#at least im never going to perceive myself as anything else

[leraquo]

Me wondering if I resent femininity because is the only thing I'm allowed to express or if I genuinely hate being a woman

[thirtheenprimes]

How the fuck can I be both touch starved and uncomfortable being touched? I used to think my discomfort was because I assume everyone else is uncomfortable with something so I've got to be extra aware of how I handle myself, but I'm pretty sure that's just projection.

So why do I crave physical contact in theory but have to go through three security checks, a metal detector, and a five-page risk assessment report before I let it happen?

[weirdmageddon]

ok. let's finally talk about this thing i've been wanting to go public with for ages

so i am not a fan of needing THC to help me curb the embarrassment i have in being happy talking about my real realll special interests, because perceived rejection of my interests feels like rejection of myself since i put so much of myself (my time) into them. i anticipate rejection from others because the stuff i find myself occupied with is detached, abstract, highly technical, or niche, and i'm aware of the surrounding cultural assumptions. some of them, and the level at which i am in involved in understanding them, are really specialized or esoteric, so even opening up about them is like "fuuuck im gonna be made fun of or it’s gonna be too technical that they zone out and dont understand why this is so meaningful to me" ive even posted about that feeling before.

see if i start accumulating too much self-context made in my own mind without sharing it i start to feel more and more isolated from other people around me, that they’re not seeing the full extent of what im seeing myself. i don’t share it, because i fear rejection or superficial judgments in other people’s eyes (probably because it’s happened to me and i’ve seen it happen to others). but at the same time it has to be shared with more people around me or else i feel like i have an intestinal blockage in my mind. what happens is my mental colon explodes from all the shit accumulated over time and vou get a post like this. i’m sorry for that mental image btw. anyway back the point of this post

anything where i can systematize archetypes in real, everyday situations has always been my strong suit. so when people ask me my hobbies im like ... uhhh what am i supposed to say? i analyze stuff about the world and rotate it in my mind. when carl jung wrote there are “as many archetypes as there are typical situations in life” i know exactly what he was talking about.

i’ve been toeing the line to really talk about this thing for two years, so let me tell you about socionics. if you already know what im talking about i love you. if you don’t (or even if you do, keep reading there’s probably stuff you don’t know in here), it is part abstract cybernetic model, part jungian concepts, part philosophy of information exchange. it classifies how people communicate and exchange information. it was created in eastern europe in the late 70s, developed primarily in the 80s-90s by other authors and it’s been an endlessly fascinating, elegant, and reliable tool for me.

usually people dismiss personality typology systems because the mbti became so watered down and pop-culturally saturated that people seemed to collectively take a stance of not taking anyone that genuinely cares about it seriously, or at least that’s the impression i got.

(btw — i need to go on this brief rant — i will never forgive 16personalities for being the big five rebranded and people thinking it's mbti. 16personalities gives you your big five type. they explicitly state on their website that they don’t borrow any concepts from jung. -A and -T don’t exist in the mbti and correspond directly to low and high neuroticism respectively. i figured out myself they mapped each letter dichotomy to the other four measures on the big five: extraversion (I/E), conscientiousness (P/J), agreeableness (T/F), openness to experience (S/N). which is stupid and it’s false advertising. take 16p and a big five test see for yourself how they match up. your personal mbti type can be different from its correlated big five type. the actual mbti using jungian concepts as a base is alright though. oh, and the best neo-jungian mbti stuff is by far michael pierce’d takes on it. if you actually fw that heres a carrd i created a few years ago about the cognitive function axes.)

but i always end up going to the bottom of the iceberg in anything i get really into, and i basically integrate it into my own understanding of the world around me for a while. maybe it was because i had a bad experience genuinely talking about it a few years ago from some people who made superficial judgments about it that made me sort of quiet about my interest in typology systems. i assume it’s because myers and briggs used the tool towards racist ends; it acquired negative connotations, bullshit intuition supremacy, and left the study of psychological types tainted in the united states. even if the individual’s study of the system is neutral, unbiased, out of pure curiosity as a way to classify and relate different personality structures to each other, as was the case with me. in addition to 16personalities being an invalid “mbti” test that bought their way to the front page of google, and rampant superficial information at all levels of study, finding anyone who was into it like me was basically impossible. the reason i have a preferred interpretation of jungian + mbti concepts is because i’ve tried different ones on and sensed how well they conform to reality as a way of describing phenomenon, ditching old ones that werent as clear. michael pierce’s i’ve found are the closest to what i sense jung's intentions were. (actually quite likely this is something i would attribute to being because all three of us are types LIl (and also all infj too, how about that?) brain-to-brain communication LII (carl jung) to LII (michael pierce) to LII (me)). so i felt like michael pierce kept the things that worked in real life and ditched the things that didn’t, leaving behind his elegant integration of the concepts.

anyway, i was under the assumption that anything that could be mistaken for it—which socionics often is at a glance—would be dismissed out of hand, even though it’s entirely different. plus, there’s all the context i’d need to clarify about how “it’s different from the “fun” unserious pop-psych mbti and also absurdly more technical” and what's the point in doing that if they don't respect you enough to hear you out anyway? so it just made me closed off.

they share a common ancestor though. the concepts are still based on carl jung’s book ‘psychological types’ which is why there is some shallow overlap, but the scope, structure, and application of it is different. i feel like this system is a lot more “living” and relevant to real interactions and communication between people in our everyday lives. i am always seeing specific examples of these concepts in play in real life and in characters depicted in media. it’s also been more empirically studied and successfully implemented over in eastern europe, and has gone under constant development and contribution. while since the 50s, mbti had crystalized and become stagnant with diverging interpretations to the point where it’s become basically meaningless to try to talk about because nobody can agree on concepts or semantics; there are virtually no distinctions between “schools” or “models” to differentiate interpretations — (although i have my preference for what i think are the most meaningful and reasonable one; as i said, that goes to michael pierce.) eastern (not so much western) socionics is incredibly more well put-together than mbti or kiersey for squeezing the potential from jung’s original ideas, and goes much deeper. that said, i will ALWAYS advise self-studying typlogy concepts over taking a test. the algorithm of a test can never possibly know you and your individual biases in interpreting the meaning of the words better than the knowledge you just have about yourself. if you learn the theory underlying it you will actually learn about yourself and others and it will actually mean something to you instead of a being an empty decoration for your profile.

here is a comparison chart i translated into english so you can get some idea of where these systems actually differ.

Букалов, А. (2019). On the advantages of socionics over other post-Jungian typologies. Socionics, Mentology and Personality Psychology, (6), 5–7. Retrieved from https://publishing.socionic.info/index.php/socionics/article/view/2603

for me it’s been super insightful applied to real life. it is like a toolkit for interpreting why some people just rub me the wrong way and our communication feels disjointed. or why some people pass my vibe check to enter my personal inner circle and i feel like talking with them is easier and not an uphill battle. who i feel drawn to and want to get to know better. to deconstruct why i and other people interpret information in the world the way they do, and how that explains the kind of people i end up curating in my life. it has put into words the concepts i haven’t been able to find the words for beforehand, and thus enables me to retrospectively pinpoint exactly what unconsciously makes people feel more at ease or why communication is just easier with some and why it’s harder with others, regardless of any other factors. there are other factors of course, that are the result of unique circumstances—nurture, culture, and upbringing—and i of course account for those, it’s not as pertinent to me as the framework that provides the skeletal structure regardless of those individual variations that are simply already a given for me. that was actually the whole point of its creation.

the system gives me a common language to communicate these ideas with, at least to the few people i talk to who have learned it, but i can adapt the concepts in how they relate to specific circumstances and convey it to a lay audience. i’ve been doing just that to explain why, of the people who have been made aware of the hs rarepair john-aradia, i have seen no one object to it, and instead, everyone i saw found it intriguing the more they thought about it, even when they initally thought was “so random”. and i realized, “hey wait! i know how to explain that!”, but that's in another post i've been working on.

[i was actually originally writing this post in the middle of said aradia and john analysis but i felt like there was way too much i wanted to talk about as its own thing. i figured people are going to be reading that post for john-aradia explanation, not public updates about my mind. i just didn’t want to rewrite this to account for the context because the point i made was still relevant]:

but now i’m thinking okay… i’m talking to a bunch of homestucks. why am i prostrating myself here? why am i so defensive? they’re probably creaming their pants at the idea of another symmetrically divisible system of classification to get their hands on. homestuck itself is founded upon a bunch of ideas with symmetrical divisions and classifications (divisible products of 2). aspect dichotomies, quadrants, cards, black-white, yin/yang and literally countless other abstract systems. if there is a common word to refer to these sorts of things, please let me know.

but in socionics terms, all of this sort of stuff i’m refering to would be within the domain of extraverted/black intuition (Ne) information, and classifying or positioning someone within those frameworks would be introverted/white logic (Ti). you can read more about these “elements” here. homestuck has familiarized you with notionally irreducible aspects present in everything, dual yin/yang forces permeating everything, so if you understand all of the sorts of abstract classification systems in homestuck you’re basically already 75% the way to fundamentally grasping model A socionics. it is way more structured and stable than the typologies in homestuck though. but you will perceive there to be similarities in the need for archetypal/thematic sense skills.

if you want to learn socionics, for the love of god start here. there are many weak places out there to start out with that will set you up with a faulty and loose understanding, but school of classic socionics is the best foundation to start with. i saw it emerge from the beginning when it was founded, having been part of it since late 2022.

this is an introduction to SCS, what makes it special, and and how differs from other socionics schools. i find SCS to be the most comprehensive, and i’m active within a side discord to discuss theoretical constructs related to model A. i’ve helped find the links between some concepts in model A that weren’t fully substantiated in augusta’s original works, specifically the importance of the asking/declaring reinin dichotomy, how it fits with regard to the rest of model A’s structure, how it underpins the ring of social benefit (which was missing from her writing), and how it can be used as an information element charge just like positivist/negativist can (i.e. all process types have positive asking Ne (+Ne? and all result types have negative declaring Ne (-Ne!). i’m still working on transfering my essay on that to a document.)

i know the intricacies of this system like the back of my hand but yeah i never post much about it because it’s so niche and i dont know who would even want to hear it besides people who i already know would, like in that small specialist group, but they actually been quiet lately even though i’m still active in there sharing things i realized. and i even feel alienated in most casual socionics discussion groups, especially larger ones. i need people who can match my freak about it.

because i have nowhere else to talk about it i’m starting to feel guilty yapping my friends’ ears off about it when i deconstruct everything i come across in light of this system like i’m being annoying about it. but at the same time when im doing that i am constantly reinforcing the merit of the system in successfully finding some dynamic i see in the drama of real life in connection to some idea from the model. i can immediately lock on to the core principles that are at play in any situation, validating the patterns that have been observed by others. by what measure do these people / characters / groups relate to each other, how do we define the specific “feeling” of the energy between them together? i could do a socionical analysis for anything that captures my interest.

it’s also been incredible for self-insight. i can now accurately explain my thought process.

i can change my perspective of the scope of my thinking on different levels. depending on the urgency of a situation developing around me and my respect for other people’s time, i can expand my reasoning from splitting hairs at the smallest pedantic specifics—although i prefer not to, to the most holistic global hard binary 0/1 (no/yes) judgment.

it’s fractal-like; once i know how to classify and compare the features of something to another, everything else with overlapping logical relationships instantly rises up in the same way, which of course is what leads to me having insights that reinforce the potential inherent in the things around me, because my way of thinking is isomorphic. i also experience strong animated mental imagery accompanying my conscious thoughts about these systems, minimalist shapes or lines of the barebones motion happening. i feel like my mental activity and what i actually write down is trying to capture what im seeing in my head.

i prefer to be brief, but that requires sharing contexts with someone. once i've established similar ways of talking about the same thing with someone so that we’re on the same page, our messages basically become exchanging code words with each other. all of the potential densely packed into these efficient little terms.

the effect is that i am reducing the amount of time and energy i have to spend trying to explain things to someone. i just want to communicate easily and be understood by the people i talk to so that i can enjoy my time with them. this is why i felt like such a long, clarifying, in-depth post was necessary, which would rip the bandaid off and pull it all up at once, instead of on a private, individual-to-individual level. i had to have it engraved somewhere i could just point someone to instead of repeatedly having to explain the same thing over and over cause that’s a waste of time and energy.

in fact, that revelation i had about myself just now can be explained by model A too! my own type is LIl and this type’s id block houses the information elements +Te! → +Ni?, which aushra describes as “The quality of deeds and actions and the efficient expenditure of energy in work—only performing for what is truly necessary—leads to peace of mind in the future.”

or, for example, coming at it from another angle, here is an older post i made before i was even aware of socionics. i was already talking about my experiences, patterns of thinking and self-awareness in a way that was so on the nose for a socionics analysis.

is that not the clearest example of phase 2’s sensitivity (for me it is information about sensorics)? -Fi? → -Se! superego block, anyone? and did you see how much i gave attention to the time i spend working; +Te! -> +Ni? id block? [information element descriptions here]. you could also derive the progression of the information metabolism stages in my own psyche (phase 1: Ethics -> phase 2: Sensorics -> phase 3: Logic -> phase 4: Intuition).

(from The Characteristic of SLI)

so through socionics it’s like i can find an explanation for just about everything i observe in others and myself just because i’ve extrapolated the logical relationships from that system and can isomorphically apply them to anything.

and i don't say that lightly! i'm not saying anything in this post lightly. like i have a degree in biopsychology from an honors college (ncf; yes, the liberal arts college desantis got his soulless hands on because it was “too woke"). having taken courses in statistics, research methods in psychology, and others, i know all about proper research design (and designing them myself). and of course i ended my four years there with my undergrad thesis, examining temporoparietal synchrony in autistic individuals when working alone and together, where for months on end i was doing nothing but reading and interpreting the validity of research papers. i even deconstructed poorly designed psychological constructs commonly used in autistic research in mine.

i also took personality psychology as a course during my time there. i got a birds eye view of most of the popular paradigms and still felt like i was more knowledgeable in the discourse behind some of the topics we glossed over since the course material was more of a broad comprehensive thing than an in-depth one for anything specific. in totality, all of the models i read about in relation to each other seemed so fragmented into different cuts and perspectives in trying to understand and find the patterns in people’s mental life. and yet none of the models i read about hold as as great of an everyday explanatory power as socionics does for explaining ways of thinking, people's proneness to certain tendencies, and the energetic tension that happens between certain people.

people can say otherwise that it’s pseudoscience. even though there are numerous studies built on real-world observations, the large-scale statistical data like from victor talanov. there's school of system socionics who emphasize its practice. it would be impossible to add all the evidence i can to support my claims to this post but you can see for youself - there are still countless new articles being published from different authors. regardless of that, even if it isn't accepted within the rigors of “scientific canon” i really dont give a fuck since it absolutely does indeed have explanatory and predictive power, and that’s all i care about. i’m confident in this not only through firsthand experience, the ability to frame what i know to be true about the real world within it and have it successfully describe those things, as well as talking to other people about my observations.

additionally, i see people make conclusions about interpersonal dynamics where they unknowingly repeat information that can be derived from socionics concepts.

something i noticed a LOT and ive repeatedly thought about and come to the same conclusion multiple times is that i think i naturally might "embody" the most optimal ways of interacting with other people for myself. it gives me insight into the nature of the personal relationships that i already procure in my life, but it’s not really a self-fulfilling prophecy because i dont use socionics to prescribe who i "should" be friends with. that's silly. thats a silly thing to do because people do have idiosyncracies that don't perfectly align with a system if you rigidly adhere to it, so you're bound to be set up for failure if you try to force that and you will be disappointed. it's better to let these feelings happen naturally without pretense, because that's where the observations that fuel my insight comes from.

i have a subconscious sense for who i will be able to get along with in the long term almost instantly without the need for any kind of system, just based on their actual mannerisms and “vibes”, but that alone is not good enough for me, i want to know why. socionics just gives me tools to figure out why so that i know what im dealing with and its not just ineffable energies, but i can put a name to those energies to think and talk about it and compare and discover patterns in what ive curated in my inner circle over my life, what i feel drawn towards. and indeed i do find plentiful amounts of recurring patterns. the simplification and abstraction is not to destroy the soul and expression of individuals but to wrap my head around them and understand them deeper in relation to everything else, including myself.

i am aware it can be confusing for many people which turns them away. but if theres any questions you have or youre confused about any concepts i can answer them

but yeah um, i’ve really only scratched the surface of this cognitive cybernetic tool. if you are genuinely interested in what i have to say and want me to talk more about it please openly tell me since i’m not a mind reader! i assume disinterest by default.

anyway if you got to this point thanks for reading. i wanted to just put it out there for context about any posts i make in the future. just stating my honest thoughts and whats been occupying my mind for the past two years.

be on the lookout for the john and aradia analysis soon where i’ll use it in practice to deconstruct some things about those characters. and if you’re coming to this post from that analysis after ive posted it, i’m sorry this post is so long in the middle of an already long-ish post. i just thought the context was important.

[bluegarners]

2024 Writing Year in Review

tagged by: @blackbatcass & @daringyounggrayson tagging: @hood-ex and @boyfridged and @dustorange if you would also like to play <3

number of stories posted to ao3: eight

word counted posted for last year: 37,211

fandoms i wrote for: dcu, batman all media types, green lantern

pairings: i wrote one jaykyle fic pairing but everything else was platonic

stories with the most kudos, bookmarks and comment threads: i am going to leave out solar flares in this count bc i only posted one chapter this year (omg i promise to finish it one day, im so sorry)

most kudos: Shoulders, 411 kudos

most bookmarks: Shoulders, 117 kudos

most comment threads: Shoulders, 21 comments

work i’m most proud of (and why): i know i keep talking about it, but Deep Bells is probably the one i am most proud of just because i've never written anything like it before and i think it's one of the very very few fics i've written where i am satisfied with it and am not cringing every time i come across it

BUT

if i had to choose a different one, it would be sleepless, perfect duty because i really liked the frantic dynamic i managed to cultivate and the familiar but deeply intense child anxiety that comes with perfectionism but also the understood oath that batman MUST come before robin at all costs, even if batman doesn't like it and IDK i think this would be the one i would rec to ppl if they wanted to read one of my fics that centers the early days for batman and robin

work i’m least proud of (and why): solar flares... and my reasoning! is that i am sooo stuck on it... i really would love to finish it, to end it in a way that gets the core message across, that wraps it up in a neat bow so that i and all of my sweet readers can enjoy and find satisfying, but for whatever reason that has been the most difficult thing for me. i honestly look back at the entire thing and feel a little shame bc even though i worked so hard on it and for so long and i have so much encouraging support, i just can't help but dislike it in small ways. i hope that 2025 will let me finish it and me happy with it

share or describe a favorite review you received: SO MANY. SO MANY!!! anytime someone leaves a long comment with sections of the fic copied and pasted with their little reactions or commentary, my heart BURSTS WITH JOY!! i have such difficulty believing in myself and my writing, so every specific or detailed comment makes me feel seen and real

if you left a comment or a bookmark with comments, please know you made my year infinitely sweet and more worthwhile. i know that sounds dramatic, but sometimes seeing that number in my inbox is one of the few good things about my day, so i am forever grateful for those of you that choose to spend your time reading and telling me what you thought

a time when writing was really, really hard: even though i did publish eight fics/chapters this year, writing overall was a struggle. i needed some kind of motivator to write, so a majority of the fics i wrote for 2024 were gifts for others. i hope in 2025 i can self-motivate and write things for myself <3

a scene or character you wrote that surprised you: it was a gift for @ekleiipsis, but the entirety of Thumbnail was a surprise! i actually had a lot of fun writing jaykyle and i am the kind of fan that has a hard time perceiving any character in a sexual manner or scenario or really any relationships, so writing jason todd (ace king in my head) getting down and dirty (but in a mild way) was actually fascinating and like dissecting a bug... didn't have a clue what i would find but it was a fun experience!

a favourite excerpt of your writing: i think this is mostly recency bias, but in sleepless, perfect duty, there's this scene that honestly came straight from the heart and mind ( i know it's long but i think it's importanttt)

how did you grow as a writer last year: hmmm i think maybe i thought more about the sentences i was writing. i tend to just dive head first into the zone and whatever comes out on the page is usually what stays there, but i remember specifically trying to create certain tones with my sentence structure. not even the words, but how long the sentences were, where i was putting my commas, how often i was moving on from paragraph to paragraph. i still have a long way to go but i think i made some progress

how do you hope to grow this year: i hope i can get better about writing action scenes and complicating plot via action rather than emotion. probably 90% of my writing is all introspection/character emotion driven

who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer, beta, cheerleader, etc.): @mysterycitrus!!! greta's fics and blurbs shared have made me so badly want to improve my writing, it is ridiculous how talented greta is with not only characterizations but in general well-thought out plots and complexity! i feel i struggle with creating and evolving relationships in a story, and greta's stories do them soooo masterfully in my opinion, everyone needs to go read persephone's in hell if they haven't already

anything from your real life show up in your writing last year: i don't think so...

any new wisdom you can share with other writers: for new writers, straight up, your first fanfic is probably not going to be super stellar or get many comments, kudos, hits, etc... DONT BE DISCOURAGED BY THAT!!! it is so utterly rare to be amazing right off the bat and it would in fact be really strange if that were to happen. no one gets good instantly, and even as your writing does improve, that unfortunately won't always be recognized by others. everyone has heard this a million times because it's TRUE but things take time and greatness doesn't happen overnight. remember all of the great writers and artists of the past- most of them weren't recognized for their talents until well after their death. don't be discouraged by bad reception. if you love what you do, you have to keep loving it enough to keep doing it

for the writers that are like me and have been writing for years and want to continue writing but sometimes feel too burnt out or uninspired to do so: don't give up. find something new that excites you, be it another fandom, another medium of creativity, or literally anything else in the world. don't feel bad about leaving a fandom you're established in just bc you don't want to disappoint fans of your work. you're allowed to move on or look elsewhere, you don't HAVE to stay. but if you WANT to stay, don't pressure yourself to keep creating content for others to consume just bc that's what you're used to. start doing things you're not used to or just take a break. if you're a writer, go read other fics or published books. if you're an artist, go write something or read other things. the main thing to keep in mind is you're not obligated to do anything ever, ESPECIALLY if it makes you unhappy

any projects you’re looking to starting (or finishing) this year: solar flares i want to finish (no promises, im sorry </3 ) and there are sooooo many batman and dick!robin fics i want to write, they've been on my mind very often lately. i've talked about some of the ideas i want to put to paper, so hopefully i get on that for the new year!

[syverse]

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ABOUT ME.ᐟ

꧂ sy ; 18 ; she/her ; famous for being weird and off-putting in a captivating charming way ; currently listening to genesis by grimes

꧂ i've literally had this account for at least 5 years but just decided to start posting on it cause i've been getting back into a lot of my old interests (art, anime, writing) and wanted a platform to share them on as well as connect with others that are passionate about similar things!

꧂ as i said i started posting mainly just to have a place to share, so my posts probably won't be very consistent, i'm also a full-time college student, so that factors into my activity a lot too.

꧂i'd really love to have more people to connect with! that being said, i'm clinically unwell and get really nervous about reaching out to people, so if anyone wants to wear the pants in the relationship and be mutuals i would absolutely love you (sorry for being weird)

꧂pls stop! yourself before judging me i do not claim anything that you might find cringe on my blog because i choose to not perceive that kind of tomfoolery. like my bio states i'm literally just a freak on the internet same as you ok so no need to pass your freakish and unwhimsical criticisms on me thank youuuu im just a girl here to giggle in wonder! same thing goes for trying to spread hate although i am the biggest hater in the universe i will not tolerate drama

꧂i feel like i should apologize in preface to all of my writing for being very ooc, but then again this is my blog and my writing and i choose to live to yolo lifestyle, so if you don't like what i have to say then go the other way! goodbye disagreers! and also since this is my blog i WILL talk to myself. i have much to say about everything ever.

꧂ people who submit literally anything other than the wrong thing (hate) will be kissed. please yap 2 me! my tag for rambling/ responses is #syspeaks xoxox

꧂also which i feel might be most important is that im like a clinical ill perfectionist about myself and literally everything i do. i can get very discouraged when it comes to writing if its not coming out the way i want it to so i mostly end up scrapping a lot of my ideas. now that i've embraced the cr*nge i will definitely try to push myself to revisit my frustrations, but just to let you guys know! i am my biggest enemy!

