera. “Just—” you stop yourself, not wanting to tell him this way.

But he’s looking at you so curiously.

“I… I was hoping we could room together.”

It’s silent.

Hanta blinks at you, face and body frozen otherwise. You try to read what he’s thinking, if he’s putting it together, but he looks scarily neutral.

Then his head shifts abruptly to look at you dead on. His hand comes to his mouth, fingertips lightly pressing his lips. His expression doesn’t change except the slight widening of his eyes. He speaks quietly. “Are you… Does that mean what I think it does?”

You nod, face carefully neutral to assess his reaction.

He yelps. The camera shakes before falling and going black, but you can hear him scrambling and the bumping of the phone as he tries to pick it back up. You can’t help your smile—the fondness stretching across your face when he finally comes back into view looking like a puppy.

“Is this real?” he asks meekly. It’s almost a whisper. You wish you could hold his face and kiss him.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “It’s real.”

It’s a precious gift to watch Hanta take in the information, face shifting between emotions rapidly before finally landing on something like a pout. He’s tearing up, eyes like giant marbles as they shine with joy.

“You… you chose—” he pauses. Me, you think he wants to say. “You chose us? The circus?”

Your own eyes are glassy, you can see them glistening in the tiny square in the top corner of the screen. Your lips twitch as you nod. Yes, you’re about to say—that you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. That you chose everyone. But you pause. You’ve been scared to make decisions and declarations, scared to admit to yourself why you make the choices you do, why you pretend they aren’t choices so much as obligations you just fell into. That you had to.

You feel that way with Hanta right now. But choosing to follow what feels like a duty or obligation is still a choice. You smile.“I chose you, Hanta.”

For the next two months, you work and you pack and you say goodbye, your own life rapidly shifting as the weather warms. You decide your time in Italy will come to an end at the start of June, after all your orders are finished. You’ll spend the break period in Costa Rica, tending to the wounds long left behind. Momo offers to hire a moving service that can move your things to her house (or estate, she calls it), to give you peace of mind until it’s time to settle in Japan.

Your stomach twists in knots every time you think about it—about going home.

The moving process starts early with you purging yourself of furniture and decor and clothes you don’t want anymore. Every time you say goodbye to something, your heart feels a little lighter. You sell those costumes you know you’ll never wear again and you argue hotly with the landlady to wiggle out of the lease you signed for the next year. She caves with a scowl when you pull the dead nonna card.

Chiara and Davide assist you, preventing you from taking the decluttering too far.

(“Babe, you still have another month,” Davide protests when you take pictures of your dining table to post online for sale. “Are you planning to eat off the floor?”)

(“Tucano—” Chiara groans when she steps into your studio, feet disappearing under bundles of fabric. “How do you work in this mess?”)

You spend as much time as you can with them, soaking in the final days with your throuple—as Davide puts it. The three of you have weekly gatherings at your place, filled with pastries and fruit and wine. Some days your conversations are a time of laughter. Others, tears.

“I can’t believe I was right after all,” Davide sighs, nursing his third glass of a purplish cabernet.

You make a face. “When you said I would fall in love with one of the performers but then break up and have awkward tension?”

Chiara gasps loudly, nearly a cackle. “What?”

Davide scoffs. “When I said you would leave me for a man.”

You roll your eyes, but Chiara comes to your defense first. “They’re leaving us, first of all. And Italy, and opera dresses. Second, they’re leaving for the circus.”

Teeth scrape against the inside of your cheek as you consider her words. You recall what you told Hanta over the phone, when he asked if you chose Hoshi no Sākasu. Maybe the wine is loosening your tongue, but you find it easier to admit tonight.

“I’m leaving for the circus, but Hanta was a big part of that.”

Davide screeches an, “I knew it!” while Chiara’s face morphs into a frown.

“Hanta,” she repeats back in a mimicking voice. You slap her arm. Her head comes to rest on your shoulder. “You can’t forget about us, okay?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“We should visit! I’ve always wanted to go to Japan.”

Chiara nods quickly, hair brushing your neck. “We should go in the spring. I wanna see the sakura bloom.”

They escalate into making plans to visit, now entirely independent of whether or not you’re in Japan in the spring. You smile to yourself. Chiara was your first friend, who later introduced you to Davide as a client. A couple years passed and now they’re the people in Milan you hold closest. They were friends without you, but became more intertwined when you arrived. You hope they’ll be good friends even after you leave. 

Watching and listening to them now tells you that you have nothing to worry about.

They help you load boxes in the van at the end of June. Your last order is finished and the lease comes to its end. The remainder of your things go into a large suitcase and backpack for you to live out of at Chiara’s. You stay with her for one week, idling in your favorite places around Milan in her clothes. It’s a stretched out goodbye, one that has been happening in fragments since you first declared your departure. These days don’t feel real. You can’t fathom that you’ll soon be across the world, walking through familiar streets—ones that have certainly changed in your absence.

You and Hanta talk less as your move gets closer, primarily because the circus has landed in the Americas, the time change an increasing obstacle. Knowing that you’re following their footsteps, soon to be on the same land again, feels special. It feels like a confirmation that you’re making the right choice. 

You start listening to basic Japanese lessons and download an app to memorize hiragana. Your finger hesitantly draws the characters, lip jutting in a pout when you get one wrong. When you and Hanta do find pockets of time to talk, he gently corrects your pronunciation of basic phrases.

Chiara has to work the day that you leave, so you have a tearful goodbye at her front door before Davide drives you to the airport later in the afternoon. You wonder if this is the last time you’ll sit in his car, legs against dark leather. The thought triggers other sentimental musings, questions of the next time you’ll sleep over at Chiara’s, or the next time you’ll have a real Italian pasta.

Davide holds you at the terminal, one of the few hugs he’s ever offered. He cries easily—still reading you down, just with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose. You’re forced to promise that you won’t forget him. When you finally leave him to roll your bag to the check in line and then to security, you turn back once and catch him scowling. 

You land in Spain before boarding the eleven hour flight to San José. Floating above the ocean—separated from your friends and soaring to your family—strikes something deep in your heart. It’s a mix of aches and pains and fears swirling together, making your body feel so heavy you think you might start plummeting into the Atlantic. Your feet shuffle to cradle your bag between them, tucked under the seat in front of you. You itch to pull it out and open it, to check that abuela is still resting in her wooden box.

San José is just as you remember. Stepping outside hits you full force with an assault of hot, humid air. Your skin begins to glisten, clothes already clinging to you in the few minutes it takes to walk to the buses. The next one comes in half an hour, so you park yourself on a bench and lean against the backrest. Palm trees tower over you, their grassy leaves fanning between the ground and the sky. A cluster of sparrows floats under their canopies, entering your vision only to leave moments later.

By the time you pull your bag along the sidewalk of your childhood street, the sun has sunk beneath the horizon. You slow your steps as you reach the driveway of your home. The house isn’t in view quiet yet, shrouded behind the trees that gate you from the neighbor. You pause at the corner of the fence, fighting the knots in your stomach and the thrumming in your hands. It should just be your sister and mamá inside. You can handle them.

Despite your incessant self-assurances, several minutes pass before you step down the sidewalk. They’re slow and hesitant. Your head tilts upwards, taking in the canopies of cecropia above. The street lamp illuminates the leaves from below, displaying faded green against the black of the sky. Their shapes are round but segmented, the webbed fingers of a frog. You catch scarring on the thin branches, knots and welts in the wood that take the shape of spiraled eyes, watching you. You can hear the rustling of palm trees, the scrape of leafy hairs as they blow above you—

In front of you.

You bring your chin down, looking ahead to the lemon tree in the yard. You nearly yelp in surprise at the sight of your sister. She blinks while you flinch, hand holding one of the branches so she can clip the fruit with her other.

No greeting passes between you. You demand, “Since when do you take care of the garden?” She’s the type to complain about dirtying her shoes while walking to the car. The dresses feel like a weight in your suitcase. Would she even like them?

She scowls at the accusation in your voice. “Ever since you kidnapped the person who used to.”

You don’t have an answer, still too stunned. Her eyes similarly trace over your form, mouth twisting when she takes in your clothes.

“And you still dress like that?”

You can’t hold back your laugh. You missed her.

You missed home.

Seeing mamá is harder. She’s quiet and soft, always a subdued presence, but now with a new touch of somberness. She looks sad—and easily shattered.

You meet her at the door unexpectedly. She’s waiting when you enter, immediately standing from the sofa to reach for you. Her touch is firm over your arm, hands turning white from the intensity of her grip, like she thinks you might disappear at any moment. Tears spring without warning. You try to blink them away, to keep your face from twisting in a sob, but you cry easily.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can think to say. You don’t add more, not sure how to eloquently apologize for stealing her own mother, for leaving, for making life at home and with the family excruciating.