꧂more on my interests for those who even care:

✩ anime: mha, haikyuu, jjk, mp100, chainsaw man, soul eater, kamisama kiss, death note, kny, hxh and probably a lot more

✩ music: charli xcx, blood orange, cocteau twins, mannequin pussy, wilco, arctic monkeys, pixies, the cure, the strokes, hole, adrianne lenker and at least 500x more (please pmo to your music i can never have enough)

✩ misc: i also draw (and maybe down the line will share that? idk) as i said i go to college so i am a big party girl and uhhh i can't think of anything else and i also LOVE jersey shore currently

꧂lastly! my requests are open but i make no promises to actually fulfilling them

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ TTYL.ᐟ

[quietwingsinthesky]

I’m kind of new in the Supernatural fandom and I genuinely do not understand the hate so many people seem to have towards Sam. Like, when I first started watching, I thought Sam and Dean fans would be pretty evenly distributed. Are the majority of the viewers Destiel fans that hate anyone that isn’t part of their favorite imaginary couple, or is something else going on? Is Sam just unlikable to that many people?

Well. Okay. We can’t discount that Destiel is a major factor in this. You know, for one thing, a lot (and I mean a lot) of destiel content will just cut Sam out, which to be fair is not uncommon for ship content as a whole but when you’ve got such a juggernaut as destiel, it definitely affects fandom perception as a whole. That’s not even getting into how people who haven’t watched the show will then get into destiel and not supernatural, meaning the only Sam things they get are scraps from within a largely dean-and-Cas-centric narrative.

There was, probably still is, a sizable amount of people who would happily say they skipped the first three seasons to get to Cas, which is!! The first three seasons are a lot of Sam! (And of building Sam and Dean’s relationship, central to the show!) Starting in s4 launches you straight into the demon blood arc with no context of what Sam was like before or how desperate and grief-riddled he would have to be to get to this point, meaning all people see is Sam Acting Bad. And first impressions are hard to fix.

To be fair, it’s not only on destiel and it’s wider effects on how the fandom perceives… anything. (And that doesn’t just effect perception of Sam, either! It leads to distorted views of other characters, im thinking John and Benny rn, they get the worst of it.) The show itself also fails Sam. A lot. He is consistently underwritten, his agency is undermined and then that’s never addressed, and his interests are never really shown as cool and quirky like Dean’s. Dean gets episodes around his love of cowboys, Sam gets his love of true crime mentioned now and then, you see what I mean.

People will say insane shit about Sam. Like, “Sam is boring” is the least egregious take I’ve ever seen. From “Sam going to Stanford was selfish and bad” to “How Dean treats Sam is okay and normal because Sam doesn’t leave him”. It’s just. It’s very weird.

Full-disclosure, I consider myself a fan of both brothers, but I’ve got heavy Sam bias in my own ships and what I tend to reblog. So take that as you will.

(P.S. anyone else with thoughts or a different view on the fandom trends, feel free to chime in.)

[milkissblog]

hey everybody!!

thats a weird ass way to start a diary entry. i can't have a diary because my mom is a little invasive and will for sure read it. theres also this weird little clown pop up on my screen? anyway.

id love love loveee love lvoe more than anything to have a diary. i could paste my little doodles in it like flower petals. and put all of my stickers and pretty slices of papers inside. theres a dog squeaking outside. i don't think dogs should be making that noise. i hope the little guy is ok.

anyway, that was so very off topic. what i was trying to say is that this little blag of mine is sposed to be my surrogate diary. i have this issue online (and even in writing) where i over-perceive myself ("perceive" is a pretty-sounding word. so is sieve.) and my online presence bc its so customizable and because im so disconnected from my sense of self. im a people pleaser even when im writing in a private little diary cause im always thinking, my mom is going to read it, how will this sound to my mom when she reads it, oh god my mom, my mom, my mom (and, to a lesser extent, other people). i hate it. i feel prickled and trapped and smothered sometimes, but dear god i love my mom more than anything. but still, sometimes i feel like im in 1984 and shes reading my thoughts as well as my texts before i can delete them. but also, she pays for me to exist -its a mixed bag with high highs and low lows.

im really hoping that the self-perception thing doesn't happen this time. i hope i can have a better self-concept and be a better person. ive wasted maybe 2 years (i don't want to say that ☹︎) on being rock bottom unhappy, on being filled with hatred for myself, on dreading my own body and face, on corroding and ruminating for too long, until i found myself incapable of loving and v isolated feeling. its an awful way to exist because you deny yourself and other people so much beauty, and because it hampers your ability to really love and be there for other people. i wanna talk about that more (and i spose i can here)

-partially my sadness was/is cause im lesbian and m being raised catholic. ive got a lot of issues to work thorugh hahahaha. or, should i say, teeheeheehee. (LEGALIZE SAYING TEEHEEHEE!!! PEOPLE R SO MEAN AND THEY SPIT ON ME WHEN I WRITE "TEEHEEHEE" INSTEAD OF HAHAHA)

dear god this is very stream of consciousness. well, anyway. i'm not writing it to be read (or at least trying NOT to write it to be read). im writing it to communicate with myself. thats not working very well, i just read through the whole thing again.

i hope this gives me a sense of purity (not like weird sex/virginity stuff, but mental purity, like pure love or pure salt or pure vinegar, with no issues, just clear and soft and good) and of self, like prayer. id probably believe in god without the church and them being mean to lesbians and girls and non catholics and so many other ppl and whatnot bc i love to think that love inhabits everything and i sincerely deeply in my little heart of hearts think it does. i think i might believe in god??? i don't know. i am trying my best pookies.

im a girlblogger cause im a girl!! also im sincerely really trying to be okay and happy. and maybe be buddhist? i got this lovely slim little book by a buddhist monk thich nhat hanh called "true love" and i want that. i want to be a good kind person to myself and everybody else. as karissa love (she is my comfort youtuber and i adore her v much) puts it, i want to radiate love. that sounds a little crazy but perchance i am a little crazy.

perchance.

also, darn it, i cursed. ive decided im sposed to not curse, so that when i do people are very shocked like "wow omg she said f*ck??? she never says f*ck!!!" and think its a big deal and everything. i could also swear tons so ppl think im tough, but i don't want to scare anynody and i curse like a toddler bc im so out of practice. oh well.

anyway thats the first entry! hello world!! i hope im ok and that this helps me.

mwah

[wonustars]

ahem ahem. *taps mic*

hello, here i am with another long reblog because one of choco’s stories has absolutely crushed me (in the best way possible). *SPOILERS AHREAD*

let me start off with my initial thoughts going into reading:

if i’m gonna be honest i didn’t want to start this till the last part was posted and ended up reading it during the weekly updates because i got too impatient 😂

i was so immersed into Wonwoos character while reading the first two parts. he was lowkey miserable but the contrast between Wonwoo and Her had me by the throat. there is nothing i love more when the couple consists of a girlboss and a shy man who would do anything for said girl boss

back to Wonwoos character:

i found it very enjoyable to read everything in his pov. every emotion he felt, i had felt it too. im ngl i cried during a few parts of the story just envisioning how he views the world and how he works through all his emotions.

Her’s character:

i loved Her so much. you dek. she reminded me so much of myself. The outgoing, outspoken, and sometimes can be perceived as intimidating to those who aren’t very close to her. the jack of all trades yet master of none. my god. that’s how i portrayed her at least, getting hyper fixated on one thing just to abandon it the next day to try something else. her relationship with mingyu made me raise my eyebrow once or twice. i knew from the very moment that fight between her and bells happened at the party, that mingyu was cheating on her with bells. it was clear as day, and my heart went out to her. she deserved so much more. i’m not sure if it’s character development or maybe we just got to see more of her true personality once the story came to an end, but Her is so much more than what people made her out to be.

if there’s one character i could yap on about its MINGYU:

god. i’ve never felt so heartbroken for a fictional character until i learnt about how he was when he first started dating Her. He had become so brainwashed by Her’s parents and the need to become some successful man for the future that he forgot what his past self truly wanted to achieve. the way Her described mingyu made my heart hurt, because when Wonwoo described Mingyu it was like he was a shell of the person he used to be. Going thru the motions to satisfy everyone but himself? maybe i’m just yapping but that’s how i saw him. He used to have his own aspirations, he used to be in love. HE WANTED TO BE AN ARCHITECT 😭 damn it i just felt like he lost so much of himself and so did Her, they both did. and in my head they become happier after their break up and Mingyu decided to do what he truly desires and is happy.

the plot:

honestly, i’m glad that i read this when the parts were posted once a week. it gave me time to reflect on everything that happened in the story. watching Wonwoo overcome his last relationship and also finding better ways to regulate his anxiety thru the help of Her just made me so happy for him. I really felt his emotions at the beginning almost as if I was the one really feeling that way, and it made me so upset. Seeing the way Wonwoo had changed for the better with Her in his life made my heart melt. you could see the obvious changes. and same with Her! they both had become better versions of themselves the more time they spent together. although i do think that the fight they had was very needed. it seemed like wonwoo had so much piled up inside him, and he needed to learn how to just let it all out, albeit yelling at Her probably wasn’t the best way, im glad he stopped bottling up his emotions. they’re honestly perfect for each other, and the way this was written is just so damn good. THEIR TENSION! especially the night she slept in his room and the first time they had sex. goddddd the smut scene was just so satisfying, cathartic almost after all that pent up TENSION!! i was so happy with how it went. they really match each others freak Aifkskhdskjdjfjek. anyways i loved how every character was written in this story but if i commented on everyone i would probably be typing in this google doc for about 5 hours. so i’ll end it here.

thank you choco, for writing this, for taking the time out of your days to write this masterpiece and post it on tumblr FOR FREE. you’ve really outdone yourself. all your stories are great and i will definitely be reading this one again. the way you described the characters feelings, their actions, everything. i’m in awe and as a writer i aspire to get become this poetic in telling a story. thank you for allowing everyone to be graced with your writing, i cannot describe how appreciative i am of your existence!!! 🫶 im so happy we’re mutuals btw :”)

p.s vernon was my fav character ever! i would’ve done an in depth analysis on him AND seokmin if it wasn’t almost 2am rn hhehe

HER | part one.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.5k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, coke, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

potentially triggering scenes within the fic are NOT MARKED in advance

the content is already quite mature, so pls heed the warnings!

bolded and italicized text implies characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts

everyone's patience and understanding has been endlessly appreciated! you have no idea ;_; i give you all shining stars 🌟

⇢ part two | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MARCH 19TH.

“I have a relatively big favour to ask of you.”

 No. Wonwoo didn’t want anything to do with favours.

The fact that Seokmin had actively picked out his presence in the coffee shop like he was some shiny contortion of plastic had actually offended Wonwoo. He came here for two things: to not be bothered, which his friend knew, and to work on the book he was halfway through typing and had been halfway through typing for the past six months. Call it writer’s block, or an inspiration drought, or an absolutely depressing lack of drive—it had been hanging over the writer with an annoying persistence and it seemed that no number of lemony scones or cold coffees were going to make it vanish.

“Uh, Wonwoo?”

“Sorry… what?” He forced his gaze to shift from the blank page on his laptop to Seokmin’s apologetic, softly expressional face, slightly flushed from his time outdoors in the chilled March weather.

“I was just wondering if you’d be up for a favour—a pretty big one—and I know this is your special creativity spot, but she’s been like, breathing down my neck about it and I can’t put it off again.”

“Whose been breathing down your neck?”

At first, Seokmin didn’t say a word, or even make a sound. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he pressed them together and his chest visibly sucked in with a breath. God, Wonwoo hated the suspense and he hated Seokmin for interrupting him when he had been so stupidly close to putting a sentence down that he probably would have back-spaced in frustration a minute later.  

“Y’know…” he trailed off, “Her.”

Her.

No, not her, you.

But most people—if not everyone—referred to you by an alias that had seemed to stick so well the majority believed it actually was your name. When people said her they meant Her, and so in a confusing mess of finger-pointing they really meant you. Come to think of it, Wonwoo had no idea where the nickname even came from or who gave it to you or what it even meant.

And he was perfectly fine with never knowing.

“What?” Wonwoo deadpanned. “What on earth could she want to do with me? She doesn’t even know me.” He slid down in his chair, fingers pulling at his circle-lensed glasses so they tilted uncomfortably across his nose bridge. “Or, is this a joke?”

“Oh—no! Absolutely not!” His friend was insistent on proclaiming, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m being serious.”

“Why don’t I believe you then?”

“Okay, well, if you let me explain everything, it’ll all make sense. I said I know someone who writes really well—”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, meaning you. And the only reason that was even brought up is because she wants to write a book.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help it. He laughed a very short disbelieving laugh that flashed a transient smile to his face as he readjusted his crooked glasses. You were the last person he would ever envision wanting to write a book. He then navigated the trackpad on his laptop, deciding to close the document simply titled, 01, that harboured the fleet of pages to his own current work in progress.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo disregarded, “sounds like bullshit.”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Seokmin exclaimed, gripping onto the metal back of the café chair like he was squeezing someone’s taunt shoulders. “She won’t tell me about what, okay? Just that she’s been thinking the idea for a while now. It’s not like I didn’t try to get details. But she refused—said the only person who can know is whoever’s going to help her. Look, y’have to understand, she was pestering me about it nonstop. And you’re my only writer friend!”

“Well, you’re about to have none.” He answered, reaching for his coffee cup but stopping it just short of his lips. “How serious is she about this, anyway?” Wonwoo sighed. “Do you know how much fucking time you need to dedicate to writing a book?”

He stomached a slow, somewhat grimacing sip as he tasted the coffee’s coldness, meanwhile Seokmin swallowed heavily, and at last pulled out the chair he’d been white-knuckling to take a seat.

“Yes, I’m aware it takes time. I know that. And she is serious or else I wouldn’t be here, bothering you. She takes everything seriously.” The boy began unbuttoning his sleek black jacket. “Really, who knows what’ll happen? Maybe you’ll meet her once and she’ll decide she can’t stand you, and then you’re off the hook for life.”

“Yeah, well have you ever considered what might happen if I can’t stand her? Are my feelings even being considered? Minutely?”

“Minutely, they are being considered.”

“Liar.”

It wasn’t that Wonwoo disliked you.

In actuality, you scared him more than anything. But to be associated with you was to be drawn into your life and caught like a firefly in a glass jelly jar. The proof was right in front of him—to Wonwoo’s eyes, Seokmin was basically your little mailman that scrambled around in hectic nature to do your bidding, because most tasks apparently weren’t worth the time or effort.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me into this. You know I can hardly write my own shit, right?” Wonwoo said bitterly, wishing it was the opposite, “my mind is a desolate, blank canvas of fuck-all and if she thinks I’m writing it then she needs a reality check.”

“No, no—of course you won’t write it!” Seokmin reassured him with his big, opalescent smile. “Really, you’re just giving tips, maybe guiding her process, helping with the planning… you know, this could be facilitated so much easier if you spoke to Her yourself!”

“So, my nightmare?” Wonwoo huffed, shaking his leg.

In an instant, Seokmin had whipped out his phone, tapping around the screen quickly using his thin pointer finger.

“I’m just going to pull up her schedule. It’s always pretty packed, but more into the summer break, it thins out a little. “

Wonwoo exhaled, staring off into the warm, afternoon sunlight that hailed in through the windows, striking all the shimmering flecks and pieces of dust afloat in the café air. When he breathed in again, he could smell the luxurious coffees brewing in their rich and distinctive notes. It was such a beautiful day—still chilly as the snow outdoors began to thaw—but pleasant nonetheless.

“This is such a fucking waste.”

And Wonwoo spent it being miserable.

“No, it’ll be useful. Trust.” Seokmin chirped.

“You’re trying to dip me in your optimism gloss again.”

His friend smiled affectionately, tilting his head.

“This will be good. You’ve been a hermit since I’ve known you.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo scoffed, “so you think it’s a good idea to shove me with the person I relate to least on the entire planet?”

“Really? The least? So, what you’re saying is, you relate more to serial killers? Or animal abusers? Or like, literal fasc—”

“Stop.”

“You want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll set you up.”

A part of Wonwoo knew there might be no wriggling out of the situation, especially with Seokmin sitting across from him, characteristically eager and brightly pushy as always, like a goddamn salesman. For now, it could be easier to let himself get cuffed.

“Can I at least have some time to think it over?”

“Uh… well… the thing is… the thing with that is—”

“You’ve cornered me?”

“I wouldn’t word it like that.”

“… Okay.” Wonwoo removed his glasses, shoved his knuckles tender but deep into his eye sockets, massaging through flashes of white as he came to accept a fate he didn’t know even existed in his astrology. “Just, I don’t know—fuck—schedule me in wherever.”

“Ha! It doesn’t exactly work like that.”

“I really don’t give a damn how it works, Seokmin.”

“Right,” his friend laughed nervously, “I promise that I’ll get back to you pronto. Sorry for the disturbance. And, uh, good luck.”

 “With what part?” Wonwoo grumbled, fixing his spectacles back on to clarify Seokmin’s sympathetic face, the light bouncing off his head of brassy hair like a disco ball. “My incapability to write a goddamn thing or the fact I have to help your perfectionist friend who’s probably going to chew me up and spit me out?”

 “Both parts.” Seokmin grinned. “It can only go up from here.”

Wonwoo had one very distinct memory of you: creative writing with Mr. T. It had been an elective class he took amongst all his compulsory maths, and at the time it was a much appreciated break when Wonwoo grew apathetically bored from looking at matrices and confidence intervals and equations that engulfed the length of his notebook. Professor T was late one day in the fall.

And that’s when Wonwoo remembered you walking in.

There was a sort of sharpness about your presence that pulled everyone’s spines straight. People tended to angle themselves away from you, though they did it subtly, feigning an adjustment in their seat or a plunge into their bookbag for something that wasn’t even there. Wonwoo lacked the words to describe you. To be honest, he most likely could if he put that infinitely expanding lexicon of his to work, but even then, he feared that everything would fall flat.

Some scruffy looking guy had made the mistake of sitting in your seat—someone who probably skipped most lectures and only happened to find himself near Gildan Hall purely by chance.

It was the seat squat in the middle of the small auditorium.

He remembered the hand propped on your hip as you sashayed up to him—you always sashayed places. Wonwoo found it funny, like there were paparazzi stuffed behind potted plants and vending machines waiting to spring out with their blinding flares, just to capture you picking up a half-empty bag of flavourless popcorn.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no.”

“Hm?”

“Excuse me? Yes, hello. You—can you get up please?”

“Up...? Why?”

 “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry… what’s this about?”

 “Are you a first-year or something? Never bothered going to class until now? All the moshing and beer pong and ending up in some random basement of a friend of a friend of a friend is done so you’re deciding to actually get your money’s worth? Well, let me tell you this—I’ve been showing up to class punctually, and this is my seat. I always sit here. It’s my unofficially-assigned-assigned seat, which seems to be a known fact to everyone in this room except for you. Everyone has one. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to sit in other people’s seats. I don't care who you are. You could be my own mother. You could be my best friend, even. President of the universe. That doesn't make it okay, 'cause it’s a respect thing. It's one of those assumed societal rules and you just fucking kicked dirt all over it.”

Whoever he was, he never came back to another lecture.

Since then, Wonwoo had dually made it his mission to never cross paths with you, look at you, or even so much as huff one single carbon-dioxide filled breath in your general direction, just in case that was some degree of unbeknownst personal law he might violate.

Seokmin had royally screwed it up for him.

What could you possibly want to write a book about, anyway?

—MARCH 26TH.

Wonwoo didn’t know how he was expected to find you in this gigantic mall. As he brushed through the streamlines of people, bumping their shoulders and mumbling the driest, most insincere apologies, he couldn’t stop looking at his phone. Seokmin had given him your number with the instruction that he could find you, here, on a busy Saturday afternoon. So far, Wonwoo had sent you four texts, none prompting a response or the grey-dotted bubble, even. Fuck, why did he agree to this? He couldn’t stop thinking it.

Why did he agree to help you, whom he was beginning to not even like, or want to be aquatinted with, write a book, when he’d been struggling to fill the same page of his own story for months?

Squeezing the phone tighter in his fingers, Wonwoo’s broad shoulder then smacked into someone else while he was busy steeping in his misfortune. It earned him a wildly disgusted look.

“Maybe watch where you’re going," the stranger grumbled, some man with an engrained scowl and big, bewildered eyes.

But Wonwoo ignored him.

He didn’t fucking care, and he was sick of wandering through this mall. It made him feel overstimulated, like his clothes were sticking to his skin differently, like the back of his head was swelling, and like all the smells in his nose were somehow making him warmer.

The stranger just stared at Wonwoo as he walked away.

Ding!

A text, but not from you—Seokmin, instead. Apparently, you were in some clothing store on the second floor. Wonwoo stepped onto the escalator, pressing himself into the barrier to make room for the especially speedy people who couldn’t simply stand and wait. He felt a random touch on the back of his head. Scrunching up the glasses on his nose and turning around, Wonwoo stared at the downward escalator, locking eyes with a pretty dark-haired girl he’d never seen before. She wiggled her fingers at him with a flirtatious smile, the scent of her perfume still lingering. Fresh roses, he thought.

He blinked at her once, twice, then turned back around.

Never in a million years.

It was funny, though.

Once Wonwoo stopped outside the clothing store you were supposedly inside, he felt the myriad of distractions and scents and noises dampen behind him. The irritability he couldn’t shake was slowly transforming into nerves. He’d never met you before, unless half-glances controlled by fear from across the small, basement auditorium that hosted creative writing counted.

Focusing on one breath, and then another, followed by a deep, self-soothing inhale, Wonwoo attempted to convince himself that he was in control, not the emotions quivering at his fingertips.

He cracked his neck and walked in.

After a minute or two of confused isle-pacing, Wonwoo rounded a corner, his eyes immediately fixating on a girl who was picking through a neatly assorted dress rack, her head tilted elegantly and her lipstick glimmering under the sterileness of the lights—you.

He gulped. Just suck it up.

She can’t be that bad. You can’t be that bad.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Wonwoo. I know we have a mutual friend in Seokmin. Lee Seokmin. He’s in one of your seminar classes or something, and, uh…. anyway. I believe I’m supposed to help you with a book you’re interested in writing… that’s what I was told, at the very least. And… I know we’ve never met but… um… I guess…” he trailed off upon noting your lack of acknowledgement.

Suddenly, he was taking a step back, letting you progress further along the clothing rack, your fingers hopping between each hanger and your eyes scanning their corresponding fabrics.

Wonwoo jerked on the inside with panic. He hated the situation already, though he somehow found the resounding courage, or perhaps, humility, to address you again, even if he’d rather die.

“So, I’m not sure if you—”

“Can you move, please? Over here or something? I want this dress.”

He kept his mouth shut in order to avoid spilling out any obtuse nonsense, instead watching with a nervous, analyzing gaze as you removed the hanger and shook out the purple, wine-coloured fabric, its sparkles rippling when you stroked your hand along it.

“Woah. This is too pretty.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, unsure if you were speaking to him directly. You already had a bundle of dresses tossed over your arm. Why would you meet up with him when you were clearly busy?

“Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Me?” He found himself echoing.

“No, the mannequin wearing that hideous plaid mini skirt. Of course I’m talking to you. Should I get you a q-tip or something?”

“No... I don't need a q-tip. It’s Wonwoo.”

“Wonwoo?” You exercised the name slowly on your tongue.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, just so you’re aware, it’s 11:35. You were supposed to meet me outside the boutique at 11:30. I can see you’re not very punctual, so that’s noted…” for a moment, you stood back, and the searing line of your gaze judgmentally raked him from top to bottom. “Anyway… you’ll have to assist me with some things now, thanks to your big delay. I got all bored waiting for you, so I decided to do a little self-indulgent shopping."

It could have been wiser to continue biting his tongue, but even Wonwoo, who had practically vowed to avoid you for all eternity  due to his fear, felt compelled to challenge your unorthodox logic.