Her dark eyes shine back at you, slightly curved from the twitch of her smile. She looks happy, though a quiet sort of happiness. Not one for words, her reassurance comes from how she reaches for you, pulling you into a hug. Your wet eyes land against her shoulder, steeping into the fabric of her shirt. One of her hands comes to your head, smoothing over your hair as she hums—a content sound, one she makes when things are finally coming together.

You take the box of ashes out shortly and offer them to mamá. Her face tightens when the realization strikes her, and you feel more guilt and regret swirling in your stomach. Should you have waited?

Delicate hands take the box, thumb tracing a band of dark brown towards the bottom of the lid. Her eyes soften before she stretches it back to you.

“Keep her with you,” she nearly whispers. “Until we have the ceremony.”

You swallow. Do you deserve that? To keep holding onto her after all this time? After all that you’ve deprived your family of? Mamá’s eyes don’t waver, holding a command you have never been able to disobey. You take the box.

Your mother fusses over you, helping you carry your bags to your room. She starts fluffing your pillows before offering to bring you some water, and you have to grab her by the arm to get her to stop and listen while you tell her I’m fine and Thank you. She leaves with an anxious expression, you think out of fear that you’ll vanish in the middle of the night. A quiet, “Buenas noches,” filters through just before the door shuts.

You flop onto the bed with a sigh. One of your newly fluffed pillows bounces off and lands on the ground. You sigh again.

Despite the exhaustion deep in your body, you can’t fall asleep. You lay in your childhood bed and stare at the ceiling, your vision no different than if you closed your eyes instead. Even though you’re blind to your surroundings, you can feel the relics of an earlier person littered on bookshelves and tucked into drawers—someone who had their grandmother.

You’re certain that hours pass, but you can’t bring yourself to check the time. An idea comes to mind and you act before thinking it through. You turn so you’re sitting upright on the bed, hand gently waving towards your bedside table until it lands on the wooden box you placed earlier. Once it’s safe in your hold, you rise and leave the room.

You know this journey through the hall to abuela’s room. As a toddler you walked this route nearly every night. You were frequented by nightmares, ones that disappeared as soon as you took refuge with your grandmother.

The floorboards creak under your weight, reminding you to keep to the left to minimize the noise. You take your time, hugging abuela to your chest while your other arm extends to feel for the doorknob. It makes contact immediately. You twist slowly so the latch opens quietly, then push through with your shoulder quickly so the squeak of the hinges aren’t drawn out.

Your feet shuffle forwards, soon pressing your shins against the mattress. There’s the faintest smell of lemons—a scent that tightens your chest. You crawl forwards, bringing the box to rest between the two pillows at the headboard. A wave of exhaustion rolls through you immediately. You don’t bother settling under the covers; as soon as your head touches the pillow, you’re asleep.

Closing your eyes transports you to another world, an older world that you are young within. You’re speaking a language you don’t recognize, but one you understand every word of, conversing back and forth with a boy you’ve never met. He has kind eyes and a soft voice that you want to always say yes to. He has rough hands, but they cradle yours gently. In the next moment you are both older, adults, and he is watching you sadly. You don’t have words to explain his expression, what it invokes in you, but you can tell that he is leaving—not by his own choice.

You are alone and angry and in constant fear, conjuring images in your head of what has happened to him. If you’ll ever see him again. You don’t know this man, but he is everything to you. He has left everything to you, too: a daughter. You look at her face until it becomes your own, staring at a man who is your father by name but not by blood.

The story repeats, this time with a man who gives you meaningful glances. His eyes aren’t as kind but they are entirely on you. He says he’ll give you everything. He takes it back when you learn you’re pregnant, with twins. He leaves without a word.

You’re woken by an assault of light flashing your vision. You squeeze your eyelids shut, trying to block out the blooms of painful red and white static. Turning your head offers some relief, angling yourself from the sun and instead pushing your face into a pillow.

“Get up,” a voice barks. Your sister, you realize, pulling back the curtains.

You groan, drawing it out as if asking a question.

“I’m not letting you sleep past noon,” she continues. “Come help me with the garden.”

You roll over to face her, eyes sticky while you work to hold them open. Your head has the heaviness of a stone. The warmth of the bed lulls your body back under, to whatever lives you were living in your subconscious.

“Kay,” you eventually mumble.

She looks at you skeptically before nodding and leaving, with a promise to return in a few minutes if you don’t appear downstairs.

In the fresh silence of the morning, you turn to lay on your back. Your head brushes something hard. You frown, tilting it back and forth. It scrapes against something with sharp edges. When you turn, you see abuela, her box of ashes still tucked between the pillows. You blink in surprise before going still. The dreams from last night run through your mind. You’ve never had one like that before. You stare at the box, attempting to recall the faces that passed by.

The garden work doesn’t last longer than a couple hours. You pull weeds and harvest the ripened crops—mostly peppers and bananas. The midday sun burns hot and bright and you immediately begin to sweat through the sleeves of your shirt. Your sister doesn’t let you complain, quipping back that it’s your fault for sleeping in.

When you bring the harvest inside, your mother graciously receives it in the kitchen. For the first time today you get a proper look at her face: it’s the older, wrinkled, and saddened features of that first baby in your dream. She looks like a young version of abuela. You halt while several fragmented thoughts abruptly click into place. 

Your dream, your abuela and mamá, your sister…

You.

Tears well in your eyes without warning, immediately sliding down your cheeks. Mamá doesn’t question it. She embraces you, rubbing your back carefully.

When you calm she switches topics, not probing what brought on your outburst. Instead she sifts through the vegetables carefully, picking ones to set on the counter for lunch.

“Hopefully we get a lot tomorrow, or else I’ll have to run to the store.”

You hum in question.

She stops rummaging, eyes lifting to you carefully. “Did your sister not tell you?”

You blink. “Tell me what?”

“We're having a big dinner tomorrow.”

You inhale sharply, heart racing. Big dinner is a synonym for family dinner. Tíos and primeros and amigos de la familia. Tía abuela. It was going to happen eventually, an event you can’t avoid. You knew this, you know this. But you didn’t expect it’d be this soon.

You aren’t ready, aren’t sure you’ll ever be ready. You could throw up.

“Who—” your voice cracks as you manage through the words. “Who’s coming?”

Mamá doesn’t answer.

“So everyone,” you respond to her silence. She doesn’t offer any confirmation or denial. You leave the room.

When you enter your bedroom you curl up beside the bed, shielding you from the door. Shaky hands reach for your phone, calling Hanta by instinct. You don’t know what he’s doing today, if he’ll pick up.

It only takes two rings before you hear him greeting you with a dramatic, “Konnichiwa!” before switching to Spanish. “How’s life back home?”

“Hanta,” you say flatly, urgently. He hums, the sound much lower and with a twinge of surprise. “My family’s coming over tomorrow and I only learned five minutes ago.”

There’s a drawn out sigh on the other end while he conjures a response. “How’s that feeling?”

You nearly laugh. “Like I’m going to throw up and then run away.”

He giggles on the other end. The sound makes your heart pang, but your stomach lightens with a sort of relief. “No way,” he insists. “You’ve come too far to run. And there’s no way I’m letting you put this off if it was your main hesitation for joining us.”

You smile, lips pulling tight against your teeth. “I can make my own choices,” you retort.

“Too bad, I know you already signed the contract.”

You sigh, nodding your head solemnly. You did.

He doesn’t say anything more, letting you take your time.

“I’m just…” you start, trying to find the words. You aren’t ready. You’re still processing being back home, in your old bedroom, with mamá and your sister. You’re— 

“Scared,” Hanta fills in for you. 

You fight the urge to scowl. You fail.

“Yeah,” you huff.

He giggles again, and you know it’s from the tone of your voice. “I’m afraid for you,” he admits. “But you have to do it, yeah? And you’ve already done the hard part of coming home, seeing your mom and sister. And you’re still alive and well after that, right?”

You nod at his words and hum in agreement.

“Was everything okay with them?” he asks. 

You explain what happened when you came home: finding your sister by the lemons and your mom waiting by the door, how neither of them properly yelled or expressed being upset with you.

“Woah… That’s incredible,” he says. “Maybe the rest of your family will move on once they see you too.”

“There’s no way. That was mamá and hermana. Tía abuela is an entirely different character, and I’ve already heard that she’s pissed.”

He huffs. “Sounds like my abuelo. Those people love the strongest though.”

Your call continues, you two catching up on the past few days. He speaks excitedly, but his voice lulls you to a calmer state. By the time you hang up, a piece of you thinks everything will be okay. The two of you exchange goodbyes, and then you’re left in the quiet solitude of your room. It only lasts for a minute, before the door slams open.

It’s your sister, standing with a giant grin across her face as she excitedly demands, “Who was that?”

Tía abuela slaps you the moment she enters the room. 

Your cheek stings from the contact, a sharp pain that tingles across your skin. It dulls quickly, but you wonder if there will be a bruise. The coppery taste of blood blooms against the side of your tongue. You must have cut the inside of your mouth against your teeth.

These thoughts distract you from the accompanying verbal assault: a string of insults and accusations that you’ve heard before, from yourself. You take it quietly and with a stoic expression. Your eyes trail to the floor, not wanting to meet hers as she berates you in front of your relatives. Nobody speaks when she finishes. The only remaining sound is her ragged breath.

A long pause follows. You don’t raise your eyes, too embarrassed to meet anyone’s gaze.

The silence is eventually broken by your nephew. He cries, yanking his hand from his mother in attempt to run out the door. The room unpauses, relatives rushing after him while loud commotion fills the space. A gentle touch on your cheek brings your attention to your mother. There’s a shine in her eyes, a quirk to her lips. Maybe she finds this funny. You think you would too.

Nobody speaks to you, not willing to take on any part of tía abuela’s wrath. You don’t mind, standing awkwardly to yourself in the corner, and shunning yourself in the kitchen when the others take their plates to the dining and living rooms to eat. Nobody invites you over.

Later there’s another commotion, in the living room with your nephew again. Tía abuela tries to feed him a spoonful of rice, but he refuses. She insists, and he slaps the fork from her hand. Gasps release throughout the room, your cousins immediately going to scold him, but he screams and runs. You can hear his footsteps approach the kitchen. You freeze, not sure what you should do.

He barrels straight for you, short arms coming around your hips while his face buries into your stomach. You grunt at the impact, but stand frozen and wide-eyed. His parents enter—your older cousin and her husband—with tía abuela trailing behind them. Your hands fly to your nephew’s to pull him from you and hand him over. He’s too young to understand, too young to get in trouble. But he fists your shirt tightly and yells, “No!”

You tug him again. 

“She hurt you!” he wails. The sentence is partially muffled by your shirt, wetting with his tears and snot, but everyone hears it. Your heart drops. All the adults in the doorway freeze.

You cast one careful glance to them before you make up your mind and grip your nephew by his underarms, hoisting him to your hip. His face is red, with teary eyes and black curls clinging to his temples. You watch him glance at you and then the door, laying his chest against yours as if to offer himself as a shield. Your eyes well with tears.

“I hurt her too,” you say quietly, running a hand over his hair. Your voice is firm, and loud enough that you know the others will hear.

He hiccups, head turning to look at you in shock. “You hit tía abuela?”

“No,” you say with a huff of laughter. “But something worse.”

His eyes widen impossibly, full moons against a dark night. Brown irises drift to your cheek. There must be a mark, still flared and angry. A small hand comes to touch it gently, a tingling sting radiating from the contact. You’re certain there will be a bruise tomorrow.

Tía abuela doesn’t speak to you, but others finally do. Your nephew’s outburst broke the invisible boundary, opening a gap for others to greet you. They don’t say much, eyes still cautiously flitting to tía abuela, but it’s a start. Nobody chides you, but nobody looks excited either.

Everyone but the kids. You watch your nephew whisper with his cousins, giggling as they look towards you and then dart their eyes away when you meet them. One of them approaches you during the goodbyes, gently tugging at your shirt to get your attention. He’s another nephew, this one from a family friend.

“Did you really punch tía abuela?” he asks, eyes wide with wonder.

Yours nearly pop out of your head. A stifled laugh sounds from behind you—your sister’s voice.

“Not…” you don’t know how to respond, what the appropriate explanation is for a seven year old. “Not exactly.”

His eyes stay glued to your face. You feel cornered here, wondering if you said the wrong thing. A voice calls his name. He grins wide before running off. You exhale in relief.

You get small waves and head nods from everyone else. Only when tía abuela is out the door does someone finally pull you for a clumsy, messy hug—your tía, the second eldest of abuela’s children after mamá. She holds you tightly, with the quiet promise that you’ll talk more soon. You feel her sincerity in the hand clutching your wrist.

When the door finally closes, your sister releases the longest breath you’ve ever heard. Mamá appears with an ice pack covered in cloth, motioning to hold it against your cheek. It’s long overdue, but you accept it graciously.

“That went better than I expected,” she says quietly. You agree.

“You totally could have dodged it,” your sister adds.

You agree. You could have, if you wanted to.

The bruise fades after a week, in time for the ceremony to scatter abuela’s ashes. Family members have come and gone by the house, warmed to catching up with you. You see tía abuela again, this time without the slapping and screaming. She ignores you, except for a fair amount of side eyes while conversing with mamá. When she says goodbye, her eyes meet yours for a moment right before slamming the door.

The ceremony takes place on the beach. The sight makes you think of Hanta and that beautiful tent—black sand glitters like the dust of diamonds under moonlight. No words are spoken; the only sounds being the lapping waves trying to reach your family on the shore. Tía abuela lights the candles of the vigil while mamá opens the ashes and pours them into the hands of your relatives. Tía abuela’s sharp eyes watch closely, lingering on you when mamá finally makes her way around.

Abuela’s remains are soft and light—grey ash spotted with clumps of black residue. Her body is the feathery weight of dry sand, and yet you feel like you are cupping the entire world and universe. This is not the dust that sweeps through the air after a fire; you are holding the dust of stars and planets and moons. You are holding the weight of your lineage, the connecting point between the bloodline that lives, and the blood that has passed. If you squint, you can make out shapes and images in abuela’s remains. They’re vague. Dreamlike.

One of your younger tíos begins the music with his Quijongo, the stick thumping steadily against the bowstring. You close your eyes at the sound, akin to the whistling of wind through trees. The airy notes of your cousin on the Ocarina join shortly, and then the gentle shake of Maracas. Their performance draws on for a few moments before tía abuela starts to hum. It fills your body with warmth, a feeling so intense you almost shiver in the summer heat. Her notes are clear and bodied, like her entire soul is unraveling into the air—settling above you like the salty humidity. 

She falls into a repeated chorus, the sign for everyone to join. You open your eyes when you begin to hum with her—with everyone. The sound sweeps through the circle around you, tía abuela illuminated in the center by candlelight, orange haze gently fanning to reveal the faces surrounding her in a warm glow. The humming changes when your mother shifts her intonation. Others follow her lead, adding their own twists and slides and delays to the song, pulling a deeper and richer sound through layers of complexity. You try to channel abuela’s energy with your own voice, sharpening the ends of each note and adding a roughness to your tone. 

You close your eyes again, letting a warm buzz sweep over you entirely. A charged energy has bloomed within, taken you completely, as if your body has more spirit than it can contain. Your arms burn.

When abuela has been scattered over the sands of your home, everyone falls silent. Your eyes again drift around the circle, taking in the many praying faces of your family, slowly dimming as the flaming wicks reach their end. You lift your gaze to the sky, soaking in the faint moon and sprinkled stars.

A figure flies above, the shape of a large bird. Your heart skips a beat before it races, catching the familiar outline of a macaw. They’re daytime birds, ones that sleep when the sun does.

You wonder what brought this one here, now.

The following month brings new grief. The grief of old relationships as they change and fizzle, the grief of your previous self, the grief of your pride when you say your apologies over and over—understanding the multitudes of ways you hurt your family. You grieve your anger and your spite, coming to terms with the detriments of your self righteous attitude.

There’s a special grief in the pain of being forgiven, too.

There’s a beauty in this sadness and this ache: the beauty of memory. Abuela begins to appear everywhere, and in all of those people you once thought weren’t deserving of her. It hits you the hardest with mamá, a face you see daily and with each moment growing more and more similarities between her and the deceased.

You’re envious that abuela lives in her features, in the slope of her nose and lips. Some were passed down to you and your sister, in matching smiles but otherwise your relationship isn’t apparent. Even you and your sister look nothing alike, only sharing the eyes of a man you don’t know. A man you saw in a dream now weeks ago, one who promised you everything for one brief moment.

He appears one day.

You’re freshly showered from a morning in the garden, heading toward the stairs to meet mamá in the kitchen, passing the square window on the second floor. She stands in the opening, a frame capturing a moment in time: her in the driveway with someone. He’s tall with tanned skin and curly hair—an aged version of the second man from your dream. You watch him smirk at mamá, a sharp sliver of teeth. You can’t hear her, but she waves her arms and her lips move rapidly. Her chest heaves and you think for the first time in your life you’re watching her yell at someone.

The man takes one step closer. Your mom shoves him at the shoulder. He stares at her openly before finally turning away.

His head tilts towards the window, gaze immediately locking onto you. Despite the distance, the shape of his eyes is clear: they’re sharp, intense. For a brief moment you think you’re looking at your sister. You break the stare, turning your head sharply before moving away from the glass.

You stand still for a minute, back against the wall. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears, crawling uncomfortably up your throat.

“I think I saw my dad,” you say abruptly the following day.

You watch Hanta’s face go still. “Huh?”

“He was in the driveway with mamá. I’ve never met him, or seen pictures. But I have his eyes.”

“He must be hot.” You deadpan at his response and he laughs. “Sorry. Did you get to talk to him? Or ask your mamá about it?”