“Big delay? I don’t mean to be rude, but I did take the bus to get here, and their timing is never right. I feel like five minutes is a reasonable time to wait. Not that I’m saying you’re impatient.”

“Well, here’s the thing…” your back turned to him as you took a few slow steps down the clothing rack, probing between the different, pricy materials for anything exuberant you might have missed. “That is what you said, isn’t it? That I’m impatient? I mean—jeez—why bother dancing around it when you can just say it?”

He watched you face him again, except he was keeping perfectly silent, clutching his hand into an anxious, balled fist.

“Well, I suspect you lack urgency, making you apathetic, so therefore you have no sense of initiative. I’m sure you’re already aware, anyway. I can be slow, too, with certain things. Like, when I’m icing a cake. Or painting my nails. But I don’t walk slow, ever. That’s for unmotivated, pointless people who will probably go nowhere in life.”

“… Pardon?”

“Hold this, please.”

Suddenly, you draped the wine-coloured dress over Wonwoo’s shoulder. And he left it there for a second, still gobsmacked, chest shuddering from the pressure of his pumping heart, and wondered how you were even a real person. Once you began walking elsewhere in the store, Wonwoo questioned a very understandable escape toward the exit, though, for some reason, he snapped from his stupor and quickly paced after you, now folding the dress more straightly over his arm. He realized he was too afraid to surrender.

“I’m supposed to help you write a book,” he stated, feeling his lungs dig deep for air, “Seokmin said you needed help.”

“Okay, I’m tired of holding these two. Here—” you again blanketed the dresses into his arms, “—please keep this olive one in good shape, no crinkles. I have yet to find this colour anywhere else.”

Swinging back around, you began heading toward the change rooms, your uncomfortably tall looking heels clicking with each step. Wonwoo stuttered, and he couldn’t stop doing it—just, absolutely baffled by you and your consuming sense of worth. He didn’t know what to say, he could only follow, producing bits and pieces of sentences that you were either ignoring or genuinely hadn’t heard in comparison to the monologues in your own head.

“At what point will we discuss why I’m here?”

Finally, he spat out something coherent.

You paused, and for a fleeting moment, flicked your very intense eyes up and down in an examination of Wonwoo, who felt like he was being intrusively picked apart under a microscope.

 He swallowed tautly, “I’m just wondering… that’s all.”

You pressed your wallet against the top of his shoulder, guiding him to sit down on the white leather stool placed just outside the fitting rooms. He sat, too, fighting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his jeans—even worse, the dresses you’d dumped on him.

“Let’s talk after I try these on, ‘kay?”

There was something different about your voice. It fell lower, sweeter, and he shivered with the thought that you had quite possibly just hypnotized him. He looked up at you, nodding his head.

“Good. Everyone calls me Her, by the way.”

“I know.”

He held his breath as you reached out to take a dress, the wine-coloured one, which was more like a dark, nightly amethyst now that Wonwoo was observing the fabric up close. So, what the hell was he supposed to do? Just sit there, twiddling his thumbs and shaking his knee while you busied yourself with fitting into all those wildly sumptuous dresses? There was a plethora of other things he’d rather be doing—too many to name, in fact. But he wasn’t going to bother slithering away now, chiefly because you petrified him too much and he wasn’t in the mood to be further guilt-tripped by Seokmin.  

Throwing his head back, he blew out a tired huff and looked at the ceiling. Why the fuck was he doing this? He just couldn’t stop thinking it. What on earth could he possibly gain from being terrorized by your weird authority.

“Hey, I’ve been there, for sure.”

Wonwoo noticed an older man waltzing past him, probably in his early thirties or so, who’d spoken in a sympathetic tone. He seemed very polished and clean-cut, made apparent by his sleek suit, and as a university student who was routinely on the verge of going broke after most rents, Wonwoo knew money when he saw it.

“Pardon?”

The man stopped and smiled.

“Waiting for your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. I’m just—”

He was interrupted by the squeak of the change room door.

“Be honest. How does this look?”

You had stepped out to examine your silhouette in the large, full-body mirrors against the wall, taking advantage of the heavier lighting to scrutinize every divot and ruffle that textured the amethyst dress. Wonwoo wasn’t sure what to say in the moment, and the man he was explaining himself to had wandered off into another aisle to answer a phone call. He watched your fingers pick and pull at the material so it could be readjusted in certain places, your bottom lip pursed as you angled your hips and tensed a leg to make a pose.

There were at least three other dresses strewn in his lap, and you were most definitely going to make him sit there and judge each one. Now, he could be honest. The dress was glittery yet sophisticated, something like a gloaming, purple-stained sky and its first emergent stars encapsulated into fabric, though he wasn’t completely sold on it. But he also wanted to leave the mall as quick as time would allow, so rather than being verbose, he shaved it down.

“It’s pretty, not great. I don’t really know.”

“Hmm…” you mumbled, keeping your eyes fixated on the mirror, “not great? What’s not great about it? The frilly parts?”

“Yeah, the frilly parts.”

God, he wanted to go home so bad. Warm tea would be nice right now. There were crinkle-cut fries in his freezer.

“Ugh, but I love the colour. I’m getting conflicted. Maybe I’ll toss it aside and think about it again later. Yeah, I’ll do that... okay, let me get the white one next. It’s a little short but I can make it work.”

 Wonwoo carefully pulled out the white outfit from the bottom of the pile and handed it off to you. The skirt was notably cropped.

Again, you strode back into the change room and softly clicked the door shut behind you. Wonwoo pulled out his phone almost immediately, navigating to his texts with Seokmin. His thumbs blasted against the screen, tapping out literary warfare that expanded into a decent sized paragraph Seokmin would most likely respond to with an apologetic smiley face. It might take a day or two for Wonwoo to cool off, but he always forgave him. Mr. Sunshine.

When he heard the door rattle, Wonwoo quickly hid his phone back in his pants pocket; however, he severely regretted that decision because holy fuck—that vinyl white skirt was indeed short and tight and the winding, crossed straps of the top were just maintaining your cleavage. He needed something to help avert his eyes because Wonwoo felt them itch with the urge to stare at your body despite how uncomfortable he was. The floor tiles—count the floor tiles, or count the lights—something, anything to distract his brain.

“Okay, this is like—if I bend over, I’m flashing someone.”

He prayed you wouldn’t ask him his thoughts.

“But like—okay, I can make this work, right? This has potential. If I stand really straight, and proper, and, just… pull this down a bit here—okay, fuck, that was too much. Don’t look for a second… don’t look…. don’t look… m’kay, fixed it.”

Wonwoo wanted to cradle his head in his hands. And, right when he swore that the situation couldn’t sink much lower, the wealthy, black-suit man returned from his phone call. He paused the second he saw you in the mirror, watching intensely as you fiddled with the vinyl and attempted to adjust the x-shaped top a little higher over your cleavage. Except he wasn’t exactly modest about his gaze. It was drinking you in like some sort of insatiable alcohol.

“This is tough,” you huffed, pressing your hands against your chest, “the top is super sexy. I love how open the back is. But it’s such little fabric considering the price. It sucks that I look so hot in it.”

Horrendously, Wonwoo noticed a jewel bracelet slip off your wrist onto the tiled floor. Even more horrendously, he watched in the tensest position possible as you began to bend over and grab it.

No. No, no, no, no way.

The last two dresses spilled in a silk and cotton heap off his lap, nearly tripping him during his rush toward you. He managed to cover your backside in the most heart-hammering nick of time, his hands accidentally brushing in static sparks against yours to help you pull the tight fabric back down your hips. Knowing the man was still watching in the mirror, Wonwoo clasped onto your arm and dragged you back toward the fitting room, his cheeks turned to rubies.

“Fuck, you need to be more careful,” he rasped, “the skirt is too short for you to bending over like that, alright?”

“I’m not leaving a gifted two-hundred-dollar bracelet on the fucking ground. Should I have just kicked it into the change room?”

“Gosh…” Wonwoo rubbed along his neck with tire and lowered his voice. “Bending over in a skirt that short, especially when there’s a fucking weirdo watching you, is not the best procedure.”

“So, it’s my fault he’s a creep?”

“Okay—that wasn’t what I—um—”

“Do you even like this outfit?” You deadpanned.

Wonwoo chuckled in disbelief, “I’m not answering that.”

“This is useless." Your eyes agitatedly rolled. “I’m changing.”

“Great, whatever. Do that.”

He gently pushed you further into the change room and closed the door with a smooth, loud shutter. His heart was still racing.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t let my girlfriend wear that either.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Wonwoo didn’t care that his tone was snappish and clearly tired as he collapsed back onto the stool, making a point to ignore the perverted bastard until he left.

“Wonwoo!” You called his name after a few minutes of silence from the fitting room, “please bring me the green one!”

He wanted to utterly vanish, have the building collapse and crush him in a pile of dust plumes and rubble. Sliding the dress through the small gap in the changeroom door, Wonwoo found himself pausing.

“Why don’t I just hand all these to you?”

“Because, I’m using the hangers in here for my clothes.”

“Why can’t you just pu—”

“Thank you!”

Impatiently, you nabbed the dress and shut the door.

However, that dress was the last one you tried on, and Wonwoo couldn’t have been any more relieved. Talking to you seemed like it might give him heartburn or a hemorrhage.

He thought the shiny colour of olive green suited you best.

The dress was silken and long, slightly form-fitting, with a slit cut far up the right thigh and thin spaghetti straps at the shoulders.

You picked the first three dresses to take home, and left the last shimmery one on the rack.

“We’re leaving now?” Wonwoo asked, cracking his fingers.

“Yes, after I pay. Don’t seem so eager.”

“With all due respect, this place isn't really my scene.”

“Your attitude isn't really my scene.” You swiftly corrected him.

He stood next to you at the counter, observing as you zipped open your small black wallet to pull out a credit card. If you were shopping at a store like this, you must be making bank. But Wonwoo was somewhat nosey, and when you set the card on the countertop, he glanced at its embossed name. It definitely wasn’t your name.

Kim Mingyu.

It was your boyfriend’s.

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm ]: Goddammit Seokmin answer me

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm]: I’ve sent you at least ten texts

[ Wonwoo | 1:16 pm ]: Truly how do you do anything with this girl? I feel like she’s somewhat psychotic and you just fucking had to flash your sad mopey eyes at me in that café so I would break and help her write her book. I’m sitting here with dresses in my lap, pretty much acting as her unpaid personal assistant. Why the fuck is she asking me about dresses, anyway? Did you help her orchestrate this bullshit? I’m actually pissed at you. I want an entire paid lunch.

He wasn’t all that surprised you made him carry the matte silver shopping bag (with these twine handles that he absolutely hated because of how they suffocated around his fingers), and by a certain point, Wonwoo just didn’t give a damn any more. What little social battery he’d maintained since leaving his apartment had officially depleted, for he could feel it weighing in the plaza air around him like an imperceptible mist. Unfortunately, you weren’t lying about being a fast walker. He’d never seen someone stalk with such vigor.

It was nearly an endurance test to keep at your swaying hip, and the few times he fell behind, you would pause and beckon for him.

But Wonwoo discovered that even you needed to stop, to eat and drink like a normal human rather than the disguised cyborg he fleetingly speculated you were. Your touch was so abrupt—a hand had curled around his bicep and suddenly Wonwoo found himself being jerked into a café on the bottom floor of the mall. Of course, you had to pick the most expensive place to buy food in the entire fucking vicinity, and since Wonwoo was penny pinching at the moment, he opted to stand back and let you order.

But then he saw you flick open your wallet, waving Mingyu’s sleek yet flashy credit card between your fingers with blatant enticement.

“I can pay for you.”

He shook his head, muttering a careless, “no thanks.”

“Don't BS me. What do you want to eat?”

Wonwoo couldn’t stop staring at the credit card.

“What’s the limit on that thing?”

“Enough.”

“You haven’t burned through it already?”

“These openly snide comments you’re making aren’t appreciated, you know. Now, please give me an answer before I break off the temples to your glasses so I can use them to stir my drink.”

“… What?” Wonwoo mumbled, completely lost.

“Pick something!”

“Okay, fuck. I’ll just get a coffee, then.”

He took a step forward to examine the menu boards that the employees were wildly scuttling around underneath, browsing down their chalk-written cold brews until he picked one at random.

That was all Wonwoo asked for.

You bought a lemonade and some sandwich he didn’t catch the name of, toasted on panini bread. It felt amazing to sit down. Wonwoo let the silver bag slide completely off his arm and hit the floor, to which he could sense your gaze stinging over him in disapproval. He should have gotten a sandwich himself, but Wonwoo still wasn’t sure how he felt about using the money on your boyfriend’s credit card.

Wonwoo relaxed in his chair, angling a glance down at his phone that he kept below the table, checking for any Seokmin texts.

None. He was supposed to be Wonwoo’s stupid life preserver in this situation with you, and so far, he’d been left for dead. Taking a lengthy sip from his drink was the only way he could stomach it.

“You should put your phone on the table. Screen down.”

“For what reason?” Wonwoo responded in a dull tone, quickly checking his social media with impatient swipes of his thumb.

“So we can have a conversation.”

At that, he almost gagged, slapping down the coffee cup he’d just picked up.

“Now?” Wonwoo laughed, his deep voice reverberating louder than he intended around the café, “you want to talk now?”

“Uh, yes,” you answered, picking up one half of your sandwich and readying it before your mouth, “why is that shocking?”

“Because—you—ah, whatever.”

“You seem crabby. Is that your normal shtick or are you just hangry? Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

He was in a worse mood than usual, but that could be blamed entirely on the mall and how exhausted it made him feel—everything about its environment sucked out his soul. It was most likely the reason he was even daring to act so impatient. You took another bite as you waited for him to answer, and the delicious crackling sound of the toasted bread managed to fissure something inside him.

“Your eyes tell all. Here’s the other half.” You offered.

Finally, he’d experienced his first flares of contentment that day, though he wasn’t expecting it to be from a panini sandwich with what he could taste to be lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato, and different types of melted cheese.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll at least give us time to finish eating.”

[ Seokmin | 2:30pm ]: I can do one paid lunch :)

[ Seokmin | 2:30 pm ]: Her’s not psychotic she’s just uhh

[ Seokmin | 2:31 pm ]: She probs did it to mess with you 

[ Wonwoo | 2:37 pm ]: She thinks being 5 mins late warrants putting me through one of the worst experiences in my life.

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Awwww

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Who doesn’t like a little shopping??

[ Wonwoo | 2:39 pm ]: It wasn’t shopping it was torture. You owe me so much more than a fucking lunch.

—MARCH 29TH.

Unfortunately, Wonwoo never got the opportunity to discuss your book that Saturday. In the middle of eating, your phone buzzed with a brief call that had interrupted your peculiarly passionate rant on the different cup sizes at the movie theatre (Wonwoo had listened without saying anything, mostly because he dreaded the circumstances that may come from peeping a word when you were so fixated on explaining that ‘the medium is too much but the small is too little and they’re both obnoxiously priced’).

He then watched cluelessly as you launched up from the table, collecting every little belonging between your fingers, babbling about some wax appointment that had escaped you.

It was just that simple—you were gone.

In the beginning moments of your absence, Wonwoo had sat there without much inclination of what to do next.

He’d worried it was another test, and that he was supposed to dutifully follow you to said wax appointment and continue bending to your every endeavour with no retaliation throughout the day. He had also found the silence across from him unsettling, in a way.

Nonetheless, if you weren’t there, then Wonwoo figured he didn’t need to be there either. So he left, taking the fifty-six back to his apartment, and you hadn’t contacted him since.

Wonwoo actually knew his landlord quite well.

Her building was comprised of four apartments, which sat above her pottery shop on the ground floor. She wasn’t a very bothersome landlord and it was fairly easy to connect with her whenever something broke or caused problems.

When he first moved in three years ago, Wonwoo had ardently adored living there, constantly studying the shelves of shiny glazed vases in addition to the beautiful water colour paintings that were created by his landlord or her students. It had been an inspiration supernova in terms of his personal literature, and he was able to start writing his book. Though, at the time, Wonwoo hadn’t been living alone in his apartment, and it was an inescapable fact that the only reason he began writing his book was with the hope of eventually presenting it to his old girlfriend-slash-roommate.

Now, it was just him.

And as Wonwoo pushed up from his grave of rumpled bedsheets, feeling lethargic and empty, he tried concerningly hard to pinch those thoughts from his mind. It was nearly lunch. He knew damn well he shouldn’t have allowed himself to rot that long in bed, but the other half of himself, the self-sabotaging kind, just couldn’t be bothered to fucking care. Wonwoo reached for his glasses that lay half-opened on the nightstand, raking them onto his face while brushing the hair from his eyes. The first thing he properly saw was his tall, skinny, orange bottle of venlafaxine. No. He was ignoring it.

Wonwoo had been ignoring it for the past few months.

Whenever he got particularly sick of staring at the bottle, he’d shove it in his drawer, making sure to bury it deep under old, amply-scribbled notepads and inkless pens that he’d worn to the bone. At last getting up from the bed, Wonwoo experienced his entire body sway and he caught the room spinning at the distant edges of his peripheral. But he walked through it without a care in the world, utterly too used to the feeling of imminent nausea even without his medication. He decided on a shower, then dressing himself, one Poptart, a swig of water from the kitchen tap, and almost walked out the apartment door with the minty toothbrush still in his mouth.

After walking three blocks down from his apartment, Wonwoo stepped across the dead, spiky grass and into the lacklustre parking lot behind the bowling alley that always smelled like stale pizza.

He knew the vanilla Camry well enough to identify it—stalled smack and centre amongst the emptiness—the licence plate being chiselled into his head like his old locker combination from high school (16-12-24, because Wonwoo for some reason liked fixating on prehistoric details that were glaringly useless in his present).

Early two-thousands R&B was blasting from inside the outdated-looking car, though it was thankfully turned down once Wonwoo threw the door open and shimmied inside.

The odor permeated Wonwoo’s lungs in a heartbeat.

“I thought you were getting this dry-cleaned,” he sighed to his friend, Vernon, who was busy rifling through a backpack.

“Uh, didn’t happen. Didn’t wanna pay all that. M’gonna find someone else to do it that’s not taxin’ my ass. Air fresheners are all dried n’shit so you’re gonna have to deal. My bad, Glasses.”

Glasses. That nickname had always made Wonwoo huff a little half-chuckle, and almost instinctively, he pushed the glasses a bit higher back up his nose. He was introduced to Vernon at a New Year’s Eve party he was forced to attend back in December, though it had been difficult to speak with him because he was blitzed out of his fucking mind—not to mention the choking pain of ignoring the girl who had been sliding her hands along the divots of his shoulders and chest from behind, kissing at his neck.

But Vernon was branded in tattoos, and had all kinds of metal in his face, and was blessed with concupiscent, honey-burnish eyes magnetized every woman in the vicinity straight to him.

Somehow, Vernon had become Wonwoo’s plug in the mix.

“Now, what are you gettin’, Glasses? The usual quarter ounce, right?” Vernon’s tongue poked between his blistered lips as he dug a heavily-inked hand further into the backpack seated in his lap.

“Yeah, quarter ounce.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. Found it. This one.” Vernon exchanged the plastic-bagged ounces of weed with Wonwoo’s cash. “Gimme, gimme. I know it’s all here, but let me check… “ he flaked out the tinted bills with a satisfied head nod. “Prettier than a princess. You’re golden.”

“Did you just say princess?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said… what?”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“It’s not princess?”

“It’s picture, isn’t it? Prettier than a picture.”

“Really? Oh. That’s not how I remember—why the fuck are we even talkin’ about this? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Now, that’s gonna last you if you’re cute,” he said, throwing his notorious bag into the seat behind him, then tapping at his busted radio with a thick strip of tape across it, the next song rasping through the speakers, “don’t go crazy on it with your meds and shit. Do you still got enough papers?”

Wonwoo scoffed dryly at Vernon’s assumption while he hid the plastic bag within an inside pouch on his navy-blue jacket. A second later and his phone buzzed with a text message.

“Fuck the meds, honestly,” Wonwoo grunted, shifting his hips up in the seat to remove the phone from his back pocket.

Vernon itched his dark eyebrow. “Alright. Just askin’.”

Wonwoo opted to say nothing as he checked the text message without much expectation, and he was thankful that Vernon was the type to drop a subject easily. Instead his friend transitioned into a different conversation, something about another tattoo that he’d been debating, but in the kindest way possible, Wonwoo wasn’t listening to a goddamn word. You had texted him. Finally. For the first time. After three days of radio silence. And Wonwoo didn’t know why he’d suddenly exploded into such a fidgety, heart-pounding mess. You wanted to meet up again in order to discuss the book’s details.

“Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ?”

“No,” Wonwoo laughed, clasping his right hand into an anxious fist, “um, I dunno. Just—Seokmin’s got me doing this thing with a friend of his. She’s trying to write a book and he kinda threw me into helping her. We’re supposed to meet up and talk about it.”

“Oh,” Vernon answered, leaning his elbow against the window and sweeping a hand through his black tresses, “do I know the chick?”

“Maybe?”

“She got any social media? An Instagram?”

“Yeah.”

“Ou, let me see.”

Wonwoo wasn’t following you. Then again, he was hardly following anyone. His Instagram had remained completely empty since his girlfriend left him, which had prompted Wonwoo to archive every single picture and delete all the ones that contained her, even the ones that captured mere traces of her in beaded bracelets and hair ties and white socks left on the carpet.

Wonwoo used Seokmin’s account to find you. Honestly, he hadn’t ever looked at your Instagram before. Without gleaning a single photo, Wonwoo thrust his phone at Vernon.

“Oh, yeah, I do know this chick,” Vernon chuckled, thumbing through your profile with a growing smirk, “Her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm, yeah. Know her. Tried to fuck her. Didn’t work at all.”

Snapping his head to look at Vernon, Wonwoo gaped, “what?”

“Yeah, I mean—” Vernon adjusted himself in his seat, pulling up his knee to rest a tattoo-coated arm across it, “—ran into the chick at a party that some rich dude at your university threw. Sweet-talked her for a bit until I realized she had a stupid boyfriend. She told me a million different ways to kill myself. Yeah, she’s somethin’, for sure.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ha—a little. She didn’t tell me to kill myself,  just scolded me for about ten minutes. God, she was wired as fuck though. Her boyfriend—fuckin’, Mingyu, or whatever—he gets her coke. I’ve seen her take a line like it’s pixie dust, man. This was like, over a year ago, though. Dunno if she’s still that loopy. I don’t care. She’s pretty hot.”

Vernon then flashed him a picture from your account, a full body picture of you sprawled across sparkling white sand in a bikini, meanwhile Wonwoo could only stare at it with the blankest possible expression as his brain splattered with computing Vernon’s story.

“Is she still with him?” Vernon asked.

Wonwoo cleared his throat and sat with his spine rigid against the leather, nearly forgetting where he was and what he was doing.

“With who?”

“Lady Liberty. Mingyu.”

“Oh… yeah. They’re dating, still.”

“No fuckin’ way,” his friend lamented while he continuously plunged further into your pictures, thumb pressed to his chin, eyes glimmering, “you coulda flipped this book thing on its head and actually got some fuckin’ head, especially with that deep ass voice you got there. I know it’s gotta feel good. I mean, look at her lips—”

“You’re being gross as fuck,” Wonwoo groaned, swiping his phone back and stuffing it away, “get a girlfriend yourself, man.”

“I’m tryin’ to clean up my act a bit before I do that.”

“That’s definitely a work in progress, I’m assuming.”

“Asshole,” Vernon’s voice was gritty as he coughed into a fist, slipping his knee back under the steering wheel and proceeding to crank his stereo until the music was practically suffocating Wonwoo, “now get the fuck out. You’re not my only deal today. Sorry, Glasses.”

“Later.”

Wonwoo pushed open the door and stepped outside into the cold afternoon breeze. He sucked in a long, relieving breath. At times the fresh air disgusted him, especially when he cozied into one of his mental ruts and everything in the world seemed so grey it was soul-crushing, but Vernon’s car smelled like straight fucking cannabis.

Fresh air was heavenly.

“Don’t forget to text your girl!” Vernon laughed just before Wonwoo slammed the door shut to swallow up the melodic lyrics.

He wanted to make a snap comment before the boy drove off to his next endeavour, but he didn’t care enough to think of one.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: hey wonwoo, it’s her. I think we should finally settle a date to talk about this book thing. let me attach a pic of my schedule and you can pick any open slots

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: 145_348.JPG

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]:  seokmin isn’t going to be our communicator anymore, so u can stop complaining to him about it

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm ]: Okay, thanks.

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm]: I’ll take a look soon.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:45 pm ]: I’m excited to see you again

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: no likewise?!

[ Wonwoo | 1:50 pm ]: Likewise.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: ugh. thx

—APRIL 1ST.

It was around six in the evening and Wonwoo was seated in the SRX building, the sky rolling with lambent, hazy-toned pastures of peach in the windows behind him. He had arrived about an hour ago, taking the staircase up to the third floor. It was much quieter there, making it easier for Wonwoo to endlessly stare with glazed, void eyes at his laptop screen and the cursed document he couldn’t finish. After tapping his fingernails in a bored, repetitious pattern against the shiny white table, he felt the urge to delete each and every paragraph as if he hadn’t poured months of earnest love into them.

You would be meeting him soon.

He could still remember looking at your schedule, pinching into the screen and examining all the different colour-coded blocks: dinner parties, SSA meetings, gym sessions, errands—how the fuck you managed to juggle those things and more left him marvelled yet terrified. You were pretty on point regarding your arrival time, to which Wonwoo could immediately identify you before even seeing your face due to the heel clicking and the sounds of tapping jewelry on your bag.

Emerging onto the floor with a very intense scowl and a notably crushing grip on your drink, you were to say the least, angry. Wonwoo gnawed slightly on his tongue as you sat down.

Your purse clunked like a cinderblock onto the table.

He watched you inhale a slow, shaky breath, raising your hand with the expansion of your chest in order to calm down.

 “I’m going to kill myself.”

Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, subtly trying to establish more distance between you. He flicked a glance at his laptop.

“Damn. Why is that?”

“Because of stupid, incompetent people.”

“Yeah?”

“I just—I don’t get it!” You laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly jovial sound and more than anything it seemed like you were going to start smashing glass. “I don’t get how people are unable to understand that we don’t do walk-ins unless one of the stylists are free—” you dug a hand into your purse, pulling out a straw, “—which in the salon’s case, is almost never! I tell them we can’t in my very sweet, established customer service voice: ‘I’m sorry, but the only way to receive a chair is to book online.'”

Wonwoo tilted his head, grinning a little.

“Blah, blah. I tell them the entire story in the kindest way I can, even though I want to grab them by their fucking neck and drag them over the counter to show them our website.” You slipped out your laptop next, accidentally dragging out a lanyard along with it that you agitatedly shoved back into the purse. “And then, they get all uptight and pissy when we can’t wriggle them in! Sorry, our makeup artists are busy! Working with people who made scheduled fucking appointments! The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”

You scraped the drink toward you, slamming the straw straight through the plastic film lid with such force that several people ended up turning their heads. After taking a long sip, you gulped and glared until they probably realized it was you and pretended not to care.

For a moment, Wonwoo didn’t know what to say, so he’d folded his arms instead. Considering that Wonwoo worked the late shift stocking shelves at the pharmacy department, your predicament sounded like an entirely new world to him.

“Ugh, I’m sorry to bring all this negativity with me,” you apologized, still exasperated, “I don’t need this fucking tea—I need straight vodka. I’m seriously frazzled.”

“Seriously frazzled?” Wonwoo repeated, finding your choice of words funny as he resumed leaning forward, arms still crossed.

“Very, seriously frazzled.”

“I’m sorry about your day.”

Again, you sighed deeply while removing your long, warm jacket to drape over the chair’s spine—it was a rather elegant reveal of the strapless pearl dress underneath, tinted by the evening light, peach-pink as it rained from the ceiling length windows and framed your body like you were some sort of resurrected angel. Tension at last started escaping your shoulders. Wonwoo quickly realized that he'd been staring, and his fingers curled into a nervous fist.

“You’re actually such a good listener.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Um, thank you.”

“I like that you don’t interrupt me.”

Settling his elbows on the table and ruffling the back of his messy black locks, Wonwoo felt himself panic a little on the inside.

“Well,” he heaved in, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I know," you chirped, posturing yourself confidently, “anyway, the book. We need to talk about it.”

“Table’s yours.”

Wonwoo’s knuckles pressed softly into his cheek while he waited for you to prepare your laptop. His own document was glowing at him, and he swore the emptiness of the page made the screen brighter (in the absolute worst, most mocking way).

“Okay, I’ve got my ideas and such pulled up.”

He expected you to continue and introduce the concept, but you had suddenly stopped, and Wonwoo thought you appeared almost smitten and somewhat timorous. It was strange, because from what he’d known and gauged so far, you were nothing akin to that.

“Well, promise that you won’t think it’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“That’s why I want you to promise!”

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses and sighed, “I will need to be honest at some points you know, depending on what kind of help you want from me. Not that I’m going to be a straight-up dick.”

You scoured at him from over your laptop.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll promise if it makes you feel better.”

“Just—shut up." You wiggled your hand at him dismissively and proceeded to tug the laptop closer. “I don’t even care anymore.”

Once you spent a moment affirming the document to yourself, you looked up at him and smiled. “I’m going to write a book for Mingyu. Our fifth anniversary is coming up in the winter—it’s actually on Christmas Eve—the day he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. I just want to write him a little memoire thingy that tells our story. I want it to walk through the events of our lives, and how I remember them. First encounter, first date, first kiss, stuff like that. I’ve already collected some good memories to include. I have… somewhat of an outline? But my problem is the writing. I can spew nonsense from my mouth at a million miles an hour, but when I try to actually write? It’s crickets.”

You sat back, a hand poised thoughtfully at your cheek while one leg folded over the other. Wonwoo knew you were granting him the space to speak and at least offer a slice of his thoughts, yet, in that moment, he found himself to be drowning. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or anything of the delusional like; however, hearing you explain the exact premise of a story that he had been successfully writing until a certain breakup—it had shaken him, and Wonwoo felt like the universe was smearing salt fresh into his unsewn wounds.

“So…” your head cocked to the side. “Can I at least an ‘okay’ or a head nod or some sign of life? Or are you just too disgusted?”

What could he say? What was he supposed to say?

Wonwoo was genuinely clueless on how to help you write a story that he’d been utterly failing at writing himself. And, sure, maybe Wonwoo should just give up completely. His ex-girlfriend had ripped out his heart without a single indication that it would happen, and then exited his life in the blink of an eye, disappearing so fucking abruptly that Wonwoo could have said she was a shadow that he imagined in pure lunacy. But he hadn’t dropped the story because there was this very stubborn, unwilling part of his being that could not move on from her—her, who had been his love, and breath, and bones.

He’d decided to finish the story as a manner of easing into closure. If that closure never came, then so be it.

“Are you seriously fucking ignoring me right now?”

His silence had promptly disturbed your peace, and now you were glaring at him with the beginning licks of fire and hell in your eyes.

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“What?” You pronounced sharply. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said while closing his laptop and sliding it back into his shoulder-sling bag, “I just—I’m not the right person to help you. I’m not, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Seokmin told me you could write fucking anything. He made it out like you were some literature God with a golden quill. And—great, you’re just packing up fucking everything. Are you serious? Am I even allowed more of an explanation or are you gonna leave it at that? Wonwoo, you couldn’t have told me this at a worse time.”

“I didn’t plan for it to be like that.” He could hardly push the syllables up his diaphragm. “It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t lift a finger to stop him from leaving, though the wavelength of your incinerating stare was felt like a hot, melting scratch down his neck. This was terrible, he was terrible—Wonwoo already knew that about himself. He wanted to go home. He wanted to shut himself away in his room and sink straight through the sheets until he was swallowed. His anxiety was webbing around him. It was pulling him down into the soil and earth like he belonged there.

He truly hated this part of himself.

More than anything, he truly hated when other people saw it.

Especially people like you.

—APRIL 8TH.

Wonwoo didn’t think you would ever speak to him again, in person or over text message. In retrospect, he was fine with it. You were rather overwhelming and especially tiring for someone like Wonwoo who would be perfectly fine never seeing another human in his lifetime. Not to mention he was freed from helping you with your book, which he learned was a technical love letter to your boyfriend in addition to a romance he wanted a nonexistent part in. Going down that path once was already excruciating enough, and given his anxiety attack that saw him locked in a cold washroom stall last week, it was best you just forget about him. He assumed you already had, anyway.

After he stocked the last red bottle of sinus medicine onto the shelf, Wonwoo used his boxcutter to break down the cardboard package and fold it flat with the others he’d opened. It was time for his break, and then he would only have one more hour until the pharmacy section closed for the night. Once it hit ten o’clock, the store was automatically still and hardly anyone came in—minus the few student couples whom Wonwoo had to point in the direction of pregnancy tests or plan b. But it was a Tuesday night. He was at the bare minimum appeased he didn’t have to console a sobbing, snotty-nosed eighteen-year-old girl imploring for a First Response.

When he collapsed down at his favourite seat in the breakroom, Wonwoo pulled out his phone. He had sent Seokmin a text yesterday evening about going studying at the SRX building for their upcoming math midterm, though Seokmin had yet to respond and Wonwoo couldn’t evade wondering if you were pulling some strings behind the curtain.

He opened his bottle of juice and spent the remainder of his fifteen listening to music and jittering his knee.

Wonwoo took his earbuds with him back onto the floor, sneaking the wires under his shirt to pull out his collar. There were only a few boxes left on his cart that required stocking, and whatever didn’t fit would have to be scanned into storage. That shouldn't take long. Wonwoo could almost taste the crisp atmosphere of the night air and feel the gentle chilliness soon to ghost against his face.

However, halfway into shelving the cough drops there had been a polite tap on his shoulder, and Wonwoo wanted to wither up and lose his head right there on the tiles like a sundried rose.

He didn’t know who to expect when he turned around, pulling out a single earbud while the other continued to blast his music.  

“Oh, shit—I didn’t know you worked here.”

Fuck. He wanted to kill himself.

“Yeah, started a couple months ago, actually.”

Mingyu.

It’s not that Wonwoo didn’t like speaking with him, because they had definitely exchanged cordial conversations in the past, particularly when they both took that Probability Poker elective last semester and Wonwoo learned that Mingyu was a pretty decent bluffer. Unfortunately, Mingyu’s belief that he was a great bluffer was actually the one indication that he was indeed bluffing. It showed in his overly confident eyes before a twitch of the lips or a subtly shifted foot, meanwhile Wonwoo was able to sit there the entire time like he was an Easter Island statue incarnate.

Put simply, Wonwoo had always preferred to avoid Mingyu because he was your boyfriend, and per routine, he attempted to slip around most people that were associated with you.

“Cool.” Mingyu smiled and the flashes of his pointed teeth caught the light. “Stuff’s got switched around in here again.”

“New mods came out last week,” Wonwoo answered, placing the last cough drop box onto the shelf and facing it straight.

“Well, don’t know what the fuck that means,” his tone was brassy as he laughed, “I just came to ask where the plan b is now.”

 “Two aisles down, check the endcap.”

“Appreciate it, thanks—oh, condoms?”

“Next aisle.”

“Got it.”

“Just come get me when you’re done,” Wonwoo said, grabbing his boxcutter and running the blade along the taped seam of the cardboard to satisfyingly slice it open, “I’m the only one in pharmacy right now, so I have to ring you up.”

As soon as Mingyu disappeared around the corner, Wonwoo tossed the flattened cardboard onto his cart with the loudest, most life-draining sigh that could be harboured. He wasn’t the kind of person to cultivate those racing, panicky thoughts that consumed his brain like a merciless hurricane, rather it was typically one single thought that was an eternal black space to swallow him. But Wonwoo had to admit that seeing Mingyu had triggered something of the latter, and now he was feeling sick with the fact you possibly told Mingyu about his episode at the SRX building last week. To Wonwoo it had been the shackles of his anxiety, though it probably came across as a very ill-mannered, abrupt rejection from your perspective.

Mingyu didn’t take long picking out his items. It was clearly a run of the mill routine for him at this point—a mere grab and go.

At the register, Wonwoo mentally questioned why Mingyu had grabbed such a plethora of condoms. He didn’t mean to be vulgar in his thinking, but how often were you getting fucking railed?

Either that, or Mingyu preferred being well stocked.

Vernon would be bruising his knuckles on his steering wheel right now, considering how devotedly he attempted to seduce you.

As payment, Mingyu pulled out that godforsaken credit card that you had borrowed during the dress shopping. Wonwoo felt nauseous just looking at the damn thing. He swiped all of the items into a small plastic bag which he then handed to Mingyu with a notable impatience, wanting to whisk the boy out as quick as possible.

“G’night, man. Thanks for the help.”

“Night,” he answered in a deep, tired sigh, watching Mingyu’s head of thick and bouncy black hair disappear toward the aglow exit.

Well, clearly you weren’t wasting anytime thinking about him despite the dramatics pertaining to the situation last week, not even in the most marginal fraction. Mingyu must rail it out of you every night—not that Wonwoo would be surprised to learn such a thing considering the tall boy’s physique and your openly lascivious nature.

Well, good luck to you both, he supposed.

At least it was closing time.

Wonwoo had always suspected there was something ever so slightly off kilter about his body, especially in the way it reacted to certain situations and emotions. He knew it probably wasn’t the most mundane, ordinary act—locking himself in his aunt’s washroom the day of his sixteenth birthday, sliding down onto the cold, hard tiles, feeling his heart jolt, punch, and thump again his chest like a battering ram. There had been a pattern of rubber ducks on her eggshell blue shower curtain, and Wonwoo remembered counting them row by row, over and over, until his breath managed to steady.

Twenty-four ducks. He could still recall the number.

A doctor’s visit about three weeks later had granted him the diagnosis and a scribbled venlafaxine prescription. Wonwoo was already collecting his sweater off the tissue sheet bed, ready to leave.

In the beginning, he was strict about his medication. He organized them into pill cartridges and set alarms and always ate them with cooked, warm meals. Understandably, his habits dwindled every now and again, however, Wonwoo was quite pious to the routine for a good couple years. But then he met his most recent girlfriend in university. She was shy and reserved. All about the books.

Cute as buttons.

He fell in love.

And it was all such a rush of rose petals and sweet symphonies that Wonwoo became distracted from his healthy habits.

Of course, everything crashed and burned once she abandoned him. He capitulated in an instant, and the sight of the orange bottle made him paler than winter moonlight. It’s not like he wanted to suffer, or despise the way his body put him through a neural hell beyond his own control. The fact of the matter was that Wonwoo just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take those stupid pills.

It was a mountain. Every. Single. Time.

And for the third time that week, Wonwoo found himself awake at an ungodly hour, rifling through the black lunchbox he kept in his closet with his glasses about to slip off the fine point of his nose.

He pulled out the baggie filled with the quarter-ounce, his silver grinder, and his rolling papers. Moving to his desk, Wonwoo clicked on the small overhead lamp to illuminate his space, in which he tapped some of the weed into his grinder and began twisting the lid until he was satisfied. He liked preparing joints to smoke on the roof. It wasn’t particularly hard to access, anyway. Right outside his bedroom window was a balcony with a short ladder attached to the brick, and once Wonwoo had discovered it, he made a habit of climbing up to spark his joints so that their pungent aroma could be carried away by the fresh winds usually stirred up at gloaming.

Honestly, it was the only thing he enjoyed.

Just before he slipped out the window, Wonwoo grabbed a pair of black jeans he’d worn earlier in the week, discovering the lighter he’d accidentally left in the back pocket.

The ladder shuddered slightly when Wonwoo gripped it, though if he were being candour, he didn’t care whatsoever if all the bolts suddenly loosened and he were to splatter against the sidewalk like an uncooked pancake. In fact, the fall probably wasn’t enough to kill him. Maybe a few broken bones and scrapes, some blood staining the street akin to little patterns of rain, bruises that signatured violets into his skin, but Wonwoo would still be painfully, vividly alive, enough to see the stars if the glasses didn’t snap off his face.

It was a colder night, so Wonwoo made sure to tuck on his beanie and huddle into his thicker-sized coat. He sat with one leg dangling over the building’s edge, feeling the wind whiplash against his back and crawl in these chilly, indecipherable whispers from his shoulders to his neck, almost tickling him, like it had missed him.

An orange flicker popped to life from the butane of his lighter, which he used to lightly singe the joint perched at his lips. Wonwoo then tilted his head back, blowing the cloud and its loose, airy curls straight into the sky’s deepest purples.

He loved being alone.

Even when his ex-girlfriend had moved in with him all those months ago, there was an unyielding part of him that hadn’t been ready to forfeit all his space and privacy.

But, over time, his love surmounted the sacrifice.

He would wake up to her sleeping face, and with thoughtful nudges, clear the hairs off her cheeks. He would spend an hour working on his homework or writing his story while waiting for her to stir so messily in the sheets that it became graceful. He would tease her with his cold hands as she boiled up tea in the kitchen, pinching at her hips with the utmost softness and giggling huskily into her neck when she would twist in the arms that bracketed her body against his chest. He would trap her between the counter, sunshine striking the room aglow in these nearly blinding seas of light, mouthing at her throat and tugging at her shorts and hitching his fingers so deep into her heat because all Wonwoo wanted to do was make her feel good.

Opening his eyes again, Wonwoo saw the stars rather than her face. The high was disseminating past his lungs and mingling with the pain that festered in his heart, concocting something that hurt so wonderfully, in all the right places, in all the right spots.

He was a fucking mess.

It wasn’t sustainable. But he didn’t care enough to fix himself.

 —APRIL 15TH.

Why did Wonwoo keep coming back to that café? The number of times he’d sat down with conviction that today would be fruitful—today, the eloquence would flow from his fingertips like perfectly pitched music notes and the symphony would read as beautiful and mellifluous as it sounded in his mind. Today, he was going to write.

Except, he accomplished nothing of the sort.

Repeatedly tapping his index finger against the space bar, he waited for the right adjective or phrase to leap out—to grasp him in a headlock even—whatever it took, Wonwoo was willing to sit there all afternoon until one fucking word conjured in the infinite blankness that was his imagination. He reached for his drink, only to take a sip of dry air that smelled like his earlier cocoa. Wonwoo realized the cup was empty. Had he wasted this much time already?

It pricked similarly to a bee sting. His passions felt impossible. A sigh upheaved from his chest and fingers curled into his hair, musing up the already disarrayed strands and slowly warping himself to look more and more like a mad scientist. Wonwoo removed his glasses and slumped back in the chair, rubbing at the reddish prints left on his nose. Writing had soaked itself in agony and he was going to remain in the storm of it until the bitter, ungratifying end.

‘Till death do us part.

 And then, something struck.

Though it wasn’t what Wonwoo had hoped for.

Literally—it was your hand hitting the glass of the café window, which had jerked Wonwoo out from his self-pitying.

He scrambled to fix his glasses back on, your face clarifying in an instant. You smiled at him with your glossed lips, and he didn’t like the nuance of your countenance one bit. Watching you enter the café was jarring and uncomfortable and his fist immediately clenched, his index nail picking at the ruined cuticle of his thumb. Two weeks ago—that was the last time you had spoken. At the SRX building.

“Hey!” You sounded friendly. “Can I sit here?”

“Well, uh—”

“Great, thank you.”

You pulled out the chair across from him, then set your bag delicately on the windowsill. Wonwoo watched with nervous, fluttering eyes as you smoothed out your cropped skirt before sitting down, ensuring it was tucked under yourself appropriately.

“How are you?”

Gulp.

“Fine.”

“Good. That’s really good. I’m glad.” Your nails drummed once against the table. “I actually didn’t plan on coming here, but I saw you as I was crossing the street, and I thought, ‘I should stop by and check in on him’ because, y’know, we haven’t been talking.”

Wonwoo furrowed his brow. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Slap your hand against windows to get people’s attention.”

You swept something off the table with your palm, and this sunshine-like laugh turned your entire face to sweetness, but it wasn’t entirely earnest, and Wonwoo bit into his lip because you fucking terrified him. He caught your sparkling eye and wanted to melt.

“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, you’re good.”

“What are you working on?”

“A paper.”

Obviously, he was going to lie. Whether or not you could pick up on his lie was beyond Wonwoo’s control at that point. He didn’t know what you wanted, or why you were interrupting the flow of your very organized scheduling system to seemingly toy with him.

You didn’t respond to his paper comment. There was a thick silence between you despite the distant clattering of dishes, bubbling coffee machines, and conversations that coalesced into one big buzz.

Wonwoo bit the bullet.

“Something you want from me, yeah?”

“Not… exactly… I mean, after you left me at the SRX building, I wanted to get very angry about the whole situation. My day was terrible, and you responding to my idea with that sickly look on your face didn’t help. But I thought about it. You said no. I can’t ask anything more of you, y’know? I have to respect what you said.”

“Oh.” Wonwoo unclenched his fist, stretched out his long legs a bit more. “Yeah, sure. I get it. Thanks for understanding.”

“I just didn’t think my idea was that bad.”

“Well… no. It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.”

A twitch to your lip suggested you didn’t believe him. Wanting to clear the air a bit, Wonwoo stopped slouching. He sat straighter and lowered the lid of his laptop, inviting the space between you.

His mouth opened, and then closed.

Fuck, just breathe you idiot—he cursed at himself.

You did that little head tilt thing, half-smiling at him, looking radiant underneath the café sunlight and so oddly patient with his tied-tongue that Wonwoo was miraculously able to find his words.

“There is nothing wrong with your idea. I made it seem like there was. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to help you write a romance story, for personal reasons that would be useless explaining. But you seem very confident in everything you do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Hm, well, thank you for believing in me. Romance can be a touchy subject—I didn’t think of that, and I get it… I guess I felt more insecure about your reaction because writing is the one thing I can’t ace. I do need help with my story, even if I don’t want it. Well, it’s just the truth, isn’t it? There are some things I can’t do!”

You chuckled at yourself, and Wonwoo thought it to be actually endearing. All your hard edges softened in that moment.

“So, I haven’t made any progress in my story, which sucks because I’m operating by deadline—” reaching into your bag, you unveiled a small, compact mirror, using it to remove something invisible from your eyelash, “—do you have any writer friends that would help me?”

Wonwoo scratched his nose.

“Uh, with the book?”

“Yes.”

“None.”

“What?” The mirror snapped shut as you gagged at him. “How do you have no writer friends? Isn’t that your major? Literature? Do you even have friends that aren’t Seokmin?”

“I’m a math major for fucks sake.”

“You’re fucking joking, Wonwoo. Please, tell me it’s a joke.”

He leaned back, folding his arms and propping an ankle onto his knee. You were still gaping at him, and he wanted to smirk.

“What’s wrong with math?”

“Nothing. Math is… math,” you gritted, shoving the mirror back into your expensive-looking, gold-buckled bag, “but why math? Why straight math? I thought you wanted to be a writer.”

“Man, Seokmin really didn’t tell you fucking anything, did he?” Wonwoo chuckled. Or, maybe you had only heard the things you wanted to hear, which was what Wonwoo assumed.

“Like I have space in my brain to remember the multiverse of information that constantly comes out of his mouth.”

“So what is there space for then?”

“You're toeing a dangerous line.”

“Well, I like math and writing.”

"And what kind of papers would you be required to work on as a math major? Did you stumble across some quintessential theorem that nobody else really cares about except for you and all the other pocket-protector wearers out there? Or is this a Good Will Hunting scenario? Even better—are you waiting for someone to walk by behind you and see all that really complicated mumbo-jumbo on your screen and think to themselves, 'woah, this guy is really smart. He's working on a paper with numbers, and I only work on papers with words. Where did I go wrong in my life?' so you can develop some sort of alternative complex that writing just isn't giving you?"

Wonwoo cocked his head at you, perplexed.

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about?” He felt a laugh in his chest, but he pushed it down. Wonwoo had never met anyone like you before. “You made up everything you just said.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I go on tangents. It’s just something I do.”

“Damn. I can tell.” Wonwoo rubbed at the corner of his eye and slipped the ankle off his knee, further spreading his legs. “You like hearing the sound of your own voice, yeah?”

He always hated when people bothered him at the café, especially when he was trying to write. Today, it was different.