You shake your head. She didn’t say anything when you came downstairs; she���s never said anything before. You’ve never felt a reason to ask, always happy enough with the family you have. If that dream from last month had any indication of the kind of man he is, you’d rather keep things the way they are.

You don’t see him again.

Your second month at home is busier now that you’ve reintegrated with your relatives. You go from spending most days at mamá’s to getting pulled along excursions to other houses and local spots. You’re put on impromptu babysitting duty for your nieces and nephews, shaken awake early in the morning to hike with your cousin, abruptly shoved into a car during the afternoon for a trip to the beach. You find yourself in markets and on the sand and in the jungle. It’s exhausting, but you love it. You missed it.

You still maintain the garden with your sister and call your friends regularly. They ground you into the soil of your home, even across the ocean. Your joint chat with Chiara and Davide populates with pictures, frequently including ones of them smiling together at your usual places. Swiping through them fills you with warmth, and a distant ache. 

Hanta is equally diligent with his communication. His responses to your own photos always result in grins that pique the interest of your family members. You learn to wait until you’re alone to read his messages.

(He sends a video one evening, of a recent training session. The phone is still, likely propped on a table or chair, while he moves through an unpracticed routine—a freestyle. It could be mistaken for casual stretching. Even so, every motion is smooth, every transition is seamless. At one point he anchors his legs before leaning back in a bundle of fabric. The camera is close enough to pick up the steady rise and fall of his chest.

You save the video with warm cheeks, watching it again several times throughout the day. He’s so captivating.)

One rare morning when you rise before your sister, you tend to the garden alone. The work is minimal: watering some sections and picking ripened tomatoes. Less than an hour later you step inside with a heavy basket of sweet red, heaving it on the counter. The consecutive thump of footsteps sound down the stairs—your sister must have woken.

You turn to greet her and freeze.

In her arms are dresses, the dresses you made her. Dresses you haven’t shown her. Her eyebrows are arched high into her forehead as she asks, “So tell me why these are exactly my size and style?”

Heat flares up your neck. Instead of explaining, you demand, “Why were you in my room?”

“Why is this my size?”

Several moments of silent glaring pass. You still refuse to answer. She laughs.

“You sap! You are so fake.” The grin on her face stretches wide. Her arm bends to press the garments to her chest while her other one points at you. “This is embarrassing for you.”

You nod, absolutely humiliated. Your plan was to hang the dresses in the back of her closet the day you leave for Japan. At the very least you could avoid her reaction over the phone. But now that she’s found them, more than anything, you’re just relieved that her eyes are shining with glee.

She likes them.

Towards the end of August you’re in regular conversation with Kendou and Momo about moving to Japan. Kendou assists your preparation for work while Momo helps with housing. The latter recommends you visit in person before committing to a lease, and insists you stay with her until you get situated. You attempt to refuse, but she doesn’t relent. When you try suggesting you at least pay her something, she laughs. 

“I’ll quit,” you threaten.

She grins, nearly singing, “Too late. Besides, I have your things hostage at my estate.”

You sigh, defeated.

The next day you get a call from Hanta in the evening. His pouting face is the first thing you see when you accept it.

“What?” you ask in amusement.

“Why’d you ask to stay with Momo? Why not me?”

Your jaw nearly drops. Can’t they let you share your own news? And why is he acting like you begged her to host you?

“Hanta, I tried to refuse but she has my stuff already.”

“You should move it to my place.”

You laugh. “You’re crazy.”

He pouts harder, puppy eyes sparkling. “Why not?”

“Hanta—” you sigh. “I thought you wanted to take your time?”

He groans, flopping his head onto a pillow. You grin.

“Yeah,” he exhales. “I just miss you a lot right now.”

The confession strikes your heart, claws an ache through your chest. He’s straightforward with his feelings and his words, sending shivers of giddiness through you.

“I miss you too,” you admit. The busy days with your family have been effective distractions, but that longing always reappears—in the quiet of the nights and mornings, or during these calls when you can hear his voice so clearly. So close. “We have less than two months left.”

He groans again. “That’s so long.”

You agree, and ask him what he plans to do when the tour finishes mid-September. The circus cast has a month break before training in Tokyo resumes.

“Last time I went to Ecuador to see mamá’s family.”

You hum. Maybe you could meet him there and catch the same plane to Japan. Neither of you say anything, but you can tell he’s thinking something similar.

By the time September sweeps in you live everyday with a buzz thrumming beneath your skin. It’s a constant energy, restless anxiety knowing that you’ll be moving soon. You and Hanta have started working out the details of meeting in Ecuador. He tells you that he’ll know his plans in a few days.

You keep yourself busy to ease your agitation, more beaches and mountains and markets. The full days have you exhausted at night, enough to sleep instead of letting your mind race in excitement.

Today you wake early, finishing the garden tasks before the sun arches overhead. You have plans to spend the day in the city with your sister. You already know where you want to eat lunch, and you can guess which bakery she’ll demand you visit afterwards. While you make your way downstairs quickly, she takes her time. The water from her shower stops running just as you reach the living room. You sigh. 

After several minutes of listening to pattering footsteps above you, the chime of the doorbell rings. You frown. It deepens when your sister calls, “Can you get that? I invited someone to join.”

You were looking forward to a day of just the two of you, not prepared to have a third presence. Knowing your sister, the guest is your older cousin—who you love, but is usually overwhelming to be around for longer than an hour.

You open the door with a huff, ready to greet her with the most enthusiasm you can muster—

But Hanta is standing at the doorstep.

Your eyes fly open at the sight. Immediately they trace his face—his dark hair and eyes. He’s disheveled, sporting stubble along his lip and jawline. His hair is longer than it was half a year ago, bunched in a knot at the base of his neck. Long wisps fall at the sides of his face, framing him. He’s in warm weather clothes—an unbuttoned tropical shirt with loose shorts and sandals, and a big backpack.

You swallow. He looks good.

He grins immediately, reaching for your hand as he says your name. You’re too stunned to hear it, focused trying to process the fact that he’s here.

“Hanta…?” you eventually ask. Your eyes burn and your nose stings. Tears surface.

His face softens, smile turning gentle. He tugs your arm, encouraging you to step closer. Your heart thumps quickly and loudly in your ears. You think your chest is going to explode.

“Yeah,” he nearly whispers. “Can I hug you now?”

You nod fervently and let him pull you by the waist. His bag prevents you from wrapping your arms around his torso, so instead you loop them over his shoulders. He buries his face into your neck with a sigh, his breath sending shivers down your spine. Your cheek presses into his hair while you inhale the scent of him: sweet oranges. There’s a thrumming against your chest, but you can’t differentiate your heartbeat from his.

“Missed you,” you mumble quietly.

“Yeah.”

Your mind races with questions. How did your sister manage to contact him? Everyone told you the circus  still had a few more days before the tour officially ended—did they finish early? Did Hanta leave early?

You don’t ask any, instead squeezing your arms to clutch him harder. His grip tightens in response and a rush of euphoria runs through you—to be held like this, by him.

The shutter of a camera breaks your moment of bliss, immediately prompting you to jerk away. Hanta’s grip doesn’t let you go far, keeping your chests pressed together while you lean your head back to turn to the sound. Mamá fumbles with her phone, grumbling that the ringer was supposed to be off. Your sister stands beside her with a giant smirk. You want to cower away in embarrassment. Hanta doesn’t let you escape him, so you resort to burying your head into his shoulder.

He laughs, a symphony of glee. You peek at his face and see no traces of fluster. He looks happy.

His grip loosens enough to let him step aside and introduce himself, but his hand holds yours tightly. The greeting he offers feels dutifully Japanese—bowing as he states his full name, thanking mamá for the care—but the words come out in Spanish. You blink at his formality and its out of place nature in your family, on him.

Mamá ushers the two of you inside, insisting it’s her pleasure and for him to make himself at home. It occurs to you that she also knew he was coming, already expecting to let him stay. You look at your sister with wide eyes, hoping for an answer, but she continues to grin smugly, widening as she deliberately looks at your intertwined hands.

She interjects before mamá and Hanta can get invested in their conversation. “You should go soon.”

You frown. “Huh?”

“I did invite someone over—for me to hang out with.” The look she gives you says all you need to know: it is your older cousin. “Unless you want everyone to know about your boyfriend today, you should leave before she comes.”

You can feel the headache forming at the thought of your extended family finding out. So you nod, hurrying him to your room to drop off his bag.

“Maybe we should go to the beach,” you tell him quickly. “This city is small and I would really like to wait a couple days before anyone finds out you’re here. The beach will be fine, and we can visit the next city over—”

Hanta leans to press his lips against your own, effectively halting your speech and thoughts. The words die in your throat as you immediately kiss him back, mind melting as his hand cradles your neck. He takes a slow step forward, backing you up to the door. He’s radiant with warmth, his front entirely flush to you, removing any distance. 