“Well, that’s true.” You beamed at him so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. “The most beautiful sound in the world, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Thought so. Ugh, I just can’t believe you have no writer friends to hook me up with.” He watched you slouch forward, slapping your arms across the table. “I’ll have to go wait outside Gildan Hall and start ambushing all the smart-looking literature majors.”

Wonwoo found himself examining your perfect nail polish.

“Good luck with that.”

“Can you at least try to sound more sympathetic?”

“You don’t seem like a person who appreciates sympathy.”

“Pft. According to who? I like being comforted when the time is right, and you’re not being very comforting.” You groaned into the table.

“You like being comforted?” He scoffed.

Your head popped up, and you were pouting. “At certain times, yes. Most times, no. It’s a complicated system. No one’s really cared enough to learn it except for Mingyu, and that was by force, and I think even he hates it. But I’m not asking for the moon. Just a reasonably sized chunk of it. I have to be worth something, right?”

“What’s life without someone catering to your every whim at the drop of a hat, huh?” He couldn’t help but mutter with sarcasm.

“Yes, exactly! See—you read my mind.”

Wonwoo bit his tongue.

“Ugh, now where’s my stupid phone?”

It was in your purse. Immediately, your eyes lit up.

“Jesus Christ. I’m gonna be late to my electrolysis!”

Like a burst of lightning, you shot up from your seat and quickly fixed the cream-white purse back over your shoulder. It reminded him of that time at the mall. One second you were engrained into a tangent, and the next you were scrambling about, attempting to recover the lost time in your meticulous schedule.

“If you think of anyone, please text me!”

Wonwoo nodded his head.

Now, there was a vacant seat before him, left slightly tugged from the table due to your hectic departure. For a moment, he just sighed, feeling the breath emerge from somewhere so deep in his chest that it ached. That was the thing about you—in a confusing turmoil, you managed to fill him up when he felt empty, but then empty him once he felt full.

He didn’t know what kind of person you were.

But there was an odd thrill to it that Wonwoo couldn’t articulate.

—APRIL 18TH.

Sat with Seokmin at the boy’s dining room table, Wonwoo popped a purple grape into his mouth while flipping a pencil between his fingers. The two had been staring plainly at their last problem from the math homework, but the question was horribly long, and his handwriting had morphed from legible penmanship to the most slurred hieroglyphics. Wonwoo wanted to dump a ramen packet into some boiling water and call it a night. He’d devoured a whole stem of grapes. His head was pounding and his stomach growled for a meal.

“Oh! You see—this is what gets me every time!” Seokmin exclaimed, leaned over his scattered papers, shoulders hunched with strain, “I mess up one multiplication in a matrix, and it screws me all up! Now I have to go over—uh! My fucking pencil just snapped.”

“Good,” Wonwoo mumbled, pressing a hand along the groove of his stiff neck, cracking it, “take it as a sign to give up.”

“We’re so close.”

Scooting the chair back to stretch his legs, Wonwoo then snatched his phone off the table. It was nearly ten at night.

“I’m hungry, and I don’t care anymore.”

Seokmin sighed, “are you going to eat now?”

“Yeah. Any ramen left?”

“It’s in the box sitting on top of the fridge. Soup broth is in the cupboard beside the microwave. I think there’s some eggs, too.”

Wonwoo easily grabbed the noodle packet off the fridge. He asked his friend if he wanted a bowl as well, and Seokmin agreed, abandoning their math homework after his defeating pencil-snapping incident. While they waited for the water to start bubbling over the stovetop, Seokmin had joined Wonwoo in the kitchen, though he leaned against the counter, holding his phone six inches or so from his face. Wonwoo had never seen anyone text that fast.

Gosh—he didn’t even need to ask who it was.

Noticing a few smudges on his glasses, Wonwoo lowered them down to the hem of shirt, beginning to massage the marks away.

“Our math final is the twenty-eighth, right?” Seokmin asked.

“Should be, yeah.”

“Thanks. If it’s on the twenty-eighth then I can definitely go.”

Wonwoo slid the glasses back onto his nose.

“Go to what?

Taptaptaptap—Seokmin’s fingers were practically electric.

“Uh, this thing that Her is having… at her parents’ house… like… a big dinner party… I’m helping her plan it… just need to make sure… I’m free those days… there! Okay, all settled.”

At last, Seokmin had clicked off his phone and slid the device back into the pocket on his sweatpants. Wonwoo folded his arms, staring at his friend with a deeply furrowed yet confused brow.

He sucked in a helpless breath.

“I don’t get you, Seokmin.”

“What—why?”

A few hot droplets of water had leapt from the pot, slightly scalding Wonwoo’s arm. He promptly ripped open the ramen packet and submerged the noodle brick, poking at it with chopsticks.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, “are you obsessed with her?”

Seokmin laughed, sounding astounded.

“No, I’m not obsessed. I’m just helping. We’re friends.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Setting the chopsticks beside the stove, Wonwoo turned around again, habitually crossing his arms low along the chest.

“I guess I don’t understand what you get out of that relationship.” He admitted. “Why can’t she do shit herself?”

“Ha!—That’s an interesting question.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s not that.” Seokmin lifted himself onto the kitchen counter, his head thumping back against the wooden cupboard. “I just wasn’t expecting you to ask that. And—I meant it’s interesting to see your interpretation of it. Like, my friendship with Her.”

Wonwoo nodded. He wasn’t going to coax anything out of his friend that he wasn’t already willing to say. In fact, Wonwoo had only begun talking to Seokmin back in the early, rainy days of September, since they ended up in the same discrete mathematics course and happened to choose seats right next to each other. Their bond had formed fairly quick, but they never really conversed about topics more intimate than school work and their own interests.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, don’t apologize. I mean, I totally get why you’re curious.”

Seokmin glanced down at his knees, scratched his chin.

“Uh—well, what did you say, anyway? Why can’t her do shit herself? I mean, her life is super busy. Her mom’s a writer and editor for that popular fashion and beauty magazine you always see at all those glamour stores—Stunning Monthly—something like that. Her’s dad is this business tycoon guy. He works with my dad, actually. I’ve known Her since high school. Our families are close, so naturally we’ve spent a lot of time together. Her family picked up all their stuff and moved into Hillcrest on account of her dad needing to relocate for work.”

Wonwoo remained silent at the revelation, even though he was urged by curiosity to badger Seokmin with questions.

“But, uh—without all my non-essential rambling—the relationship with her parents is tumultuous. Who doesn't have a shaky relationship with their parents, though? A few lucky souls, probably. But they've set things up for her quite well, in my opinion. Her mom got her a job at the Milestone—that fancy beauty place down Bank Street? She has a makeup chair from time to time and works reception. She’s definitely gonna graduate Cum Laude with some big fancy scholarship. Not to mention the little power couple thing she’s got going on with Mingyu. She just tends to be…” Seokmin winced, massaging his shoulder, “she’s just a bit unpredictable. It would be way too easy for things to start falling all over the place. She’s a busy girl so I figure it’s nice to help her out. Keep things organized.”

Wonwoo bobbed his head, thinking.

“I guess I’m curious about the book thing. I mean, if everything is so perfectly laid out for her, and she’s so busy all the time…. why write a book? That takes months, extreme dedication, planning out the ass… it’s loving everything you’ve written and then hating it so atrociously… I don’t know,” he sighed, shrugging with confusion, “if I were her, writing a book would be the last thing on my mind.”

Folding his arms, Seokmin leaned back against the cupboards and agreed. “I know. But sometimes she just lurches onto random things out of nowhere. One year she practically turned her entire living room into a freakin’ art studio and I slipped on an open tube of paint on the floor—nearly popped out my tail bone. To be fair, her passion projects never last long. She never has the time, as you said… I know you’re not helping her anymore. She’ll probably drop it without help.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin answered, smiling, “just like that.”

For some reason, Wonwoo gritted his teeth. He would hate for you to discard the feat so readily, just because he couldn’t pitch in as initially planned. Yes, writing was not always a fruitful cherry blossom tree and sometimes chalking down one sentence was equivalent to a month of effort and squeezing out all the creative fibres in one’s brain, but there was so much worth and occulted beauty to it at the same time. It was the art of expression.

Wonwoo thought it was quite cruel to deprive oneself of the ability to express and articulate things as they coursed through the fragile skin and the warm veins, and chiefly, the heart.

“Anyway, maybe I didn’t really answer your question,” Seokmin laughed, “but, y’know, don’t worry too much about turning down the book. You’re right. She’s got more important things to focus on, as I was telling her over and over, and—oh! Fuck, the ramen’s bubbling!”

Wonwoo quickly twisted around as the water began spilling over the edge and sizzling like fried meat. He lifted the pot off the piping hot, orange element, to which Seokmin joined him, twisting the stove dial to a much lower heat. Blowing at the white froth, Wonwoo waited a precautionary minute before returning the pot.

Once dinner was ready, they gathered back at the dining table, entwining the noodles with their chopsticks and hardly allowing a second for the ramen to cool before they were shovelling in burning mouthful after mouthful. The bite in Wonwoo’s stomach was gradually appeased. He soon felt warm, and full, and less tempered.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?” His friend glanced up from his phone.

“So…” Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, his fist clenched. “I guess what—from what I understand—if I don’t help Her, or if she doesn’t find someone who can, then the book just won’t happen ”

At his observation, Seokmin nodded, seeming unbothered.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

“That’s sad.”

“Hey, you two just aren’t destined for each other,” he replied, slurping his noodles, “you were right back at the café.”

Picking up the white and blue patterned bowl, Wonwoo prepared to drink the broth, feeling the delicious heat fan back against his face. Once he finished eating and helping Seokmin with the dishes, he planned to catch a late-night bus back to his apartment above the quaint pottery shop. He didn’t know if he would sleep or not.

Maybe, however, that would give him time to rethink some choices, even if he shouldn’t trust the musings his brain happened to curate past nine at night. Especially any musings concerning you.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: Sorry to message you this late.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: I’ll keep it brief: I’ve given your book idea some thought, and if the offer still stands, I’d like to help you write it. Though, I understand if you want someone else’s help.

[ Wonwoo | 11:50 pm ]: Goodnight.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: AHHHHHHHHHHH

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: good morninggg

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: no that’s so perfect

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: okay. OMG. there’s just so much we have to sort out. I’m trying not to overwhelm myself lol

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: thank u for giving it more thought. I’m excited to plan everything and see u again ofc :)

[ Wonwoo | 12:55 pm ]: Likewise.

—APRIL 24TH.

Since last November, Wonwoo hadn’t invited many guests to his apartment—not even his older brother, who had never stepped foot into the building after Wonwoo originally signed the lease. Seokmin visited once or twice, but everything was curt, and while there had been one time that Vernon slept overnight on the couch, it was hardly notable.

Knowing that you were going to be at his apartment in a few hours was a very daunting thought. Consequently, Wonwoo had done something he hadn’t properly completed in months: clean.

It wasn’t like he just threw out the garbage and wiped down the kitchen counter either. He legitimately cleaned, picking over his apartment with a fine-tooth comb, not allowing one coffee cup or coaster to seem even vaguely incongruous. He fluffed out the couch pillows and vacuumed the floors. He went through his entire room, tidying up piles of clothes on the floor and aligning every book on his shelf. For the first time in months, Wonwoo threw open his heavy curtains, pure sunlight engulfing the space in such a bright glare that his eyes stung and he hardly recognized his own bedroom. Most importantly, he remembered to hide the pill bottle in his nightstand.

After all the anxiety-driven cleaning was done, Wonwoo collapsed onto the couch and stared plainly at the ceiling, the reality of what he just accomplished beginning to sink into his pores.

What the fuck?

He doubted you would care even microscopically if his apartment wasn’t perfectly swept and polished and artistic like a photo from an interior design catalogue. But at the same time, it would have been impossible for him to leave it alone. The burst of productivity undoubtedly left Wonwoo rather hot and sweaty, so he opted to take a shower before you arrived. Standing beneath the cool water and taking slow, languid breaths helped ease his nerves.

And, for the first time in what he imaged to be—months, Wonwoo dried himself off with this feeling that everything was okay.

Not good. Definitely not great. But okay.

While he buttoned up a pair of blue jeans, Wonwoo heard his phone ding from his desk. Reaching over, he tapped the screen.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:05 pm ]: hi, I’m almost there

His chest fucking lurched.

Roughly jerking open his drawer, Wonwoo pulled out the first shirt he saw, tugging the white long-sleeve over his head before he wiggled his feet into a fresh pair of socks. Once Wonwoo found his glasses, he sat on the edge of his bed with his phone.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Okay.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Would you like me to come down?

God—he felt like his stomach was going to collapse.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:08 pm ]: no that’s okay :)

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:09 pm ]: it’s really pretty down here

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm]: sorry I was looking at some of the pottery / painting stuff. it’s the staircase down the hall, right?

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm ]: unit 102?

[ Wonwoo | 12:12 pm ]: Yes.

He reminded himself to breathe. Calm and slow and lifting the pressure that dug so bluntly into his lungs. The webs began to burn away. It had been a narrow escape, but it was successful.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:13 pm ]: heyy, I’m outside

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wonwoo walked to the front door. His fingers brushed the knob in a flash of doubt, though his mind had already committed and now the door was pulled open and you were there, just as you said.

“Well, hello.”

He nodded at you, and then gestured for you to enter.

“Where should I take off my shoes?”

“There’s good,” Wonwoo answered, pointing to a textured mat in the corner that you proceeded to leave your simplistic heels on.

How absurd was this? Never in his life would Wonwoo imagine you at his apartment of all places—the one girl whom he adamantly tried to avoid because you were his gleaming opposite, and everything that you were, certain and in control, scared him. You were gazing around with your hands politely clasped together, ignited in the fulgurant sunlight, a small smile on your mouth.

“Wow, you’re very clean.”

Wonwoo stepped after you, maintaining a shy distance.

“It doesn’t normally look this neat,” he admitted, watching you readjust the strap of your tote bag, “I did clean for you.”

You turned to face him, and your laughter filled the space with a refreshing, long lost tone that made everything brighter. His fist clenched up anxiously and he knew his cheeks were pinkening.

“Um, cleaned or power-washed?”

He merely stared at you. Why couldn’t he fucking speak?

“Jeez, don’t look so afraid. I’m joking. And I obviously appreciate the effort.” You spun back around, continuing to walk past the coffee table and toward the kitchen. “It’s a lovely place, and it’s definitely got your personal touch. Oh—this is a cute mug.”

He breathed out, unfurling his hand and stretching his fingers until the air in his knuckles popped. You began wandering in the natural direction of the bedroom, and so Wonwoo followed, his eyes drifting up the jeans that hugged your legs and your sashaying hips, to back of your delicious-smelling hair. What was that scent, anyway?

Manuka honey?

But it was just a trivial glance, really.

Nothing meaningful.

“Is this your room?” You asked, stopping at the doorframe.

“It is.”

Biting your lip, you peaked inside and started to grin.

“Do you care if I go in?”

 “No.”

He tried not to crumble right there on the floor. Wonwoo’s room was his sanctuary, a fortress, something that barred out everyone but himself and granted him the freedom to do whatever he pleased (whether it was self-detrimental or not). The thought of others in his room was a gash in that perfect sanctuary, in which he could see the walls bleed out all their comfort and familiarity. His ex was the last person to be in his room, typically sprawled across the bed with a good novel in her hand.

It was a sour, sour reminder.

“Oh, and there’s the bookshelf,” you pointed out, “how fitting.” That penetrating gaze of yours roamed his desk and his bed and all his knickknacks in between. “Hey, why’s there a balcony outside?” You then asked, settling your hands onto the window frame and leaning out, the wind fluttering minimally through the layered curtains.

“Just a remodelling error,” Wonwoo explained, “it was supposed to be removed, I think. Never happened.”

Allured by curiosity, you leaned further out, examining the ladder that led up to the building’s roof. He looked at you again, specifically the arch in your back and the way your arms were planted so firm at the windowsill. He looked at the sunlight rippling on your cheek and your lips that appeared to sparkle, like you had kissed glitter.

“You definitely go up there, right?”

“Yeah.”

Half-shutting the window as to keep the breeze flowing, you chuckled. “I figured… so, I guess we should stop dawdling and get to the meat and potatoes. Is here a good spot? Or do you want to go back to the living room?”

“We’re in my room anyways,” Wonwoo commented, pulling out his desk chair and promptly sitting down, “so, why not.”

“Cool. Let me get my laptop.”

You slipped the tote bag off your arm and sat on the edge of his freshly made bed, being careful not to rumple the sheets.

“Okay!” Your hands echoed a series of soft claps. “I’m all ready now. I’ll try my best not to ramble—oh, and please, please don’t interrupt me until I’m done. I’m going to be very pissed if I lose my train of thought and I’d like this meeting to remain pleasant.”

Wonwoo nodded. “I know.”

You flashed him a brief smile.

“So, as you know, Mingyu and I’s fifth year anniversary is coming up in December. My gift to him is this so far nonexistent book. We’ve been through a lot as a couple, and as individuals, and I want the book to fully capture this journey we’ve been on and how much I… appreciate him. Also, I’m going to introduce a second, special element—” a hand plunged into your tote bag and suddenly a video camera was revealed, “—I want to record some of our brain sessions, and, like, our voyage of figuring this shit out. I like mementos. I hope that’s okay.”

“… Do I answer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then, yeah. I’m okay with it.”

“Secondlyyy—” you lilted while scrolling a little ways down the notepad on your laptop, the video camera stuffed back into your flower-and-honeybee-patterned tote, “—there are a few places we’ll need to visit—not the actual places that Mingyu and I went to since we grew up nowhere near here—but places that more so have a strong resemblance to the ones in my memory. I feel like it will help me with visual aspects of the writing. I’m a very visual person. Y’know, setting up the scene and technical things like that. I like touching and feeling and seeing and breathing everything in. I want all my senses on fire, basically. Like… the way your lips feel after eating insanely hot noodles.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Wonwoo didn’t really care. He just agreed.

“Lastly, I want to make a schedule for us. So, I’m kindly asking you to set up a schedule of your own—work shifts, doctor’s appointments, tests—the like, so I can incorporate them into my own hectic life and make us one colourful, super writing schedule.”

And then, with a big, winded sigh, you shut your laptop.

“That’s it. Done. Thoughts?”

Honestly, the entire premise didn’t sound all that terrible. He had braced himself for the worst, but you were unsurprisingly organized and had pinpointed all your desires quite clearly. Of course, he knew it was going to be sheer hell—flames up to his knees and desert sun beating on his skin like a hot skillet frying butter. You were structured and dedicated and Wonwoo was none of those things.

No doubt, Wonwoo would have to learn to deal with you.

You would either be his trigger or his pulse.

But, even worse, you would have to learn to deal with him.

“I’m just following your lead on this,” Wonwoo announced, lacklustre of much interest, resting his hands against his stomach while he rotated back and forth in the swivel chair, “whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. How soon do you want the schedule thing?”

“Like, as soon as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Do you really have no questions?”

Wonwoo scratched the side of his head.

“Uh, have you got anything written down yet?”

“Yes,” you propped open your laptop again, “an intro.”

“Oh, really?”

“Don’t question me. It was already difficult enough to write it, and I agonized over it for hours.” You pouted, slumping slightly.

He shifted up straighter in the desk chair.

“I’m sorry. I was just wondering. It’s good you started.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you. “Do I get to read it?”

Your feet crossed and twirled together. He didn’t think you had any nervous ticks, but that was something easy to pick up on.

“Um, not yet. Not until we officially start.”

“Okay.” He answered with a gentle voice, noticing your swaying feet still again and a bit of rigidity dissipate from your body.

Well, he didn’t really know what to do at this point. Wonwoo suspected you were constrained by more tasks for today and your time with him was limited. It’s not that you were sitting in an awkward, stifling silence, but he would rather occupy himself with something rather than nothing, because nothing left his heart to race.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Glancing up from the laptop, you shook your head. “I ate before I came here.”

“Are you going to be leaving soon?”

At that, your face crinkled with laughter. “Sick of me already?”

Wonwoo crossed his arms. “No. Just asking.”

“Well, I have a wax appointment soon. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes or so.” Finally, you looked up, and your eyes clicked with his in a way that made the fine hairs along his neck prickle coolly. “Does that answer your question?” A subtle grin pulled at your soft lips.

“It does, yes.”

“You don’t like having people in your room, do you?”

He huffed at the observation and delved a hand through his black hair, feeling the dampness slide against his fingers. “Not particularly.”

“You should have just said that.” Rising off his bed, you closed the laptop and shoved it back into the tote bag.

Wonwoo’s entire chest jerked. It felt like a ten-story drop.

“Are you leaving?”

“Mm, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.”

Why did his throat close up just then? Why did his vocal cords abruptly feel so coarse and tight? Why was his heart hammering? He didn’t mean to project the wrong impression. He didn’t hate you in his room. It just felt misplaced, and new. Like picking up a puzzle piece from the box and attempting to jam it into a different puzzle.

“It’s fine. Seriously. I should be early, anyway.”

Wonwoo stood up, realizing he needed to breathe. “Um… would you like me to walk you down?”

You stopped on your way out, faced him with a pretty smile.

“That’s okay.”

But then you did something rather strange; your hand sank into his firm upper arm and suddenly you were leaning into him, so carelessly close that he could feel the fanning, light warmth of your breath against his neck. Wonwoo’s head started to spin, and he thought a cloud had enveloped the room because his vision fuzzed.

“Sorry,” you took a step back, removing your hand, “you just smell really good. Like an ocean or something. It reminds me of this beach in Puta Cana. But your hair’s all damp and fluffy so that’s probably why. That was weird. I’m sorry.” Again, you laughed.

Why the fuck did you do that? He was almost angry. But not at you. At himself. For reacting in such a giddy, stupid way. Your touch and breath had burned him and there was this sharp, cutting flare inside Wonwoo that didn’t want to let you leave.

“All good…” he mumbled, sounding groggy and slow.

“I’ll see myself out then. Bye!”

And with a final chirp, you left, the front door closing in the distance while he could only stand there, shuddering and strangely hot and beyond confused. Wonwoo moved to swing the heavy curtains shut, the entire room succumbing into its usual shadiness. He sat on the edge of his very neat bed, removed his glasses, and buckled over while rubbing his veiny, pale hands through his hair.

The feeling was so lost and suppressed to his memory.

Wonwoo didn’t even know what it was.

He was relieved you were gone, but he also wished that you were still there, leaning out his open window with the wind and sunshine in your face. It was a sight so sweet and equally intimate.

Who are you?

What are you doing in his meaningless life?

—APRIL 28TH.

Wonwoo had finished his math final with half an hour to generously spare, and now, he was sitting, bored, sketching his pencil against the last page of the thick packet. The professor wouldn’t care.

Hopefully.

On one hand, Wonwoo knew he  should really just stand up and hand the damn thing in, but on the other hand, he hated—no, abhorred being the first person to return a test, especially an exam at that. Wonwoo was pretty smart. He knew that about himself and he never bothered to maintain the guise he wasn’t. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t pretentious. If he had to wait until the final fucking minute to hand the packet in, solely to avoid being the first student up, then so be it.

Besides, there wasn’t anything too pressing that required his immediate attention—minus the pertinent schedule he was supposed to make and have sent to you approximately three days ago. You had called him last night, to which the phone crackled with a loud, static bark of his name as you admonished him for his lateness.

“I told you three days ago I wanted the schedule! Three days! I can’t believe this. What’s so hard about making a schedule? Beep boop, you press some buttons on your laptop and it’s done. It would take ten minutes tops! Ugh, I’m so done with you, Wonwoo. In fact, don’t call me back—don’t even text me until you have the schedule!”

And then the line had collapsed, leaving Wonwoo to stare rather expressionlessly at his phone screen, the boy huffing out a breath of tendrilled smoke while he relaxed on the apartment roof. That had been his first experience sat on the receiving end of your seasoned quips, and it left him with this very profound emptiness, like his insides had been scooped out and the shell of his body was nothing but a wooden nesting doll. It had been such a long time since he genuinely cared about disappointing someone. Wonwoo had grown far too complacent with the feeling of disappointing himself.

That would never motivate him to do anything.

But you were different. In the sense that Wonwoo mostly remained proactive out of fear you might bite his head off.

From somewhere near the back of the room, Wonwoo heard chair legs scraping, and he eagerly flexed his fingers while observing a girl with the slickest ponytail he’d ever seen march past him to the professor’s desk. She set her packet down. He thanked her. She left.

Jesus Christ. Finally.

“All finished, Wonwoo?” His professor mumbled in a tone that hardly escaped his own lips, glancing up at the boy expectantly.

Pushing up his glasses, Wonwoo nodded.

“I suppose it’s harder for you to sit there and wait than it is to write the actual exam, isn’t it?” The professor noted with an almost undetectable smirk as he slid the test packet inside a tan-coloured folder, to which Wonwoo turned January cold.

“I don’t know.” Wonwoo shrugged, pretending to feel unbothered when in reality his skin was slithering like a snake pit at the thought of being even marginally perceived. “Maybe.”

“You have a good summer, alright?”

“Thanks. You too.”

Wonwoo swept a quick glance over the classroom right before he left, noticing that Seokmin was sat beside the wall, one hand tangled tight into his black, ruffled tresses as his pencil scribbled all over the paper like he was writing pure nonsense. He probably was.

And Wonwoo meant that in a nice-this isn’t really your sweet spot, but you’ll manage nonetheless-way. After leaving the classroom, Wonwoo thought he might go home and plunge head first into his oasis of bedsheets and flat, foam pillows that he loved so much, and permit himself to decay until it was physically impossible to lie down any longer. But he decided against it at the last minute, turning up at the café instead with his shoulder-strung book bag and the timely urge for a scone. He then sat down at his favourite table.

Pulled out his laptop.

Opened the document he was at incessant war with.

The last scene he’d written was breakfast.

“Uh, okay. Orange juice… or orange juice?”

“Did you say orange juice?”

“I did.”

“So… chocolate milk?”

“Ha! Funny... is there any sort of correlation between being a complete nerd and making such well-woven jokes?”

“Not sure. But I’ll get back to you when I find out… thanks. Your tea is sitting on the island, by the way.”

“Thank you, Won. Oh—you even put it in my Woodstock mug!”

“Yes, why are you so surprised that I remember?”

“Because it’s always hidden at the back of our cupboard, behind ten other mugs that we certainly don’t need and all our plates. I mean, I guess it’s my fault. Half of them are from my mom.”

“It’s sweet.”

“It takes up too much space. But I can’t tell her no.”

“That, you’ve got to work on.”

“The Christmas thing isn’t happening anymore, if that helps. I think the thought of having to cram all my family into our living room for a night was what motivated me the most. My mom said she’ll send us poinsettias instead. I think that’s way easier.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Believe it or not, I can assert myself. Sometimes.”

“No, no. I do believe you. I’m proud. Okay—bottoms up.”

“How’s the combination of venlafaxine and orange juice?”

“I don’t know. Juicy?”

“Better juicy than anxious?”

“You could say that.”

Right, back when Wonwoo actually had the willpower to make himself breakfast rather than slapping a mixed berry Poptart into the toaster or worse, nothing at all. Back when he could wake up before noon without feeling nauseous enough to curl into a ball and drape the sheets over his aching head. Back when he actually took his medicine. Her face beaming at him from across their table had always been like a glass of sunlight and citrus. She had been his own vitamin.

Wonwoo knew he wasn’t going to write. He was just going to stare and mope and ensnare himself in the pinwheel of memories that blew over him whenever he had the gall to reread his past literature.

The Woodstock mug. She’d taken that with her.  

He decided it was strange and sometimes irritating how love, broken or not, could suture itself into even the most mundane things. Orange juice was just that—juice—the carton he used to pick up and impetuously drop into his grocery cart every so often. Now, it wasn’t juice at all, but slow mornings, steaming tea kettles, and reading together on the couch with legs all tangled up until lunch time.

Now, Wonwoo couldn’t drink it at all.

Breaking the lemon raspberry scone in half, Wonwoo dropped a flaky piece into his mouth before it got too cold, and then proceeded to close the document. There was no way in hell he would write, and while he loved drowning in his own misery in order to snuff any glimpse of productivity more than the average individual, he thought it might be worthwhile to finally start that schedule.

[ Wonwoo | 8:20 pm ]: schedule.pdf

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: thanks

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: don’t piss me off again

—APRIL 30TH.

For an April morning, it was surprisingly bright. The sun was out in full and glistering warmth by the time Wonwoo stepped onto the sidewalk and began pacing down to the park, practically needing to squint the entire way. He almost hated it. Early mornings were not his friend, nor were the blades of light cutting across his glasses. But today was his first writing session with you and Wonwoo knew it was more than crucial that he was the furthest thing from tardy—it would be akin to willingly setting his hands inside a burning fire if not.

You agreed to meet at the park since it was roughly equal distance between Wonwoo’s apartment and some breakfast place you wanted to stop at. He thought it was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you to shoot him a text asking if he wanted anything, though Wonwoo declined nonetheless. It was damn near impossible for him to eat a bite of food until lunch time, hence his expression softening in confusion when he at last climbed into the passenger seat of your sleek silver car and was greeted by you passing him a cold tea.

“Am I… holding this for you?” He wondered, sitting still.

You shook your head. “No. It’s yours.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Yes, I realize that. I can read, thank you.”

Wonwoo wasn’t going to argue. He simply shut his mouth, clicked on his seatbelt, and set the tea into the cup holder. He then began looking around at your car’s interior. Everything was exceptionally clean and smelled sugary, like iced gingerbread.

The thing was, Wonwoo still wasn’t very sure how to talk to you, and most often there was the stiffest frog in his throat whenever he sat around you in silence for too long. Your thumbs were tapping against your phone at light speed. It reminded him of how Seokmin was texting you back at the boy’s apartment when they were studying for finals. Wonwoo couldn’t help but wonder if Seokmin was naturally more inclined to respond to you out of friendship or fear. Maybe even a pinch of both if that was possible. Another quiet minute passed by.

“Okay, fuck, sorry,” you suddenly spluttered at random, quickly slotting your phone into the GPS holder, “just some shit with my mom. Um, okay. Yeah. We can get going.”

“All good," Wonwoo answered.

“You know where we’re off to?”

“Vaguely. The track by Caldwell High School.”

He watched you flit him a smile. “That’s the place. I’ll explain more once we get there. And, by the way, I am expecting you to drink that tea. It’s not anything crazy. It’s oolong. Only a bit of caffeine.”

“I drink coffee, you know.”

“Yes, and it probably makes you jittery and insufferable.”

Wonwoo preferred not to comment.

The car ride wasn’t too long. Actually, Wonwoo did love a good car ride. He remembered the long trips he used to take with his family to the water park when he was a child, the sensation of the breeze blowing into his face and how different shades of green would scatter in through the windows as the sun hit the tree leaves like emeralds. There was something so limerent and sadly distant about the memory that Wonwoo felt his chest hurt. Even if he were to take that same road, and smell the same breeze, and see his skin glow with the same hues of the forest, he doubted it would feel the same.

His mouth had gone awfully dry. Wonwoo then reached for the cold tea sitting in the cup holder and took a sip, suddenly very appreciative that you had thought to get him something, anyway.

And while he couldn’t be too certain, Wonwoo wanted to think that maybe this would be a good memory, too.

After the half-hour long car ride, Wonwoo made sure to stretch when he stepped out into the empty parking lot. It was cloudier now, a bit more of a breeze to help counteract the warmth that remained in the air. You came around to join him, twisting out a cramp in your leg while adjusting the purse over your shoulder.

The walk to the track field wasn’t long, no more than a few minutes, and Wonwoo obediently trailed at your side until he witnessed the bleachers slowly coming into view. It resurfaced memories from his own high school days in PE, which Wonwoo had actually been quite successful at despite his distaste for sports and their atmosphere in general. He remembered liking kickball the best.

You sighed in a wistful tone while staring across the marked asphalt and fresh April grass. “All high school tracks look the same, don’t they?” Then, you carefully set your purse onto the bleachers.

Wonwoo rolled his shoulders, taking a more observant look around. It wasn’t strikingly different from the track at his high school.

“Sure. I guess.”

“I mean, there are some differences. We had ditches by our track. Come to think of it, I honestly believe they put them there for kids to hurl in from heat stroke or over-exertion… that’s what I did, anyway. It was right before I had to do triple jump. I hated it because you had to really build up speed. I didn’t want to run. So, even if I hadn’t thrown up from heat stroke, I probably would’ve made myself throw up some other way. Straight to the nurse. She gave me a popsicle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Seriously?”

“Mmhm.”

“You’d rather throw up than hop, like, three times?”

“I said it was the running part I didn’t like.”

Wonwoo couldn’t imagine purposefully making himself upchuck in order to get out of something. If his anxiety was terrible enough, then he wouldn’t even have to worry about it, really.

That was its own mechanism of disaster.

“Running is eighty-percent of Activity Days," Wonwoo said.

You clicked your tongue at him. “Exactly. And I’d do anything to never run. I tried to sit in one time with the seventh graders. They were in their art block and they were doing painting under the trees; birdhouses or something. But their teacher kicked me out. And she didn’t even let me take the fucking birdhouse that I was painting.”

“The nerve,” Wonwoo answered, scratching his temple.

He proceeded to take a seat on the metal bench, rubbing his hands together. He still didn’t know how Mingyu fit into everything.

“So… what’s your plan, here?”

You sat next to him, folding one leg over your thigh and proceeding to reveal a journal that you had stuffed inside your expensive bag. The tips of your fingers skimmed through a few fluttering pages, until you stopped on one in particular that was ink-abused with cursive scribbles. Wonwoo assumed you did most of your planning on a laptop, hence his surprise to learn that you actually used a journal. He had a journal himself, though it hadn’t been touched in months. It mostly contained small poetic excerpts.

Next, you pulled out a pen.

“This is how I first ran into Mingyu. At my school’s track field. He was new and good at all the activities. I swear, his name spread like wildfire. Anyways, I haven’t figured out all the bits and bobs. I want to really soak in the feeling of—oh!” Suddenly, you grasped the journal back onto your lap, the pen hitting the paper in a cursive ribbon that Wonwoo could hardly read. “I just thought of a great line. His eyes, I wanted to soak in them, like an oasis.”

You stabbed the paper again to make a period.

“Not bad,” Wonwoo commented.

“Okay, here it is!” A black case was pulled from your purse, and once you unzipped it, Wonwoo realized it was the video camera that you had initially shown him at his apartment. “Okay, I want you to film some stuff. The field, obviously. I need it from different perspectives. It will help me with setting the scene later on.”

“Why do I have to film it?”

“Because, Seokmin told me you’re quite handy with film equipment stuff, and I don’t want to drop it. So just do it, please?”

Accepting the video camera from your hand, Wonwoo sighed in agreement. Flipping open the side-screen of the camera, Wonwoo began clicking some buttons and adjusting the focus. Luckily, he was familiar with the particular camcorder thanks to a film education course he’d taken outside of school.

While you busied yourself at the bleachers with starting up your laptop, Wonwoo began collecting footage, slowly panning the camera across the vast length of the gravel track and the grassy soccer fields situated beyond. He kept a concentrated eye on the side-screen to ensure the lighting wouldn’t change too drastically. A wind had picked up from over the forest, and he could see how the clouds were consequently being pushed along like herded sheep in the sky.

Once he brushed back the floppy, black hair that kept tickling his face, Wonwoo lowered the camera and turned to you.

“So, where else should I film?”

You were typing something, and didn’t bother looking up.

“Go across the field. Film from the other side.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to go all the way over there?”

“Yes. Walk, crawl. Skip, hop. I don’t care. Just do it, please.”

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed out, feeling tired and yearning to go home, “I hate how seriously you’re taking this, y’know that?”

Your fingers continued blitzing against the keyboard.

“Nobody likes a complainer.”

Ironic, he thought, but obviously kept to himself.

There wasn’t a point in expecting any sympathy from you—that, he already knew—which engendered Wonwoo’s long, trudging walk from one side of the track to the other, the wind irritably blowing his grown-out locks over his glasses every time he attempted sweeping them back. Hoisting the camera back up, Wonwoo adjusted the side-screen and began his same ritual of steadily panning the camera along the landscape.

You appeared in the view, still sat on the bleachers, though nothing about your face or figure was too discernible. It felt like you were a background character in a painting, just a little glob of acrylic.

“All done?”

Finally, you had glanced up at him with a smile.

Wonwoo nodded. “Unless you need anything else filmed?”

“No, that should be enough. The track is most important.”

“Right.”

He tried giving back the camera.

“Actually, do you mind keeping it?”

“Um, okay. But how will you look at the footage?

“Dropbox. We’ll share one. Upload the clips there.”

Wonwoo plopped himself back down on the bench, fitting the camcorder into its black case. He pulled the zipper along the seam.

“How much longer do we need to be here?”

“Not that much. Just let me finish this paragraph.”

There was a dull pain throbbing at the front of his skull, edging down to his temples—across his nose bridge where his glasses pressed in more tightly than usual. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep breath, trying to escape the feeling, the nausea, the chills that were beginning to seep up his neck as the wind blew turbulently against him. It would be embarrassing if this happened here, right in front of you. The hard lump had suddenly lurched forward in Wonwoo’s throat but he leaned his head down last minute and swallowed it despite the roughness. No, everything was okay.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Wonwoo opened his eyes, staring down at the trembling hands buried in his lap. Subtly, he pulled the sleeves of his cardigan over them. He assumed his face was reflecting a sheer, sickly opacity.

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sure. Now look me in the eyes and say that.”

Again, Wonwoo swallowed, but he managed nonetheless.

“Nothing’s wrong. I get headaches sometimes. That’s all.”

“… Oh. Well, I’m basically done here. I was gonna ask if you wanted to walk a lap around the track with me, but maybe we should just go home. I mean, how bad is it? Your headache?”

Yes, yes. Home. Wonwoo wanted to go home. He had only been away from his apartment for a solid two hours, and yet all his mind and body’s energy had completely drained. He felt dried out, withered, fragile as tempered glass. Going home sounded cosmic. 

“It’s getting better. I wouldn’t mind walking with you.”

“Oh! Cool. If it gets really bad, just tell me.” You then spent a minute collecting your belongings back into the cream purse.

Wonwoo immediately looked the other way, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair, mouthing a string of guttural curse words directed at his discombobulated head. Because what the hell was he doing? All his relief and peace had just suckled itself down an invisible drain. Why on earth did he agree? Why?

“I think this will help me, too," you said, having left the shiny bleachers behind, instead kicking the pebbles at your feet, “if we walk the entire track, then it’s like we did the four-hundred meter.”

“You’re supposed to run the four-hundred meter.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I’m surprised you hate running. I mean, you walk so fucking quickly sometimes.”

He heard you snort, clearly amused by his observation.

“It’s because I’ve mastered the art of sashaying. To have a perfect sashay, you can’t walk too slow, but you also can’t walk too fast. It’s like a strut. You need to have confidence while you do it. It lets people know that you’re serious and professional. I’m not dragging my feet, but I’m also not in a rush. It’s the perfect pace.”

Wonwoo sniffled and scrunched the glasses up his nose, continuing alongside you at a pace that was rather aimless.

“I didn’t realize there was a science behind sashaying.”

“Now you know,” you declared.

Wonwoo’s  upper lip quirked slightly, and a small grin appeared on his face, which was starting to dapple with colour.

“I don’t sashay, do I?”

At that, you laughed, “no, you amble.”

“Yeah, I’m an ambler… which basically means I’m an unmotivated, pointless person who will probably go nowhere in life.”

For a moment, you stopped walking, and you merely furrowed your brow at him while your forehead creased with thought. Wonwoo stopped as well. He raked back his fluttering, windswept hair and smirked, flashing his teeth. The behaviour was uncharacteristically snide and a bit of a dig at your bluntness, but he couldn’t help it.

“Don’t remember, huh?”

“No… but it sounds familiar.”

“You told me that, the day I met you—that people who walk slowly are unmotivated and pointless. Their life is a waste, basically.”

He noticed your eyes shift up toward the right, as though you were pulling the memory forward from the intricate files of your brain. And then you started to smile, and it made Wonwoo smile, too.

“Oh, I do believe I said that.” You started walking again, and he followed. “Ha! Wow, you’re right. I said that. I’m so funny. I mean, I was right. You only walk slow when you have nowhere to be.”

“I did have somewhere to be. I was going to meet you.”

“Well, then you just didn’t care.” He felt your elbow press shallowly into his rib. “See what I mean? Unmotivated and pointless. And, honestly, I would have taken your apathy as more of an insult if it wasn’t for the fact that you seem to treat most things like that.”

“So, I’m just supposed to accept that you’re calling me a loser? How do people normally react when you say things like that?”

“Things like what? They’re just my observations about the world. You are a person in this world. I was making an observation about you. Albeit, it came across strongly. But I don’t know. No one ever cared about being gentle or sugar-coating with me. Gives you tough skin, y’know? Metaphorically, of course! I always moisturize.”

 Wonwoo scoffed, smiling at your nonchalance. “The way you word things is honestly fascinating.”

“Psh. How do you even remember that?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t seem that hard to remember. It was a pretty memorable, somewhat awful experience, to be fair.”

“Awful?” You retaliated in unprecedented disbelief, pushing into his arm until he allowed his tall frame to stumble. “Try again.”

“Interesting?” Wonwoo substituted, his heart thumping. 

Your eyes were narrowed at him, glimmering with a sharpness that made his fingers clench into anxious fists.

“… That’s a little better.”

He exhaled a soft breath of relief.

As you began nearing the full circle, Wonwoo realized his head had eased from its horrible aching and the chills dampening down his neck were gone. Everything didn’t feel as awful compared to before. He was still tired, and his energy was sputtering in tiny, dying sparks, but at least his desire to crawl under the earth and degrade to his bare bones had subsided into something less morose.

“I heard you were having a get together next week,” Wonwoo decided to ask, rounding the last bend in the track.

“Oh, the dinner party?”

“Yeah. Seokmin’s helping you plan it, right?”

“He is. Which I appreciate. My mom is usually the one in charge of everything, and she loathes it. But, I mean, when we try to help her, she just ends up fretting even more—says we’re basically getting in the way and ruining it. I don’t know. She’s such a snappy perfectionist. Seokmin can have fun dealing with that.”

Wonwoo almost made a thoughtless comment in response to your story—he’s probably had eons of practice with you—though the pieces connected just in time and his mouth sealed shut.

“Your dad can’t help either?” He questioned instead.

“Ha! No way. My dad helping is a recipe for fucking disaster if I’ve ever seen it. He’s painfully bad at decorating, can hardly be trusted to cook or invite anyone from the guest list. The most my mom allows him to do is set the table.” You then scoffed, shooting a pebble forward with the tip of your shoe. “I swear, he knows exactly how to push my mom’s buttons. The faster he does it, the quicker she kicks him out and he’s absolved of all chores. What a cheat, huh?”

“Hm, yeah… is Mingyu going?”

“Of course.” You smiled. “He always goes.”

At that point, you had circled back to the bleachers. Adjusting the bag strewn over your shoulder, you heaved out a longing sigh.

“Well, that’s four-hundred meters in the books.”

“Is it everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?”

You cackled, “not even close. I think I was right to avoid it.”

—MAY 3RD.

Wonwoo slid his pharmacy badge through the time-machine until he heard the beep. After an eight-hour shift, he was hungry and tired, but Wonwoo also knew the second that he got home, his urge to eat and desire to sleep would be gone. Instead, he would spend his midnight staring up at the ceiling, thinking. About anything and everything, and nothing at all. When the first cracks of dawn light would spill in from under his curtain, then he would close his eyes.

It was all very typical.

He stood outside the store, phone in hand, waiting for Vernon to pick him up because Wonwoo hadn’t felt like walking home despite the softness of the nighttime wind and the alabaster moon’s shining ambiance. The mirage was pretty and he enjoyed it, but his feet were too sore to inch him another step. Luckily, Vernon didn’t take long.

Luckily, he was the only one of Wonwoo’s few friends with a sleep schedule just as horridly fucked up as his. It was eleven at night, but on a weekday? The dead, empty street testified for him.

“Heyy, Glasses,” Vernon sang in his throaty voice as Wonwoo climbed into the passenger seat, “you look like a prostitute standin’ there, waitin’ for me to come get your ass. But a sophisticated one.”

The interior didn’t smell heavily of weed, he noted. Thank fucking god, Vernon had finally paid someone to dry clean it. Either that, or he took the initiative into his own hands.

“I highly doubt you have ever seen a prostitute in your entire life. And the fact you think they’d be standing outside a pharmacy at one of the quietest parts on this block attests to that.”

“God, I hate when you get all technical n’ shit. Such a stiff.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, well. You’re always tired. N’ for the record, I have seen a prostitute, outside Room 319. It was a week before Christmas; she had this huge coat on, walkin’ up to people in her pink heels and this crazy eyeshadow that made her eyes pop. I bet she’s a nice girl.”

“Mhm. I bet she was.”

“Oh, you’re a cunt, yeah? You don’t believe me.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ll take you one day. Room 319’s got a table with your name on it. They’ve got this one shot, the Stabilizer— it’ll put you down like a fuckin’ sick dog but it gets you the best drunk of your life. Maybe we’ll even run into Pink Heels lady. She’s our Halley’s Comet.”

“Halley’s Comet only comes once every seventy-five years. “

“You know what the fuck I meant.”

“Not interested.”

Vernon blinked at him for a moment in the dull light, and then he sighed, forfeiting. He placed the tip of the key in the ignition, but he quickly removed it as though he remembered something.

“Wait, I’ve gotta ask—how’s it going with Her?”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Wonwoo reached for the seatbelt and pulled it slowly across his chest, debating how intelligent of an idea it would be to entertain Vernon’s curiosity. But he could also understand the allure. You were like this enigmatic myth that people craved to know about, even if it frightened them.

Wonwoo’s head collapsed back against the seat.

“It’s going well.”

Vernon spat out a boisterous laugh, a hand slapping down on his knee. “Jesus Christ. You’re so dry, man. That’s it?”

“I mean, it’s true. We’ve started the book. Or, she has.”

“Okay, and?” Vernon attempted to engage him further.

“And, what?”

“What’s she like, obviously? Is she actually a fuckin’ psychopath? Is she normal? Can she walk on her hands? I dunno!”

Wonwoo rubbed underneath his glasses. He didn’t really want to talk about you when you weren’t there. It felt like a Bloody Mary situation, where you’d magically conjure in the backseat to sinch your cold hands around his neck and wrangle him limp and lifeless. But then there were Vernon’s shimmeringly prying eyes that just wouldn’t stop burning Wonwoo no matter how hard he bit his tongue.

“I have nothing to say. She’s cool.”

“Oh my fuckin’ God.” Vernon slacked back into his seat, clutching at his steering wheel. “You just don’t wanna talk about it… oh! Shit. I just remembered. She’s having a dinner party tonight, isn’t she? In Hill Crest. Or as I like to call it, Rich People Neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, that’s where her parents live… how do you know that?”

“Shit!” Vernon immediately shuffled up in his seat and delivered a hard smack into Wonwoo’s shoulder. “We should drive down and check it out! Right fuckin’ now!” He was lit up with excitement, even though Wonwoo considered it a terrible idea.

“No. Absolutely not. And answer my question.”

“Was sittin’ behind Seokmin at Solar Pop, he talks really loud, happened to overhear some things—doesn’t matter. I think we should go! C’mon, allow some spontaneity into your life! Why not?”

“What the fuck do you mean, why? It’s a family party. With some close friends, which—in case you haven’t noticed—neither of us are. You can’t fucking crash a family dinner party. Who does that? Not to mention the fact that it's eleven at night. They're probably washing up. Sending people home. By the time we get there, it's lights out."

“Aren’t you her friend?”

“No. I’m just someone who’s doing her a favour.”

“Favours are from friends.”

“We’re. Not. Friends.”

“Okay—fuck, Glasses. Fine. We won’t crash the stupid dinner party. But don’t you wanna go for a drive or something? I’m tellin’ you, the houses are insane. Last time I went down there, it was for a big fuckin’ party some dude at your university threw. I think I ran this by you already, when I talked about tryin’ to chat up Her. I stopped by with my old friend—y’know, Dots, the guy that died from the overdose and everything. That party was crazy. It was in a mansion.”