The kiss is passionate—that searing heat you’ve missed for too long. He smiles against you, softly scraping his stubble against your cheek. An embarrassing noise slips from your throat, originating from somewhere deep inside you.

He hums before pulling away, only long enough to breathe before he’s on you again.

“I missed you,” he whispers after a proper pause.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He glues himself to you for the entire day. His arms are firm over your waist while he sits on the back of your moped, you speeding along the road to the beach. He pulls you by the hand when you park, grinning wide as his feet sift through the sand. The air and ground are warm, Hanta a thousand times warmer as he holds you on the shore. You lay on your back, him on his side so he can throw an arm over your stomach and stare right into your eyes.

You speak in quiet voices about everything you can. He kisses you often, stealing them between every pause of your words. When you jokingly chide him for it, insisting you need to speak, he settles for grazing his lips over your neck and collarbone, shifting to your knuckle when he wants to see your face. 

Sometimes the conversation lulls, and all you do is watch each other with soft smiles and glistening eyes. 

In the water, his gaze becomes stronger, too strong for you to handle. When you surface from a wave, he’s the first thing you see, crooked grin and wet hair. You immediately dip back under. There’s a certain weight in his eyes that you can’t handle.

The next time you break for air, he’s out of sight. Before you can turn to look for him, a hand tugs you from behind. It’s Hanta, pulling your back to slot against his chest. His head dips to your shoulder, lips running over the skin, arms snaking around your waist so you can’t disappear again.

You close your eyes at the feeling—his heat and his honest affection. You’re embarrassed by the tender displays in public, susceptible to the gazes and opinions of others. But maybe you deserve to have this moment, to be the annoying couple at the beach.

Couple? you wonder. You shake the thought away. Whatever this… thing you have with Hanta is, you don’t know how to name it. Neither of you have spoken about labels or exclusivity, but… couple feels almost derogatory. 

The two of you stay out until the evening, not sure when your home is safe to return to. When hunger settles in you drive with Hanta into the city.

This is his first time in Costa Rica, but he's in a different element in Latin America. Speaking Español brings out facets of his personality that are less noticeable in English or Japanese��a more playful but direct version of him. You wonder what you might learn about him as you continue to study Japanese.

He hugs you tightly on the ride home, arms back around your waist. He tries to tuck his head in the crook of your neck and shoulder, but the clunky helmets enforce a distance. You ride slowly through the night, careful of the winding roads, slow enough to catch the rustle of monkeys darting along the powerline. Every time you come to a stop, your ears flood with the ringing of insects and the soft, steady tone of night birds.

The house is quiet at night. Mamá is the only one present, greeting you with a quiet smile. She offers you dinner, and then some fruit when you decline. Hanta’s lip pouts at the mention of fried plantains, puppy eyes forcing you to agree.

“You can stay in my room,” you tell him afterwards while climbing the stairs. “I just need to grab a couple things.”

He trails curiously when you skip your door to go further down the hall.

“I’ve been sleeping in abuela’s room,” you explain.

He doesn’t follow you into the space, instead waiting by the doorway. You swipe your charger and book from the bedside table before smoothing out the covers and leaving.

Hanta doesn’t ask any questions, and you don’t offer any details. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he wants to know. His eyes linger over you, watching you closely. You wish you knew him better, wish you could take one look at his face and know immediately what’s turning through his heart and mind. Maybe he feels this way towards you, too.

This time when he enters your room, his eyes drift through your shelves and desk. They brighten when he catches a picture frame, nestled with a younger version of you and your sister standing in front of mamá and your grandparents. You don’t remember your abuelo well, only having fragments of memories. The only pieces of him you recall are the ones captured in photos; maybe they aren’t even real memories, just scenes you conjured from your imagination to pretend.

“You look like your abuelo in this one,” Hanta says.

Is this too much? For him to be here, looking through your artifacts of life and smiling fondly over old pictures? Part of you still feels like you’ve only known each other for a week, still chasing him through tents and trying to discover their makers. The other part thinks you’ve been in each other’s arms through your months of separation.

A seed inside you says, He’s been with you before the circus, too.

Hanta’s still smiling when he looks at you again. You swallow, catching that joyful glint in his eyes. For him, this is long overdue.

(This being the intimacy and the affection and the opportunity to learn everything he can—to find his way into every opening of your being and make a home for himself. For both of you.)

In this stillness and quiet of the night, you search your heart for how you really feel—untampered by fears of what’s right or what others may think, what the standard for relationships is supposed to be.

You want him—like this. Forever.

Under soft covers and cocooned in Hanta’s warmth, you manage to fall asleep in your own bed. You enter a dreamless sleep and rise naturally with the sun. Your sister doesn’t barge into your room to wake you, but you still dress for the garden and get to work. She’s there already, clipping the last round of tomatoes.

She gives you a pointed look that you return with your own. Neither of you speak, instead trading glances through the morning as you join her tending. She’s nosy and wants to know the details of how you met, what your relationship is like. You communicate that it’s not her business. You know you’ll fold and tell her eventually.

When you re-enter the house, you’re ambushed by the sight of Hanta in the kitchen helping mamá with breakfast. He wears her floral apron, diligently cutting onions while answering her questions—about his work and how it led you two to meet. His voice stops when he sees you, immediately grinning. He asks if you’re hungry.

After breakfast he insists on washing dishes. Your sister volunteers to dry, so you and mamá clean the table together. You can hear your sister grilling him from the kitchen, Hanta answering every question with ease.

“He’s a good man,” mamá says softly.

You nod.

When you two wiggle into your bed a second time, he asks you to wake him if you rise first. You frown. “Don’t you need your sleep?” 

He yawns, punctuating your point. “Maybe,” he slurs. “But I didn’t like waking up alone.”

Your heart pauses while you nod slowly. He hums with satisfaction and promptly falls asleep. You kiss his forehead. His hand tightens over yours.

On the third day, one of your tía’s and multiple cousins show up unexpectedly. You’re showing Hanta the garden, explaining how to hold the clippers, when a car pulls in and you sigh, knowing this will be the end of your peace. Hanta takes the chaos happily. He says he’s excited to meet everyone, albeit nervous.

Your extended family loves him. Everyone does, you start to realize—with his calm but lively energy, his honesty, his charm. Seeing him meet your relatives strikes you with awe, and a new wave of gratitude. 

Even tía abuela can’t dislike him. You’re anxious for their introductions, but then you watch Hanta softly bow his head—that Japanese filial piety overtaking him—while he politely says, “Mucho gusto, tía abuela.”

You catch the purse of her lips, the glint in her eye as she takes him in, and you know that he’s won her over already. Her eyes flit to you with the undertones of approval and you want to hug everyone in the room from your relief.

Things don’t fully mend by the time you leave with him for Ecuador. Tía abuela still won’t hold an extended conversation with you, some cousins mention abuela offhandedly to stir tension, and occasionally one of your tíos stare at you with anything but forgiveness. But you came home; you brought abuela home with you. This time when you leave, you’re leaving her behind—scattered along dark sand and blue water.

Mamá weeps when she says goodbye, holding you long in her arms. She says that she’ll miss you, that she loves you, and that she’s happy for you. She just hopes you’ll come back. You promise that you will.

Your sister is sharper with her words, insulting you through tears as she jabs, “You better not die.”

You nod vigorously.

Quito is different than you remember; too many years have passed since your first and last visit. It’s still beautiful and lively, with long markets and silver buses stretched down the roads. You board one, eventually winding your way along jungles and mountains, passing squares of shrimp farms by the coast. Hanta lets you take the window seat, happily holding your hand while you stare outside.

Ecuador is another sort of beast, with more chaotic roads and a harsher sun than Costa Rica. As you approach Hanta’s city along the sea, crumbling concrete buildings make a repeated appearance. The work of earthquakes, he tells you, an unwinnable battle for the poorly constructed towers—salt water and sea sand hiding in their walls, ready to surrender in an instant.

The edge of the shore appears. The sand is white, almost grey like ash. Like your abuela, now scattered along the Pacific. Did she make it down here after the past few months? Will she spread to the shores of Japan—to Musutafu?

When you arrive at the front of his house, you are struck by the familiarity. It takes a moment to remember that you’ve been here before, when Hanta ran with you across the ocean and led you through his home from the back porch. But that was a home from over a decade ago. Now parts are faded and parts are changed, but you still recognize it as if it were your own.

Hanta’s family is lively. His parents aren’t home—still working in Japan—but he opens the door to greet grandparents and avunculi and cousins. You watch his abuela’s face shine as she pulls him into a hug. His slender frame towers over her, awkwardly hunching to average their heights. The sight blooms a pang of something in your chest, the sting of an injury, and you swallow to avoid bursting into tears.

After surviving the introductions he leads you to his room. As soon as the door shuts and you have a moment of quiet, the tears resurface.