“Vernon,” Wonwoo had just finished massaging the throbs at his warm temples, “we are not going to Hill Crest.”

His friend swung his head in disapproval, making a tsking sound with his teeth. “Such a fuckin’ stiff.” He started the car. “It’s the fact I know you have jack shit to do tonight, or tomorrow.”

“I’m not gonna do some stalker drive-by on her house.”

“You don’t wanna do Room 319. You don’t wanna judge a bunch of richies sittin’ up in their ivory towers. I mean, it’s not like we’re eggin’ them or spray painting fuckin’ curse words on their eight-door garages. What do you wanna do?”

Wonwoo rolled down the window and leaned his face toward the moonlight, to which he could feel the wind brush up against his skin in feathery strokes, as though it were caressing him. He knew that Vernon meant in a general sense rather than in the heat of the moment. But in a general sense, Wonwoo would rather not be anywhere at all. He would rather do nothing, or even exist.

“Can you just take me home? Please?”

Vernon exhaled a defeated gust of breath and began to angle his tires away from the curb, the pharmacy lights pulled behind them.

“Yeah, ‘course. Mr. Boring.”

—01:49

Wonwoo hadn’t been able to fall asleep since Vernon dropped him off a couple hours ago. He’d anticipated that. Usually, Wonwoo wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t toss or turn, or pace circles around his bedroom, or count down from one-hundred, because even if he did, none of it would work. His mind would still be wide awake.

Hence Wonwoo’s decision to grab his phone. Staring at a lurid screen definitely wasn’t going to help, though he wasn’t trying to sleep, anyway. That conversation with Vernon was repeating in his head like a chattering bird, pushing him, pushing him, pushing him to find your Instagram and dig into your pictures because now Wonwoo was thinking of your dinner party and how vehemently you seemed to hate it. He saw that you had posted something quite recently, around the same time Wonwoo had left the pharmacy.

For a moment, his thumb hovered over the post.

He didn’t want to press it because he didn’t care.

Or, maybe he did.

There were multiple pictures in the set, and Wonwoo flicked through all of them. Some were of food, close-ups of your jewelry—you even included a picture with Seokmin. But then Wonwoo had settled on the last photo and something in his stomach convulsed.

He recognized the dress like a flash of light—the sapphire one with the glimmering detail that you had modelled for him at the expensive boutique in the mall. Of course, that arm hanging cheekily low around your hip belonged to your boyfriend, Mingyu. He had a champagne glass pressed to his lips, fitted in his black suit with his hair neatly combed and styled into place. The smugness in his face was stifling. Wonwoo rolled onto his stomach, his eyes refusing to drift from the picture for even an instant. He just kept staring.

Staring and thinking. Staring and thinking.

One minute spent staring at your smile.

The next minute at the low placement of Mingyu’s hand.

Another minute staring at your sparkling dress.

The next minute at Mingyu’s brutally cocky expression.

He would switch back and forth.

But Wonwoo didn’t really care. He was just bored.

And alone with his thoughts.

—END OF PART PART ONE.

NOTE! while i truly cherish & adore all comments, pls refrain from remarks such as "pls post part x" "i need part x" "when are you posting part x" while i do understand the sentiment, i find these comments very dismissive & kinda disrespectful! i don't prefer to post series fics and so i don't receive these often, but pls note that if you comment this i will delete the comment!

the fic itself is completely done, so all i have to do is get the parts ready for posting. however, bc this is the first part, i don't have a set posting schedule just yet. i think it will depend on roughly how long those who read the fic take to finish it! but i will be sure to make a post about it or include the schedule in part two once i figure it out!

again, thank u so much your ur patience :3

much luv!! 💕

[phth4lo]

sorry large vent below (there’s definitely gonna be more cause I’ve been struggling with this SINGULAR THING for like 8 months now

Im still very hurt about the state of things between me and her. alot of it is anger in part of the unhealthy way I view relationships (that being transactional; which is Obviously not how relationships work) it’s just like. Wow, I did all these things for you. I had panic attacks and became physically ill out of worry for you. I supported you when no one else was there for you and helped you out of multiple abusive relationships. With her, it became clear a LONG time ago that you don’t really get what you put in. It’s just how she is. She is a deeply traumatized individual with no idea how to heal, and no idea how to have a stable relationship with the people around her. I think there’s some part of her character that makes me want to take care of her, fix her problems for her, etc. But at the end of the day I just kinda ended up being chopped liver. It really sucks, and it just makes it harder for me to actually trust people. I feel this type of anger that reminds me of my parents. It’s the type of anger you kinda feel in your eyes. I feel disappointed but not surprised. A lot of people have apologized to me over the years for not treating me well, she’s done so probably 30 times in the past two years. Did she ever change? No. I lost my faith in the idea of people changing. Even so, it’s only clearer to me that the way she acts is a product of her trauma. She is non confrontational to her detriment, would never tell me if something bothered her. She is a people pleaser just plain and simple. I can’t blame her for that, she’s not her mother (a genuinely evil woman. I have never met a woman so devoid of care for her children.) it’s just. I assume the worst of myself and my brain tends to reinforce that belief constantly. I perceive myself as abusive or perverted or whatever the fuck. Part of me wants to scream at her; tell her what she is. How she’s a manipulative social climber bitch who sucks people dry and leaves them when they’re of no use to her anymore. I can’t say I dont not feel that way. But then I remember everything I know about her. On the other hand. I think she has hurt me very deeply. Everytime I would call her crying, or brought up something that was bothering me, she would never actually seem to care. I can’t forget this September, when she cancelled on my birthday to go to a vocal lesson. A vocal lesson for a role she didn’t even get. I can’t forget all the times I tried to reach out and all the times I do reach out and she only messages back to ask about something else. I cried so many times in October and September because it felt like I lost a part of me. That was how closely I held her. And I never received anything similar. Even though she told people that I helped her through things no one else could’ve. It was literally just placating. I don’t want to see her again. I don’t want to talk to her again. If she were to disappear from my life I would at least have a bit of peace. I’m not dirt under peoples shoes. I don’t care enough to ask what I did.

AND SHE STILL OWES ME LIKE $100

FUCK HER FR. I GENUINELY DO NOT BELIEVE SHE HELD ANY FORM OF AFFECTION FOR ME AT ANY POINT THIS BIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HOLY HELL!!!!!!!!!!!

and u know what it’s bad cause like. I don’t really believe that. but there’s part of me that’s like. fuck. did she even care about me at any point? or was I just a convenience? the uncertainty is the worst part.

This entire thing has just been. Kind of damaging to like. Idk even know how to describe it that was lowkey a soul wound. She stirred up alot of feelings regarding self worth and inhumanity. I felt deeply devalued. It’s gonna take alot of time to unpack it, and it won’t be something ill ever get closure for. maybe one day we’ll meet again in the future, ill see her on a union station platform. itll be one of those shitty « let’s go get coffee and chat! ». That’ll never actually happen, there’d still be no closure. I was thinking of sending her a letter after graduation with all the things I wanted to say to her that I never had the courage to say. But I don’t want her to have any more space in my life. I think I’ve only been taking care of other people to avoid taking care of myself. I can’t afford to do that anymore, I have a life ahead of me that I’ve been waiting for since 2012. [NOT THE YEAR I WAS BORN]

I truly hope she heals. I hope I’m nowhere near her when she does. I hope she has days where happiness is a default feeling rather than a temporary state. But I hope i don’t stay around long enough to see it.

[my-evil-brain]

I'm so tired of all of this it's not even funny.

It's 2024, and i was promised a bright technological safer better than the past world. Instead, i live through a world of greedy, power-hungry, mean uncaring, ignorant assholes and fuckwads. Growing up was tough enough dealing with 12 years of pokes and jabs, and no one was listening or paying attention. Then suddenly, I'm an adult, and zero shits changed. In fact, it's worse. Now im 40s, friendless , depressed and lonely. I always thought i had friends. But they all proved themselves not even worthy and worthless. I can't even trust people to confide in or be a friend anymore. They all either have ghosted me, lied, cheated, or stolen. I could never share feelings and deep thoughts because so far, so-called friends always used the info to take jabs against me as a joke or not caring in general. Not that people have ever truly listened to me anyway. That always pisses me off. Decades of repeating myself over and over, and eventually, when I'd get upset about it even a little, im being an asshole and unreasonable. My best friend from grade school, I don't even want to know anymore. I'm sick to death of his misogyny and drunkenness hitting on women I'd liked. His knack for insulting every woman I've been with ( to fat, bossy, ugly for his taste) plus how he treats the women he's been with. Blaming everything on his drinking (A.A. is lame so..no). I left for Tennessee after an awful break-up years ago. Everyone I knew ghosted me years ago. It started with them or me asking how things were going. After i responded, days, weeks, months before a response. Which was usually a "how's it going " text. Eventually, i stopped trying, and nobody even noticed. I've had one good friend visit me out here. After 2016 he gets pissy at our friend group because he can't take the trump bitching and hes got a gf he's got better things to do. So that whole dichotomy broke apart. Fuck, my own fucking parents only visited twice in 13 yrs....11 yrs ago. Then suddenly moms sick and 6 months later shed dead. I say suddenly but she just didn't go to the doctor and 2 yrs later the pain was so bad she couldn't take it and that's how we found out she had stage 4 cancer (it wasn't stage 1 when she found out). Surprise motherfucker! I'm so fucking tired of not being able to trust anyone and being the weirdo because my intrests aren't sports and hunting and other perceived manly things along with misogyny and loving a lieing rapest facist traitorous fraud who was president. So sorry I'm into philosophy and art and science and history and the paranormal and freedom to be and not facism. That excludes me from so many anythings when I'm around people. Not that I want to be around that, but its so fucking lonely a way to exist. It's depressing as fucking hell. And yes I've done something about that after 2020 broke me. I even tried therapy. That was useless. The doctor kept insisting I'm not acknowledging some trauma in my childhood at home. When I clearly stated what was bothering me. 12 yrs in public school, nobody listening to me when I speak, and everyone proving to be untrustworthy and mean dicks. It's not that I'm suicidal, I just don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to participate in any of this worlds bullshit and that's all the world is now. I'm watching the environment colapse, the poor get poorer the rich n politicians not giving a fuck and hatred and greed everywhere. And I get laughed at and dismissed by all around me all the time everywhere I've been, because I'm apparently stupid for believing it's that bad. It is that bad, its worse. The bad is totally out pacing the good in life. I just want everyone to feel as hurt as i am as pained as i am, but that's wrong. So i play nice dont jab back and be just as petty. On the off chance i do, or at least stand up for something, I'm suddenly a problem, and I'm inappropriate. Everyone else, perfectly fine when they do the same. I'm so fucking tired of all these people, this world, being ignored, not being considered, the greed n hatred. It's god damn depressing and lonely as fuck.

FML

[napps-resting-forest]

Gender/identity rant to help me settle wtf I am! (hopefully)

it usually helps for me to type or say things out and organize my thoughts but since i wanna archive this im gonna post this on my tumblr blog. a bunch of typos and grammar mistakes up ahead lmfao

For a while now, ever since middle school, i labeled myself as something other than cis and it always wasnt on the gender binary either (genderfluid, then nonbinary, and now agender.) even as a kid i dont think i ever felt too connected to my femininity. i was physically a girl, but on the inside not really.

when i thought a was genderfluid, i thought it made sense. i SOMETIMES felt like a girl and other times felt like smth else so i stuck with that label until freshman high school. i used all pronouns but since nobody was using anything other than she/her pronouns i wanted to exclusively go by they/them pronouns. I didnt feel connected to masc pronouns at all so i never bothered using those.

I then tried the nonbinary label and up until now, it felt right. and it still does, but i want to find a specific label that fits me and not just a general label. I know dont have to label myself anything specific but i want to. i want to know what i specifically am and perhaps find a community to stand with, share our experiences and support each other.

Now that therianthropy is thrown into the mix, things changed. I thought my therianthropy wouldn't collide with my gender identity, but it kinda does. I identify as something that's not fully human. with that, the way i perceive myself and my pronouns have changed as well. I'm not fully human, nor do i want to be fully human. I'm comfortable with coming to terms with that. being seen as a "thing" is nice. they/it pronouns so far work fine for me.

now i could use neopronouns such as cat/catself or label myself as catgender but doing that make me,,uncomfortable to say the least. obviously, no hate to people who use neogender pronouns and labels, but personally that's something i dont want to do. So, for now, I think agender might fit me best for the time being.

is this label going to change in the future? who knows. that's gonna be a future me problem. but for now, present me is happy with labeling myself as agender.

ok im going to bed now its past 12am 💀

[sw4tch]

*defeated sigh* how do i tell this man to stop trying to flirt with me or i will kick his ass

also it's THAT GUY AGAIN AND IM GETTING TIRED. bcus WE ARE SUPPOSED TO BE FRIENDS and i would PREFER IF HE ACTED AS ONE BUT NOOOOO he has to act WEIRD in a very obvious "i have a crush on you" way AND I HATE IT.

Because here's the thing. I am perhaps being very shallow. Because i absolutely see myself being open to a relationship happening between us if he was my type of cute man. BUT HE'S NOT. So instead of getting butterflies in my stomach and feeling flattered I JUST GET SO FUCKING PISSED OFF BECAUSE I ABSOLUTELY CANNOTTTTTTT TELL HIM TO FUCK OFFFFFFFF.

He's not harassing me or doing anything inappropriate but i just HATE. HATE. HATE. THAT HE HAS A CRUSH ON ME (or at least HE ACTS LIKE IT)

The other day he sent me a spiderverse meme video (it was about lyla bothering miguel) and i went "oh to be Miguel's ai girlfriend" and he just went "oh to be miguel" like FUCK OFF? I AM NOT GOING TO BE YOUR GIRLFRIEND MAN.

I am NOT EVEN A GIRL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and "well he could have meant nothing by it" which fair. Which is why i didnt fucking reply to that at all. But then the next day he sent me a "wish you a nice weekend :)" message and i saw RED. Bcus.

FUCK. how do i explain this.

Men never NEVER act like this unless they Want You. Getting Male Attention only happens when they perceive you as a Woman and as someone they want a romantic relationship with.

And also he had never sent me a nice weekend message before so it just felt like "WHAT ARE YOUR FUCKING INTENTIONS MAN 🔫 I AM JUST YOUR FRIEND AND I WILL NEVER BE ANYTHING ELSE SO WHY WONT U LEAVE ME ALONEEEEE"

And I HATE IT.

Bcus he's an OKAY GUY. how many times do i have to describe him as "well there's nothing wrong with him he's just annoying" BCUS THAT'S JUST HIM.

And i hate it. I hate that he has a crush on me. I loathe it. He read MTMTE for me because i told him i was obsessing over tf and he went and read it and now he makes transformers references at me AND I HATE IT.

I just HATE IT!

I hate that i hate it because it makes me FEEL BAD!!!!!!!!

If i were a normal, mentally stable, completely cis, completely heterosexual person, perhaps less shallow too- i would probably like him a lot.

BUT I'M NOT. AND ALSO I HAVE HIGH STANDARDS. IMPOSSIBLE STANDARDS. AND I LIKE CUTE MEN WITH LONG HAIR THAT LOOK LIKE PRINCES. and he's not!!! He's not!!!

And i feel bad!!! Because i simply cannot like him AND I REFUSE TO GIVE HIM A CHANCE BCUS I SPENT SO MUCH OF MY LIFE BEING USED- i will not GIVE IN and GET USED just bcus i feel bad for SOME GUY who's JUST OKAY.

Fuck. I hate it. My crushes must feel like this too. They must loathe every second i show them my love and affection. I must be as disgusting to them. I am trapped in hell and that hell is "wanting to be loved so badly, so so so badly, but also hating that people interested in me aren't my idealized dream person"

Bcus.

It feels fake!!!! It feels so fake!!!!! He doesn’t like me for me!!!!!!!!!!!! HE WANTS TO JUST USE ME AS A PIECE OF MEAT!!!!!!!! HE KNOWS NOTHING OF ME, OR MY DREAMS, OR MY ISSUES, OR MY REAL SELF!!!!!! HE THINKS HE LIKES ME BECAUSE HE DOES NOT KNOW ME AT ALL!!!!!

AND NO ONE EVER WILL KNOW THE REAL ME BECAUSE I CAN NEVER BE LOVED AGAIN!!!!!!!

Anytime anyone says they care about me, I.

I nod and smile. I thank them. I thank them a lot.

And then internally i lament the fact that their words feel fake to me.

Oddly enough. I can believe them from one person, one college friend. But it's mostly because for some reason. She has always seemed very genuine and sweet? We talk every week we can and we tell each other updates of our lives, and sometimes she will tell me how things are going with her tumultuous family issues, and sometimes i will tell her how things are going with my complicated relationship with my mom. And sometimes I'll cry on the phone and she will comfort me. And i always cheer her on if things are bad on her end.

Still, i feel like she hasn't seen the worst parts of me. But when she tells me she cares for me and that I'm always welcome at her home. I trust her. I believe her. Her friendship is so dear to me. I think she deserves the world.

But everyone else. I find it so difficult. My excuses are always "well actually you must hate me" "You're saying it out of an obligation" "you can't really mean it because you don't know how bad i can be" "we're not really friends so this means nothing to me" "you only say it to appease me"

And it's. Sad.

Because i can't even hold it against them. It feels fake for me but i understand that they Do mean it. They mean it but only because they think they care about the version of me i project every day. They care about the best parts of myself.

The most egregious offender lately has been, of course, my mother. I think she's either trying to patch things up or manipulate me further.

I will never be sure so to be safe i assume she's trying to manipulate me into caring for her (as in, literally taking care of her in the future).

She keeps telling me how much she thinks about me and how much she cares about me and how I'm the light of her life and that she only wants the best for me and how she loves me so so so much.

And. Would you believe that, dear reader? After years of emotional neglect and abuse? Would you in good conscience believe her words? Would you allow your mind to forget how much she hurt you and the ways she hurt you and would you allow her into your heart?

Would you put yourself in the line of fire? Would you put the blindfold on? Would you face the wall and smile hoping the headshot won't come?

Of course not, dear reader. Because you're smart. You're smarter than all of them. And because you're smart is that you're still alive to tell the tale.

Anyway.

About crushes and how I can never feel like I'm loved in the right and correct way.

Here's the thing.

Friendships are good. Friendships are the best. In Friendships i don't have to wonder what the other person's intentions are.

The intent is always "have a nice time together as buddies and laugh and laugh and laugh and never delve deeper into each other sadness"

At least, it's how i see it on my side. You see, if a friend suddenly opened their heart to me and told me their woes, then hell yeah I'd be there for them. I'd care for them. I'd comfort them. I'd be the most supportive person in the room.

I will forever be someone that wants to help others.

But the moment a friend asks ME to open up. I just. I feel attacked. I take out my metaphorical knife and point at them and go "WHAT ARE YOUR INTENTIONS- WHY DO YOU CARE"

i don't do that, the knife is metaphorical. But I do insist that I'm alright and that nothing is wrong and i am absolutely fine thank you VERY much! Please do not worry about me, all is good.

Because I am not kidding at all when I say you need to be a level 7 friend to unlock my Lore. I don't trust people. Trusting people gets you hurt. And I'm old enough to know that I can't take that kind of hurt anymore.

And i love my friends. I love all of them a lot. A lot!

But for some reason I can't trust them to reciprocate my friendship with my same pure and good intentions? Does that make sense?

From my point of view, people only love their friends in a very simple way. They want others to share the good times with. It's hard to find people to share the hard times with, so if they only want the good times, i don't blame them.

I don't expect my friends to be there for the hard times. I don't blame them. I expect them to only be there for the good times.

Who would want the hard times?

Who would want my hard times?

So yeah that's the heart (hah) of the issue.

I just don't think people really truly care about me. I don't expect them to. I hope they don't.

So when someone comes around and has the Audacity to develop feelings? For ME? The Extra Friendly version of me i put out into the world?

It feels offensive. Horrendous. I know what your intentions are AND THEY'RE NOT HARMLESS! YOU WANT MY BODY AS MEAT TO USE AND I HATE IT!!! FUCK OFF!!! I KNOW I'M DROP DEAD GORGEOUS BUT YOU DON'T GET TO THINK THAT!!!!!!!!

Maybe these are just excuses to justify how shallow I ended up being. A princely looking man would have me on my knees, I know this.

But those men will never look my way. They are shallow too, and i am repaid in my same coin.

Oh how dreadful is to date in the modern age (even though i know it's no better than the ages before).

Can't wait to leave this office and never say hello to this guy ever again. I would apologize but. Nah.

I just wish i could tell him "we're not meant to be and it's not your fault but also I wish this world was kinder to alright guys that don't have much to offer. Like you. Like me. We are one in the same and perhaps that's why we were never going to be anything at all."

[mynameisaboutlight]

We're darn made to be strange. That's within us and with us throughout this life. And i don't seem to understand. Sometimes i wish i didn't have this much consciousness and sometimes i wish i didn't know consciousness. Because the more you're there for things that are implicit and decoded, the smaller and stupider you'll feel. This much knowledge is hurting me, these stretches in my mind are stirring my whole existence and even though i knew and i understood, I still don't know how should it all affect me. I don't know how it'll build me. I don't know if it hurts me or if it bless me or if i should just shoot me because i can barely think free. I can barely listen to me when i speak, when all these thoughts and realities are interfering with my old ones. And in each state, in each level i reach im never satisfied. Im not the least settled to anything and i wonder if the world wants us to be like this. If i should not be comfortable enough with myself everytime some new realization strikes me. I don't know what comforts me. Being understood maybe. Being heard and felt as present even if I'm actually living somewhere else i can't even name. A cave of worries, of uncertainties. An abyss. A void.

And i learned to not ask the whys. I learned that every answer to a why is an unsatisfactory. Because it's not coming from me. I'm not the one who alarms me, who sets my attention and brings me relief. I'm not the person whom answers my own questions. Cuz even if the question is universal and we all wish to have the exact same answer. It doesn't benefit anyone to know. It doesn't set meaning. It doesn't add to my awakening . It's a rhetorical question. And it's always driven by emotions not by logic. It's always sentimental when it should be asked for an information not for an explanation. No one can explain to me, not to the extent of how much i know what's wrong with me. I'm the only one who lives in this body that doesn't ever feel like mine And I'm too stupid to pretend that i don't know the answer. I'm just needy for reassurance. I'm needy for someone to tell me that i should keep going. To tell me what i already know about myself but wish people would see and notice. And if no one told me, if no one picks me roses for my mouth to eat then im doomed to perceive the complete opposite of me. I'd dig myself a grave and wait for any motive whatsoever to push me down and not just sleep restfully. I'd set fire to it and burn the whole ground to satisfy my anguish. I'd tell me each time i mistaken that this is printed for eternity. I'll teach me to hate me just like my parents didn't teach me how to love me. And I'll go around and brag about it. I'll sit in places and eat me to the core.

And then. Then I'll find me sitting in a park. Or in the middle of nowhere, folded in a bag of my own flaws, with roses between my fingers, tears of color in my eyes. Head shaved, hollowed smile and a toy pistol. There. the product of constant depression. A kid with no identity, no disguise, just a sack of burden, a soft core and all hypothesis of becoming vile that is taken as a joke. And there. I've created my own world of no single evidence of existence, of no relevance or need for dependence. There. I created a some person. And it ended.

[tennessoui]

1. Soulmates AU please! It is definitely my guilty pleasure trope

hello im only three months ish late maybe four but this is also 3.4k long and it's just wild i mean we're talking soul mates, superheroes, rushed world building, superhero names this is a trip this is something i wrote after waking up from a four hour nap this ever had a chance and also it's sad

1. Soul Mates (+ 42. Star Crossed Lovers)

“You shouldn’t have come,” Obi-Wan says harshly, pulling the children--they’re just goddamn children--into his apartment and slamming the door behind them. “Did anyone see you?”

The children--all four of them--stay quiet. Obi-Wan wants to wring their necks. He knows why they’re here. He’d rather them die on the streets than suffer through what they’re obviously here about.