“Woah, hey,” Hanta says gently when he notices. His attention immediately fixes on you, hands abandoning his bag half unpacked to cradle your face. “Are you okay? Was that too much? Was someone out of line?”

You nod and then shake your head, trying to answer yes and then no respectively. It must be unconvincing, your face still twisted from holding back sobs.

“I’m okay,” you croak. You’re just overwhelmed, and maybe envious, from watching Hanta with his grandmother. From seeing loving touches and crinkled eyes. Curly white hair and wrinkled hands.

Hanta makes a complicated face. You gauge that he’s unconvinced and worried.

“We can go somewhere else,” he bargains. “Or you can rest here until you’re ready. Or a third option I don’t know right now.”

You nod, trying to agree with the second one. You’re fully crying by now, sniffling and blinking through tears. “I promise I’m okay,” you try to convince him. “I just need to cry, I think.”

He doesn’t question you, instead nodding and gesturing for you to sit on his bed. He lowers with you, carefully hugging you into his side. It’s a mourning cry, a weeping to express a hollowness in your heart, a loss that still hasn’t filled itself. Hanta remains a silent support, rubbing your back soothingly even after your sounds shift to sniffles. You press your face into his chest, tears smearing against his shirt. 

He’s warm. He’s always so warm.

You wonder how long you’ll live like this, still crying at random as if abuela’s death was a recent one—not a year in the past. Something tells you it’ll be often. 

Maybe you should apologize to Hanta in advance.

But his hold on you—firm while gentle—reminds you of his patience. He would tell you not to be sorry.

The week you have in Ecuador together is a busy one, spent meeting more family and getting yanked to Hanta’s favorite places. This time you’re the one on the back of the moped, leaning into his warmth as he winds up and down the roads. He lives on a small peninsula in the northern coast, where you can watch the sunrise from one beach, and then cross the city to catch the sunset on a different shore. 

The water turns red in the evening as the sun dips down, the ocean reflecting the brilliant rosiness of the sky. You and Hanta bob on surfboards in the water—yours long and wide and foam, his narrow and made of resin-coated wood. You soak in the remaining light, that fiery ball of light tucking under the horizon. There’s a tug at your heart when you remember the tent of floating oranges. When you glance at Hanta, he’s already staring at you. He grins.

You only get to see the coast of Ecuador during your stay, not touching mountains or jungle.

“Next time,” Hanta promises.

Next time.

Life doesn’t feel quite real when you board the plane together. Your goodbye to Hanta’s family felt more dramatic than your own, mostly because everyone was weeping and offering hugs all around. Tears pricked your eyes when his abuela pulled you for a hug, asking that you take good care of him. You promised you will.

You slide into the window seat, immediately pulling up the shade to look outside. You’re at the front of the wing, still parked on a giant slab of foundation and surrounded by the tunnels of the airport. Hanta plops down next, immediately snaking his arm around your waist and leaning into your side.

“Excited?” he asks.

Terrified is a more accurate description. “Yeah.”

He hums like he wants to ask more, but he keeps his questions to himself. You turn to look at him, his gentle eyes. They’re dark, dark like the night sky and shimmering with the sparkle of a thousand stars, ready to be plucked and pulled and woven into a timeless tale of love.

He has his abuela’s eyes.

(Is this how it’s going to be—you always searching for meaning and connection to the dead, never able to let them rest entirely, finding ways to make them alive time and time again? Is this who you are—someone who rereads the same book since childhood, clutching it close like a holy scripture that guides you forward?

But they are all you know, all you’ve ever chased, a child watching a display of magic and wanting nothing more than to be part of it.)

The voice of the flight attendant sounds through the speakers. Her voice crackles through the intercom as she reads from the safety brief.

Your eyes drift to Hanta’s skin. It’s darkened considerably since returning to Latin America. His cheeks and nose are splattered with an array of freckles. They’re constellations against his skin, a map of everything you’ve wanted. He leans to press his face against yours, like he can transfer those markings if you touch for long enough.

You turn to the window when the plane starts to roll forwards. Hanta’s chest presses against your shoulder while he leans to watch with you. His hand comes over yours, holding your fingers gently before raising them for a tender kiss.

There’s a jumble of knots in your stomach, like one thread tossed and turned until it became impossible to unravel. You’ve never been to Japan. You’ve never been contracted for a circus company. You don’t know Japanese and you don’t even have your own housing. All you have is a visa and the promise of a job awaiting your arrival. This is different from moving to Italy, fueled by nothing but the hunger for money. This time it’s a hunger for life, a hunger to find something—or, to follow what you’ve already found.

This time when you leave this part of the world, the part with your home, there is no obligation to do anything but what you want. A total freedom, the freedom to chase whimsical childhood dreams. Dreams of stars���The Circus of the Stars—and outrageous costumes and people you love.

The plane starts to dart down the runway, picking up speed to eventually lift and soar into the sky—a white aluminum bird against cerulean blue. Hanta’s lips press into your temple, hand squeezing yours. You grin while staring at the city of Quito below, clusters of buildings fading away with each passing second. The vessel of the plane chugs onwards and upwards, brushing through a mist of clouds—through the clouds, until they’re an ocean below you.

You squeeze Hanta’s hand back, interlocking your fingers like threads on a loom. Despite your fears, you feel ready.

Ready to stretch out your lives like the billions of stars in the sky, and to weave them together in a continuous, unbreakable fabric.

✰.

The circus is coming. And this time, you’re coming with it.

just a note about aerial silks: aerial silks for performance are not made of real silk, they're typically made of like some sort of synthetic fiber like nylon or lycra for safety purposes but i'm pretending like that isn't the case for the ~metaphors~

my sappy afterword can be found here

[almostempty]

get to know your moots

thanks for the tag @yxtkiwiyxt, i can never resist a classic myspace about me bulletin survey throwback bc i yearn for the days of agonizing over finding the perfect profile song

what's the origin of your blog title?: it's too much pressure to create a witty name, i've used such gripping online usernames as waterbottle, casual-stapler, oldfruit, etc..

favorite fandoms: this is all i participate in actively! but i do enjoy being exposed to other fandoms through y'all here and there

OTP(s) + shipname: i just want all of the various fictional ppcu characters for me

favorite color: black n yellow 🖤💛

favorite game: nothing recently, but i enjoy zelda games, rdr2, elden ring, and roller coaster tycoon (1999)

song stuck in your head: listening to Sativa - Jhené Aiko, Swae Lee currently

weirdest habit/trait?: dissociating in car (parked)

hobbies: reading, writing, finding new/old music, making myself laugh over silly memes, swimming, solo adventures, people watching, going to da movies, etc.

if you work, what's your profession?: drug and alcohol counseling and juvenile justice advocacy

if you could have any job you wish what would it be?: obligatory i do not dream of labor, but like @yxtkiwiyxt, for my next trick i'd like to be a digital nomad somehow

something you're good at: i have a good picker for friends, i'm occasionally funny, dogs like me

something you're bad at: being concise, perception/management of time in any manner and remembering

something you love: music, all day, every day, non stop

something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: various rants about capitalism (i'm fun), movies i haven't seen but feel like i could accurately guess the plot of, my fav cursed double features

something you hate: my poor perception of time and memory issues, executive dysfunction, facing my demons aka doing IFS work in therapy

something you collect: concert vids, i think i'm the only one that rewatches them?, books, nearly dead peach ice Lost Mary's

something you forget: plans, texts, objects and people not in my line of sight, if a memory real or a dream/idea, if i've already told you the story i'm halfway through (but i still think it's funny so i intend on finishing it either way)

what's your love language?: i know it's an innocent question, but i have mad beef with the author of the book about love languages and the christian gender roles perpetuated in the book and lack of empirical research around the concepts, and the creator's homophobia, but i digress (i told y'all i'm fun)

favorite movie/show: some movies: office space, SLC punk, eternal sunshine, the thing, drive, bottoms; don't make me pick shows rn

favorite food: been unable to stop getting nachos and the poblano crema from the taqueria on my block for the last ~6 weeks

favorite animal: big time animal lover here, shout out to my dogs!! i can't choose a fav otherwise

are you musical?: i can play a couple instruments, i wish i could sing

what were you like as a child?: a pleasure to have in class

favorite subject at school?: art, but i pursued science

least favorite subject?: i never took chemistry because everyone complained about how hard it was and i figured out you didn't need it to graduate, but i suppose technically i didn't take it so can't confirm

what's your best character trait?: adaptability (i just took an updated personality test lmao to help me figure one out)

what's your worst character trait?: perfectionist (not with editing heheh)

if you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be?: a few interpersonal interactions

if you could travel in time who would you like to meet?: maybe an artist from the 27 club, just to see them perform

recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love!):

two completed longfics i enjoyed <3, best kept secret- enemies to lovers/bodyguard din by luckbealincoln on ao3, vampire waltz - idiots in love/ max phillips by absurdthirst, wardenparker on ao3

obligatory free memes if u made it this far

tags, but no pressure: @auteurdelabre @gothcsz @lovely-vamp-princess

@slimybeth69 @swankyorange @syd-djarin @itwasntimethatdidit40 @probablyreadinsmut @thundermartini @ace-turned-confused

@persephone-girl @thischarmingmandalorian @pinkypromisepascal

@hoelaris @lilac-boo if u read this and i didn't tag you, tell me all ur secrets and tag me anyway <3

[zanyana626]

Saw this & wanted to join in!

What's the origin of your blog's title?: "Zany" bc I joined tumblr around the time of the Animaniacs reboot, "Ana" bc my friends call me that for short, & "626" bc it's my birthdate/Stitch day!

Favorite Fandoms: Yeaaah, there's a ton! But my top 3 at the moment are: Gravity Falls, The Amazing Digital Circus, & the Pedro Pascal fandom!

OTP(s) + shipname: Again, there's too many so I'll just go with my current top 3 ships; Jinmao, Gelphie, & Abstragedy

Favorite color: Purple 💜😈🔮💟🪻

Favorite game: Other than the uQuiz personality quizzes that pop up on my dash every once in a while, I’ve been into sim games lately

Song stuck in your head: Heavy Metal Lover by Lady Gaga

Weirdest habit/trait?: Random ass noises. Like for example, when I'm happy, I'll sometimes do the Nezuko muffled hums; I think it's half my weirdo self, half my weeb self

Hobbies: Reading, writing, does sleep still count as a hobby??? 😅

If you work, what's your profession?: Currently halfway done with my Medical Assistant program, so hopefully once I get the license, I'll finally be able to get a decent job!

If you could have any job you wish what would it be?: Literally anything that pays well. But if we're talking something specific, then marine biologist. I remember taking a class about it in high school and was intrigued about all the sea critters & how we impact their ecosystems. But having to study around in the middle of the ocean, in the dark, most likely far away from civilization, not to mention the fact that I can't swim at all, well...

Something you're good at: I think I’m a good support system to my friends/loved ones when they talk about their personal issues going on in their lives & I just do my best to listen to them and give them words of encouragement.

Something you're bad at: Calculating or math in general.

Something you love: Listening to history videos, specifically the ones talking about amusement park/abandoned concepts/Disney rides history. For these types of videos, I recommend checking out Yesterworld or Defunctland's YT channels.

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: Demon Slayer, Disney, & the MCU (to some extent)

Something you hate: In general, rude, homophobic, shallow, & overall judgmental people.

Something you collect: Pins & plushies! I stopped for now bc they've gotten more expensive in last few years, I'm saving up for other stuff, & plus I STILL have to organize my pin binder/overall room space for my plushies.

Something you forget: How quick I forget certain things.

What's your love language?: Words of affirmation, I never thought about it TBH

Favorite movie/show: Once again, check my Favs list!

Favorite food: SHRIMP!! I love making garlic shrimp scampi w/pasta or the occasional tempura shrimp <3 🦐🍤🦐🍤🦐🍤🦐🍤🦐🍤 And if we're talking sweets, then the one thing I'll fight to the death for is mint chocolate chip ice cream!

Favorite animal: Duckies 🦆🦆🦆

Are you musical?: I'm not gonna lie, I really didn't really care for musicals, especially in high school. HOWEVER, the pandemic lockdown changed my view on musicals. I'll forever be grateful for the Tumblr anon who recommended me Six the Musical. I also never learned to play a musical instrument.

What were you like as a child?: A complete wildcard, that's for damn sure! As of recent years, my family & I have reason to believe that I went undiagnosed of autism my entire childhood & we never really noticed bc my brother's diagnosis was more evident when we were little. But other than that, I was a shy Bratz/PPG/Sanrio/Disney Princess/Monster High girlie!

Favorite subject at school?: Marine Biology, Psychology, History, & Ceramics (yes we had a ceramics class in high school & I loved how chill it was)

Least favorite subject?: FUCK MATH, ALL MY HOMIES HATE MATH!!!

What's your best character trait?: Being empathetic

What's your worst character trait?: I tend to stress out over every little thing, also I'm lazy af! 😅😅😅

If you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be?: The weather. It's been too cold these past couple of days, I don't even want to get out of bed at all!!!

If you could travel in time who would you like to meet?: Definitely my grandmother when she was younger, bc of all the crazy funny stories I've heard about her. But if we're going by famous people, then Selena Quintanilla or maybe my pookie Pedro Pascal so that I can be his controversial young wife & live our best lives together, <3

Recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love!): Uhhhh... I'm not sure if I should, most fanfics I read are certain husbando x reader type fics (& they're the spicier ones, I'll leave it at that!)

Tagging: @boombams @greyladyblue @myscalesofjustice @princessacelilith & anyone else who sees this is more than welcome to join in!

Get to know your Mutuals

Thanks for the tag @perlen-gold, even though I’m just an unhinged follower obsessed with your writing 🙈 I started my own chain so your original post wouldn’t get too long.

What's the origin of your blog's title? My thirst for Adar and the gauntlet kink he inspired.

Favorite Fandoms: I have a lot, but The Silmarillion/The Lord of the Rings/The Rings of Power are my main ones I always fall back on.

OTP(s) + shipname: I’m a self shipper so me + whomever I’m obsessed with (currently Melkor, Adar, and Gil-galad) but also more recently:

Melkor x Mairon (Angbang)

Adar x Celebrimbor (Silverscars)

Favorite color: Orange (also partial to purple and dark green).

Favorite game: Hero Quest (I’m not a console gamer. Though I did enjoy watching my husband play Horizon Zero Dawn).

Song stuck in your head: Dog Days (Are Over) by Florence and The Machine.

Weirdest habit/trait? Oh boy, where to begin… I make random noises, I meep like Beaker to songs, laugh at my own jokes… I’m just a weird person altogether folks.

Hobbies: Writing, visiting places of historical interest, I also used to be an avid reader but then motherhood robbed me of my energy and concentration. I listen to audiobooks more now.

If you work, what's your profession? I write scientific reports and run data tables for an Early Drug Development CRO, which is as fun as it sounds. I’m also a mother. Everything you’ve heard about motherhood is true and also a lie.

If you could have any job you wish what would it be? I would be rich enough not to need to work 🤷🏻‍♀️ or working on a petting farm would be cute.

Something you're good at: Berating myself. Encouraging others/being a cheerleader. Also writing, I hope 🙈

Something you're bad at: Most things, but especially anything requiring mathematics or physical exercise.

Something you excel at: Being a silly goose 😏thirsting over fictional characters 🙈 and raging at injustices. Erm, I think that’s about it. How tragic for me 😂

Something you love: The community I’ve found here on Tumblr 🫶🏼 period dramas, Dracula, and tattoos (I have none of my own… yet).

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: Mormonism, The Wars of the Roses, the people I love.

Something you hate: Injustice, mayonnaise, and corsets improperly portrayed in period drama.

Something you collect: Cuddly toy bats, and more characters to thirst over (I need help).

Something you forget: That motherhood is difficult so to give myself more grace.

What's your love language? I don’t adhere to love languages, but I guess genuine connection over similar interests, banter/in-jokes.

Favorite movie/show: Aaahhh don’t make me choose! It’s always changing.

Favorite food: Galaxy Cookie Crumble, Mini Eggs, Yorkshire puddings, and pizza.

Favorite animal: Bats 🦇

Are you musical? I can hold a tune and I played flute as a kid, otherwise sadly no.

What were you like as a child? Intelligent, saw everything in black and white, more artistic, more outgoing.

Favorite subject at school? History and art.

Least favorite subject? Maths and PE.

What's your best character trait? I like to think I’m kind and understanding.

What's your worst character trait? I can be so incredibly lazy.

If you could change any detail of your day right now what would it be? More sleep. Always more sleep.

If you could travel in time who would you like to meet? Bram Stoker. I’d also love to meet my mum as a young woman, I think we would have had fun.

Recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love!):

Come by @perlen-gold (Angbang)

Of Convenience by @greenleaf4stuff (Silverscars)

Last but not least, show your favorite fanart of your favorite character(s) (please remember to credit/add links!):

Melkor/Morgoth

Adar

Gil-Galad (TROP)

No pressure tags for @greenleaf4stuff, @valar-did-me-wrong, @strifes13, @wowstrawberrycow, @iwanderbecauseimlost, @withallthatisleftofmyheart, @calmlyy-chaotiic, @margauxmara, @varda-starqueen, @saffronstories, @gingeragenda, @gracefallingart, @dwarveslikeshinythings, @whenimaunicorn, @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 and anyone else who would like to play! Sorry if I missed anyone.

[luna-the-cretar]

Me: I am going to be normal about Shepherd and Sarnax’s dynamic

Also me, listening to the end of chapter 5: …fuck

[darya-bell]

I knew you in another life

You had that same look in your eyes

I love you, don't act so surprised

[mechazushi]

My brain took a few days to cook this up for you.

"I swear, I could do this routine backwards by now." Kafka complained as he reclined back against the ledge of the building they were stationed on.

The first division was running team training tactics in the practice grounds today. Him, Narumi and Kikrou were placed in a superior location on top of a building overlooking their team's flag. While Kikoru was peering down her division issued scope she placed in a wide crack in the building's roof ledge, Kafka was right next to her, watching Narumi make a fool of himself flailing his arms around in a stupid TokTik dance.

Narumi had made an account a while ago as a joke, mainly to fuel all of his crazier fans saying they wanted fresh material for thirst traps. After his account blew up, he found out that Soshiro had made one too, and was gaining followers a lot faster than he was. The two of them were now engaged in a bitter, unspoken battle for the most followers. Well, Narumi was anyway. Soshiro just kept up appearances mainly to antagonize Narumi more.

"Just leave him be. He'll drop it soon enough." Kikoru responded, more focused at what was happening at the other end of her cross hairs.

"Not with Vice Cap being effortlessly better at it than he is." Kafka snorted.

"Don't let him hear you say that." Kikoru smirked as she sniped an intruder from across the map.

The two of them listened to the music repeat a few more times, with Narumi's grunts of irritation getting louder with every pass. It was starting to look like he was having a problem getting the timing right.

"Every time he repeats that damn song, it makes me want to photo bomb him 'till he gives up." Kafka grumbled as he shifted his arms to his chest.

Kikoru pulled back from her gun from a moment as her eyebrows flexed in thought, "We could do something a lot more interesting than just photo bombing him." she said as she turned to him.

She leaned over more as Kafka matched her position, making sure her words were safely traveling into his ear. His eyes widened as he listened to her devious plan.

"We can't do that! I don't wanna hurt him." Kafka whispered harshly, but couldn't hide the smile creeping onto his face.

"Come on! His shield hasn't seen any use this fight. If you aim right, you could land him at the enemy flag and force him to participate." Kikoru giggled quietly.

The two of them looked over at Narumi, who was still oblivious to their machinations. They briefly looked back at each other and nodded in unison, silently agreeing to the plan. With a quick check with the scope to make sure this wouldn't cost them, the two of them slowly got to their feet and carefully crept up behind Narumi. Right about where the song changed to the most important part to dance to, Kafka dove down and grabbed Narumi by the leg and waist, shifting his weight through the stance and quickly threw their commander's limp body over and far away from where they were stationed. Not missing a beat, the two of them jumped into action, swaying and popping their limbs to the beat. When the song got to a good stopping point, they held the last pose for a second. Kikoru broke away first and giggled manically as she bolted for the phone, pressing the "Stop Recording" button.

"Quick! Post it before he gets back!" Kafka yelled as he went back to the building's edge to watch for signs their prank might end too soon.

"I'm trying! I'm trying!" Kikoru answered back.

Needless to say, when Narumi got a hold of them, they were heavily reprimanded using his mountainous backlog of unfinished paperwork.

▼△▼△▼△▼△

Narumi angrily munched on a lobster flavored potato chip as the short video replayed on his phone screen. It had only been a day since the training video incident, but Hoshina had seemed to have come up with a way to take it and bruise his ego even more. Somehow, he had come up with a compilation of taped moments of Kafka appearing in the background of some videos from his and other people's and made a thirst trap out of them. Hoshina then paired it to the part where they had interrupted his own short and layered it with some obnoxiously high quality editing.

The worst part of it all wasn't the fact that it was now Hoshina's highest liked video, but all the accounts in the comment section he recognized were devout followers of his account. They were now commenting about how amazing it was that they finally found out some information about that "Hot DILF" that showed up in the background sometimes. Narumi understood that people could have more than one preference, but they could at least have the decency to use an alternate account? Don't they understand how damning this was to his mental state?

Just as the part where Kafka lifted the hem of is shirt to wipe his face during that one time when he was training in the gym, the man of the hour walked into the break room Narumi holed himself up in. He aggressively glared at Kafka over the top of his phone, staring so hard it could shatter glass as he made a cup of instant noodles. He even felt the familiar itching that arose when his eyes flexed and flowed into a higher state of sight, like it wanted to break the offending kaiju-man down to his most basic parts and incinerate them.

The video on his phone caught his attention again as he saw that it had started over from the beginning. Flicking his gaze between the two forms of the traitor, a half-baked plan started to form in his mind. Clicking a few buttons, Narumi linked the video he was watching to the one he was making.

"Yeah, so... it's safe to say that, uh... the vice-" he put a lot of unnecessary emphasis on that word, " captain's video about an old subordinate of his hasn't, umm, gone unnoticed. I checked a few of the comments and I saw how -fucking- many of you wanted to know more about the guy." He tried to hide his irritation about the issue, he really did, but anyone that knows about Narumi for at least over a minute could tell he was fraying at the seams over this.

"So, without further adieu, I thought I could be nice and answer some of the recurring questions I have found in the comments section." he said with a deep breath.

"First off, for those of you that can't read the fucking description, his name is Kafka Hibino." It was at this point that Kafka threw a glance over his shoulder once he heard his name. He didn't make any move to investigate further, but Narumi was sure he at least had his attention.

"His basic ASL information is that he's currently under my supervision at Division One and currently, he's my subordinate. That means if you want him, you gotta go through me first." he said with a fake, flirtatious wink.

"His sex is male, and as far as I've heard through the work grapevine, possibly somewhere on the rainbow. If you catch my drift." This time, he pointed a finger-gun to the camera. Kafka was now fully aware of what was being said and had abandoned his mid-paperwork snack to watch Narumi with wary interest.

"And uh, his age?" Narumi asked himself as he got up from his seat and casually strode over to Kafka, " His age... is THIRTY-TWO. Ya'll are thirsting over a THIRTY-TWO YEAR OLD MAN." Narumi slung his arm over Kafka's shoulder forcefully so he could be dragged into the camera's frame, " This old bastard is literally the oldest man in any division. I actually can't think of any division that has anyone older in their ranks. And this is the guy you crown as Fuckable material?"

"Now, hold on just a second-" Kafka said as he wrestled himself out of the weak arm lock, "I am not the oldest! Literally every department head is much older than I am! And why the fuck should my age have any problem with whether or not people find me attractive?"

Narumi angled the camera so that it fully faced Kafka and made his voice sound muffled as it came from behind the phone, "I meant, like, foot soldier level. No other division has a person in the ground division that's as old as you are. And it doesn't change the fact that you're so old and-well, I'm assuming romantically inexperienced, to the point that it gave you fucking superpowers. Which, on its own, is pretty depressing."

Kafka gave Narumi the dirtiest sneer he could as he picked up a coke bottle from the counter, "Listen here, Sir. I don't know what kind of game it is you're trying to play here, but I don't take kindly to you trying to spread wrong information. Because for starters, You're a Captain and that is both wrong and illegal. Second, that's not what gave me powers and you know it. And third, does this look romantically inexperienced to you?"

Kafka then brought the unopened coke bottle close to his mouth and stuck out his tongue. It became very obvious very quickly that the length of his tongue was unnatural, especially when its needle-point tip wrapped itself around the plastic bottle lid. With very little effort, the tongue cracked the lid off and almost teasingly spun it off the bottle. Still using the tip, Kafka took the cap off and brought it into his mouth before spitting the cap across the room directly into an open trash can. The camera quickly spun around to face a very pale and shocked Narumi, leaving the phone slightly shaking in his hand for a few seconds.

"So, uhh..umm. You-you're not s-supposed to show off your powers-uhm... live? On camera." Narumi said quietly as he nervously licked his lips.

"Is... Is that not a recording?" Kafka asked nervously.

"Well, I mean, technically? It's more of a... I-I'm live streaming..." Narumi stuttered back with the camera still facing him. There was a tense pause before anyone responded.

"WELL, GUESS WHO'S FUCKING PROBLEM THAT IS?" Kafka shouted as he launched the open bottle of coke at his captain, drenching his head in the sticky drink.

A series of events when by quickly. First, Hoshina paired together the clip of Kafka opening the drink and its immediate aftermath with a nearly minute-thirty long recording of him laughing so hard he fell to the floor. Second, Narumi and Kafka were both stuck in separate meetings about cyber security and steps to take to prevent this from happening again. And finally, a massive outpouring of desperate women (and some men) all commenting and reacting to the video. All of them fell in to the same line of questioning; That being-

"Can I have his number?"

Well I call it a Saturday well spent.

Who need errands anyway.

[wigglys-dikrats]

you: ily (i love you)

me, an intellectual: iicgesahttimhtwnshabatlygm (if i could gather every star and hold them tightly in my hands, they would not shine half as bright as the light you’ve given me)

[meamiki]

kagepro day...

[websitewizard2005]

was listening to night shift by lucy dacus and thought “i could make this lloydven”