But if that were really true, he would have just left them on his doorstep.

“Did anyone see you?” he asks again.

“Not that we noticed,” one of the girls in the middle says. Shili, dressed in a blue and white striped sensible jumpsuit and sporty cape. The leader of the new generation of superheroes and she sounds like she hasn’t even hit puberty yet.

Obi-Wan is suddenly very, very tired.

“Kam,” Shili gestures to the person next to her and a little behind, a tall boy with a helmet covering his face and white and blue armor covering the rest of him, “says he didn’t pick up anything with his sensors. We were safe. We’re not trying to get you caught, sir. We just need to talk to you.”

“You could kick us out,” the other girl points out, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s not even bothering to wear a domino mask, but Obi-Wan doubts very much he’s looking at her real appearance. She’s Mirial, of course.

Which makes the other boy in a padded white and orange suit Mando. Four of the fifty or so remaining Jedi superheroes are in his house.

Obi-Wan sighs and turns to pad down the hallway. “Shoes off,” he calls behind his shoulder. “And does anyone want any tea?”

“No thank you,” Shili responds politely, falling into step behind him.

“Sit,” he tells them roughly when he notices the four of them standing awkwardly in his cramped dining room. “Sit down.”

He puts the kettle on anyway, and bangs around the cabinets for a few seconds to find an unopened bag of chips and a sleeve of probably stale cookies.

He doesn’t have much else to offer them though. Not now.

Weren’t you the one always telling me to eat my vegetables? A laughing voice murmurs into his ear. Look at you now.

Obi-Wan has to stand for a second in his small and dirty kitchen, chips clutched in one hand and cookies in the other, and breathe for an impossibly long moment.

This is why he had not wanted to ever see another Jedi in his life. All they brought with them were questions and ghosts.

Obi-Wan has enough of those as it is.

The kettle goes off and he pours the hot water into his mug. The cowardly part of him that hasn’t faced a fight in ten years now wants to wait here until the tea has finished steeping and then think of a thousand other excuses to not ever leave the kitchen again. He's good at thinking of excuses. He calls them reasons and lives his life with them.

But he has always known someone would eventually come looking for answers. That had always been one of the prices he knew he would eventually have to pay.

He notices immediately upon entering the dining room that they’ve saved him a seat, if it counts as saving someone a seat when they’ve rearranged the chairs so one is on one side of the table and the other two are squeezed opposite it.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve brought snacks to my own interrogation,” he says blithely, depositing them onto the table in front of the children.

Kamino stares intently at them for a second, and then nods once to Shili, who reaches out to open the bag of chips. In a show of good faith, she takes one and eats it. Obi-Wan can’t see her eyes underneath the white lenses of her domino mask, but he’s quite sure she hasn’t stopped looking at him once.

“Are you sure you do not want tea, now we have established I am not going to poison you?” he asks, crossing his ankles and taking a sip from his own mug.

“It’s a bit too warm out there for hot tea,” Mirial says disdainfully, looking at her nails. “You know, what with the world on fire.”

“But I’d take an iced one, if you have it,” Shili leans forward.

Obi-Wan pauses, drink halfway to his mouth.

He sets it down gently on the wood of his table. “Ah. Going straight in, aren’t we?”

“There’s not much time for anything else,” Mando says, and at least he sounds a bit apologetic.

“A weighty statement from someone who can manipulate time itself,” Obi-Wan hums.

“Only for a few seconds,” Mando mutters behind his helmet, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“That’s because you don’t have much in the way of training, young man,” Obi-Wan tells him gently with a hint of steel behind it “Back in my day--”

He cuts himself off. He doesn’t know why. Clearly, they know who he used to be. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here. He’s really just delaying the inevitable, but his throat feels tight. This truth, so long unspoken, is hard to drag into his mouth. And yet, every second he doesn’t speak it, it’s bashing itself to death against the backs of his teeth.

“Would you like us to tell you what we’ve found out about your days?” Mirial asks, looking up from her nails. “Would that make it easier for you, Ilum?”

“Meer--” Shili starts to say, reaching out to touch the girl’s arm, rein her in, but it’s too late.

The planes of Mirial’s face change and shift and suddenly for the first time in ten years, Anakin Skywalker is sitting across from him. “Would you like to talk about the old days, or would you like me to talk about the old days?” Mirial in Anakin’s smooth baritone asks.

It’s cruel. It’s so cruel that for a second Obi-Wan wishes his heart could just stop from the pain of it all. “Please put that away,” he tells the tabletop coldly. “And please. Do not call me that.”

“Meer,” Shili murmurs, and there’s a shift in the air.

When Obi-Wan looks back up, Mirial is back to the way she always appears in press releases, green skin and all. “That was a decent impression,” he tells her. She bristles at the perceived slight, but he holds up his hand. “But when I knew him, his eyes weren’t gold. They were blue.”

“Mustafar has had golden eyes since he joined the Imps,” Mirial argues back in a way that reminds Obi-Wan of another young teenager, who never could learn how to take criticism well.

“And he was someone else before then,” he tells the girl. “He had another name and he had a mother and he had a soulmate and a--fiancee and everything.”

His hands have started to shake, so he clasps the mug tightly, though it burns him.

“Tell us,” Shili insists forcefully but compassionately. Obi-Wan had wondered before why they had chosen to make the girl whose only ability is to fly the leader of the newest Jedi team, but it must be that. It must be her compassion. “Please. You’re the only one who can.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says. “I know. I’m the only one who is left. But if I am to demask myself, I will not do it to a table of strangers.”

The children turn to look at each other. Kamino cocks his head at Shili, who inclines her own head. Mirial shrugs. Mando shakes his head once, but Shili seems to override him, because she turns back to Obi-Wan and takes off her domino mask.

“My name is Ahsoka Tano,” she says, stumbling over the name. Obi-Wan wonders how many times she’s unmasked herself before. “Or Shili.”

She nudges Mirial, who sighs. “I’m Barriss,” she tells him grudgingly.

Kamino takes off his helmet to reveal a strong-jawed boy with a blond buzzcut. “His name is Rex,” Ahsoka says. “He can’t speak except through minds.”

Obi-Wan blinks in surprise at this. He had known that Kamino had an advanced sense of the senses, could tell something’s molecular makeup just by looking at it, could smell a gas leak from two miles away, etcetera, etcetera, but he hadn’t known the boy could communicate telepathically as well.

“And I’m his twin,” Mando sighs, taking off his own helmet and revealing a startlingly similar face, marred by a scar just across his temple. “Cody.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Obi-Wan tells them, drumming his fingers on the table. “You know already. I fought under the name Ilum. I could--”

He searches for words to describe his own powers, and settles instead on a demonstration. With a flick of his hand, the liquid in the mug rises and freezes into a miniature wave, suspended in the air.

He lets the ice drop into the mug, and inclines his head to Ahsoka. “Iced tea?” he asks wryly.

“Tell us about Mustafar,” Mando demands. What a heavy thing to carry, Obi-Wan finds himself thinking. The knowledge of all that time.

What Obi-Wan wouldn’t give to be ten years younger again. Not to even change anything, though he would be stupid to not try to. But to just enjoy the moment for what it had been in the end: just a moment.

“We didn’t call him that then,” Obi-Wan sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “We called him Iego in uniform, and Anakin in civvies.

“He was...radiant. In battle and off the field. I was the leader of our team for six years until Anakin came along. And I just knew as soon as I saw him that he would take everything from me. But he wouldn’t have had to take it. I would have given it to him right then.”

“I didn’t think he was that attractive,” Ahsoka mumbles, and then slaps a hand over her mouth as if afraid she’s spoken out of turn and ruined the story so completely that Obi-Wan won’t say anything else.

Instead, Obi-Wan laughs but it doesn’t sound much like a laugh at all. “Well, to each is his own, of course,” he says when he thinks the hysteria has worn off. “And finding out he carried my soul mark certainly helped.”

The room is blissfully silent, which Obi-Wan is beyond thankful for. He just wants to let those never-before admitted truths hang in the air, just for a few more seconds. He almost wants to say them again actually. Anakin Skywalker is my soulmate. Anakin Skywalker carries the same mark I carry, and he always has.

“But…” Barriss says slowly, “But Mustafar’s soulmark is on his neck.”

“It’s not,” Obi-Wan murmurs, staring at the wall behind their heads. “What he has on his neck is an ice burn scar in the shape of a hand. In the shape of my hand. His actual soul mark is on his mid-back, right over his spine.”

“You tried to kill your soulmate?” Ahsoka gasps, looking horrified.

Obi-Wan smiles with no joy behind it. “I tried to save the world,” he corrects her gently.

“You said earlier…” Cody speaks up. “That Mustafar--that Anakin had a fiancee. It wasn’t you, was it?”

“No,” Obi-Wan admits. “I never told him. I...couldn’t. I wanted to wait I suppose. I. Well. My soulmark is identical to his, but it’s on my thigh. And. You know what they say about a soulmatch whose marks aren’t in the same spot.” “Star crossed,” Ahsoka whispers.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan confirms. “I decided to wait. I was a few years older than him, he had so much to learn, he needed a friend more than he needed a soulmate. I had a long list of reasons, all as iron-clad as the next. But they were excuses. I was afraid. This man, my soulmate, could control fire and sunlight itself. He burned with passion, shone with power. And I...I was cold. Too pragmatic, too quick to criticize when he needed praise. The marks were just marks. Maybe they fit together, maybe they matched. But I was terrified that we wouldn’t.

“And by the time I thought to tell him, he came to find me instead. He was in love, he said. He had been seeing a girl for months and was going to ask her to marry him. And I suppose I must have asked about his soulmate, because he told me he would rather never know his soulmate, if knowing meant losing her.”

So. So Obi-Wan had let him go, though that part doesn’t make for a good story. He had distanced himself as much as he could get away with, which is not much really, seeing as how Iego and Ilum fought best when they fought together.

But in the end, his heartbreak had been too much, even for someone as cold as Obi-Wan had been known to be. He’d put in for a temporary transfer. A remedial medical leave, a Jedi-sanctioned sabbatical so he could ostensibly connect with himself and his powers. Nothing longer than a year.

You’ll miss the wedding, Anakin had told him, heartbreak shining in his own eyes.

But his heartbreak had been nothing compared to Obi-Wan’s, and so he had left. He had needed to. It had felt like rending his soul in two, but he had.

Two weeks into his stay at a different Jedi training base, Obi-Wan had died in an explosion. “That hadn’t been Jedi sanctioned,” he tells the children in front of him wryly. “We thought it was an accident at the time, but there were too many coincidences. Too many casualties.” But Obi-Wan’s death had been the only casualty Anakin had felt. It hadn’t mattered that someone had managed to restart his heart only a few minutes later. He had died. He had died and Anakin had felt his soulmate die. He had burned his fiancee in his own uncontrollable agony. She had not survived Obi-Wan’s death, even though Obi-Wan himself had.

“I...I don’t know what happened. Still. It’s been years and I have thought of little else. She may have been standing too close to him when it happened. Or...the house may have caught on fire and she was trapped inside. Or...I don’t know. I don’t know,” he spreads his hands palm up on the table and looks at the faces of the children.

He sighs and continues. There is so little left in the story now. “The Jedi Order decided to tell the press that there had been no survivors, though there had been a few. We couldn’t know if the Imperials were behind the attack or not, so we had to be careful. The survivor’s families were told, and their soulmates. Officially, I had no family. I had...no soulmate. They didn’t tell anyone I had survived. Ilum died in that explosion. Still to this day, he's dead.

“Anakin had always been absurdly powerful...and dangerous. He’d killed the love of his life, had felt his soulmate dying, and then...heard that I too had died. The first two had destabilized him, but my death and the Jedi Order’s staunch rejection of his request to see my body, to give me a funeral...it made him even more vulnerable to outside manipulation.”

“The Imperials….” Cody murmurs.

Obi-Wan nods, lip curling up. “The Imperials,” he agrees. “The timeline is fuzzy. I spent a good part of these weeks partially dead, one foot in both worlds. I didn’t know what was going on. When I was well enough to watch the news, the Jedi told me there was a new super villain working with the Imperials, going by the name Mustafar. I trained to kill him as he was helping the Imps decimate the Jedi. All of my old team was dead. Anakin was missing. I didn’t--”

He cuts himself off and runs a hand down his face. The children are waiting on his words. He’s telling them why they’re fighting wars adults should be fighting. He’s telling them why they’re out in the field after only a month or less of training. He’s trying to tell them why he isn’t out there fighting with them, but he knows already they won’t accept his excuses.

They shouldn’t have to.

“They gave me a new uniform and a new name,” Obi-Wan picks up the story. “Hoth. And I went off to kill my soulmate.”

“But you didn’t,” Barriss says, and she sounds vaguely confused and vaguely accusatory.

“I almost did,” Obi-Wan admits, like it’s a sin, like it's salvation. “Everything about him was different. He was not the passionate but warm boy I had known. He was a forest fire. A volcano. And Mustafar’s fighting style was completely different from Iego’s. I only realized it was Anakin--my Anakin--when I managed to knock his mask off. I had my hand around his throat, but when I realized who I was fighting...I let go. I couldn’t kill him. Even after everything he did. Even knowing...knowing Iego was gone.”

The dining room is silent for a second, before three voices burst out angrily at once.

“Why aren’t you helping the Jedi?” Ahsoka asks the loudest. “Hoth--Ilum, Obi-Wan. We need you. Mustafar--the Imperials...they’re not going to stop. They’ve killed so many Jedi. We need you to help us.”

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan says. “I cannot.”

“You used to be a hero,” Barriss accuses. “Now what are you? A hollowed out, sad man.”

“I was never a hero,” he snaps. “I followed orders. Anyone can do that.”

“You were the best,” Cody says quietly, cutting Obi-Wan to the bone. “You led the Geonosis team for six years. I studied you in class. You were...the best.”

“I wasn’t,” Obi-Wan disagrees just as quietly. “But perhaps you all are.”

“You haven’t even told us any weakness we could use against him in battle!” Barriss shouts, standing up suddenly, which causes the chair to clatter over. “You’ve been no help at all! I’m leaving, this is a waste of time!”

“Barriss--!” Ahsoka cries after the girl, grabbing her discarded mask and taking after her.

Cody opens his mouth and then closes it. He jams the helmet back onto his head. “The soulmark. You said it’s on his hip?”

Obi-Wan smiles mirthlessly. Cody is trying to see if he can catch him in a lie, if this is actually good tactical information or not. “It’s a few inches below his shoulder blades, right over his spine.”

Cody nods once and then files out, leaving Obi-Wan alone in the room with the silent, still helmetless Rex.

“I just told him how to kill my supervillain soulmate,” Obi-Wan tells Rex, even though he’s really talking to himself. “Soulmarks, even dead ones, are extremely sensitive. If Anakin had hit me with his fire on my other thigh, I would be dead. Not just crippled. Muscle, young man, doesn’t grow back easily.”

He rubs a hand over the leg in question, staring down at the uneven way his pants lay over the old injury. It aches from the walking he’s forced it to do today, from trying to walk normally im front of these powerful strangers.

Rex taps the table to get him to look up, and then gestures to his own eyes.

“I?” Obi-Wan asks, confused.

Rex rolls his eyes and then mimes writing something.

“Ah, there should be a pen and pad in the kitchen?” he trails off as the teenager goes to retrieve the aforementioned things.

It takes a second longer than it should, and he comes out carrying just a slip of paper with his helmet forced back onto his head.

With a flick of his fingers, the paper’s lying on the table and Rex is following his teammates out the door and out of Obi-Wan’s apartment and hopefully out of his life forever.

Curious, Obi-Wan grabs the note and unfolds it to read.

We thought Musta. had yel. eyes because all the top Imps have yel. eyes. But if Ankn had blue eyes, then mybe none of the imps should have yel eyes.

No one knows what sidious power is -> what if it’s mind control?

Obi-Wan puts the note down onto the table with shaking hands. He wishes desperately he had never read it.

Because those words plant a seed of hope in his chest he isn’t sure he’ll be able to live without now.

What if Anakin--his Anakin--what if he’s in there still? What if Obi-Wan had abandoned him to ten years of brainwashing and mind control with not much of a fight at all?

But more pressingly, what if there’s hope for him? For both of them? Still, after all this time?

[2-bdamned]

in regards to the aoex pride post i made last month, here are my personal headcanons as to why i think those are their sexuality’s! ( also thank you to @johnannepeterric for asking about this as i’ve been waiting to share these for a hot minute!!)

rin:

sexuality + gender identity:gay and trans(ftm)

reason: i don’t think he exactly cares for the concept of gender and sexuality but just thinks people should be allowed to like and be whoever they want. he knew he was in the wrong body since he was a little kid but never knew how to phrase it till later on in life. as for on screen reasons, he tends to cover up quite a bit before and after becoming a demon as well as tending to wear baggy clothes to hid his form. not to mention he has very poor posture which most transmasc people (myself included) tend to do when we can’t bind or don’t feel masculine enough. and i think he’s gay mostly due to the fact that he’s never really shown to have any friendships outside of the exwires and tends to get his platonic and romantic affections mixed up quite a bit (as to explain why i still headcanon this after the manga and his confirmed feelings towards shiemi)

yukio:

sexuality: bisexual

reasoning: he seems to show and equal amount of emotions to his colleagues and to the exwires and im like 90% sure he doesn’t really talk about romantic through the manga/anime at all. i think he’s always known he’s liked both genders since he was young. shiro seems like he was very accepting and i honestly think he would’ve helped both the boys with their sexuality’s and gender since he didn’t get the freedom to express that stuff when he was younger due to you know ‼️‼️(SPOILERS) ‼️‼️ literally being a clone made in a lab. yukio seems the type to not really care about gender when it comes to romance and instead look for traits like personality and motivations. his friendships are most based on him genuinely liking the person rather than keeping up with his appearance as someone who’s quite popular. this could possibly lead to the same being transferred over to his romantic bonds.

shiemi:

sexuality: lesbian

reason: like rin, she tends to get romantic and platonic affection mixed up from not having friends till high school. there’s a bit in the manga where izumo brings over some romance novels to try and help shiemi out with figuring out her feelings. we all know most romance novels don’t exactly have the best explanation for feeling so i think that’s where shiemi got mixed up. she gets her admiration for rin mixed up with romantic feelings when in reality, she’s not into him. we can also use the garden scene from kyoto arc as some reasoning to this headcanon. izumo called shiemi a weed and she surprisingly takes this “insult” very well and even thanks izumo for the interaction. even later in kyoto saga, we see shiemi use even more of her power to save izumo from the miasma. she clearly cared a lot about izumo and basically wore herself down to the the brink of exhaustion trying to dave izumo herself when she could have easily run and got help from another exorcist. sheimi seems to care deeply about her friends but shows more concern to izumo than any other exwire (minus rin and yukio).

shima: ‼️‼️ HIS WHOLE HEADCANON REVOLVES AROUND MANGA SPOILERS SO THATS A HEADS UP‼️‼️

sexuality: gay

since he found out about izumo from the illuminati, he never really had a “crush” on her per say, but showed an unromantic interest in her due to her past and just wanted to know more about her. since he had kinzou around him as a kid, i think that played a huge part in him hiding that he was gay (just bc kinzou is a huge perv and probably pushed some of that onto him). that could also lead to the reasoning as to why he’s so pushy with izumo. he’s trying to convince himself he liked women by trying his hardest to like izumo. the kinzou thing is the only thing really leading to me believing this but an alternative reason could also be a fear of changing his personality this late on when both suguro and koneko have known him to be a certain way since he was young. he’s shown to have this perverted personality since he was quite young and it’s even mentioned in an extra concerning why suguro and koneko use his last name and not his first. these two factors lead me to believe his attraction to izumo and subsequently, his attraction to women, is just a lie he’s putting on.

koneko:

sexuality + gender identity: pansexual and genderfluid

reason: koneko is shown to have a deep love and care for the people around him and i think that not only applies to him with friendship, but with romance as well. like yukio, he tends not to focus on the gender of the person perusing him, but rather their intention, personally, and motivations. he wants to know if his partner is a good person rather than their gender. gender wise, i just don’t think he cares. it’s not explicitly shown but it can be heavily implied when he talks to rin about why he has a hard time trusting him after the “son of satan “ reveil happens. for gender identity, i think i as a kid, he was commonly referred to by most pronouns since he wasn’t exactly the most “boy looking” when he was young. later on he learned he didn’t exactly mind what gender people perceived him as but rather how they perceived him as a person. there’s no canon information for the genderfluid headcanon but again, these are my personal headcanon, they don’t exactly have to make sense.

suguro:

sexuality + gender identity: gay and trans (ftm)

reason: this one is mostly me projecting onto this man so if it doesn’t exactly make sense, y’all know why! but he’s shown to be quite affectionate to rin in both the manga and the anime. he doesn’t really tend to do that too much to other people, especially the women that are around him. he probably has some sort of crush on rin or at least some form of admiration to him. as for his gender identity, this is literally just me projecting. that’s it. but i think he does show some signs that i tend to show as a trans person ( the one example i can name off the top of my head is that he seems pretty insecure when shima and koneko brought up his body before he started working out and hates mentions of his body in general ). like rin, he tends to have very poor posture and also doesn’t wear form fitting clothes and this is especially prominent in official art.

izumo:

sexuality: lesbian

reason: she has a very deep relationship with paku and shiemi after the events of the manga take place. she never shows this same connection with any one else throughout the series. she gets severely worried once paku leave cram school and is shown to be quite empty after this happens. ‼️‼️SPOILERS‼️‼️ the same thing happens once shiemi leaves cram school as well and is taken by her family to go train. she seems to be deeply affected by these two events and even goes as far as to show the others her concerns after the thing with shiemi happens. after she ‼️SPOILERS‼️ gets kidnapped by the illuminati and winds up the the hospital, shimei is the first person she lets see her true emotions and feelings and doesn’t once make a comment on her being some kind of hindrance. we also see her show quite a bit of empathy towards shiemi when in kyoto. there’s a scene where they two are gardening and she calls shiemi a weed. she’s very much plays into a tsudere type roll in the beginning but this seems more like a backhanded compliment rather than trying to be a jerk to her. both of the girls receive this interaction in a positive way. we also can use the scene where shiemi saves izumo as a reason for this as well. izumo shows a genuine concern for shiemi both during and after her being stuck in the miasma. even when they go to the hot springs, she seems to have this perpetual blush while looking at shiemi. these all lead me to think she has some sort of feelings toward both paku and shiemi, leading me to headcanon her as a lesbian.

shura:

sexuality: lesbian

she was basically born just so she could produce a child to fuel some demons deep desires. her unhealthy attachment to shiro can be explained by this. i think this is the case for all the “attraction” she showed towards him as a young girl. all her life she’s been told she has to have kids with a man and that’s was her purpose for a long time. thus why i think she’s a lesbian. she never shows any real attraction to a man throughout the entire series besides the man who saved her as a child. she never talks about men till after her character arc in the manga and even then, it seems she just wants to live the rest of her life differently than before and doesn’t exactly seem too enthusiastic about finding a husband as it’s never mentioned again after that point. she really only seems to show an “attraction” to men when it’s useful to her. she uses her looks and charm to get what she wants when it comes to men. she has this facade she puts on where she acts innocent and cute and uses her looks to her advantage. she never truly shows an actual attraction to a man.

mephisto:

sexuality + gender identity: gay and genderfluid

reason: i don’t think any of the demon kings are cis. like not even remotely. they all have to take on different forms and have taken on many in the past. as long as it’s a body, they’re basically fine with whatever. mephs past forms are never shown but we can assume he’s taken on many different body’s in the past as well. after all this body hopping and the fact that gender is literally a thing made up by humans, i don’t think meph really cares about the forms he takes and how his gender is perceived. he knows he’s a powerful demon and could easily destroy the knights of the true cross if he wanted too so gender is the last thing he really cares about. as for sexuality, nothing on screen really points to anything but he tends to show more affection to the men on screen than the women. in fact, the only women we see him really interact with (that i can remember) is shura and we all know how they feel about each other. even though those two both “flirt” with one another, these seem to be more so parts of their personality’s rather than them both having an interest in each other. his “flirting” with shura seems to be more taunting her and displaying his absolute discard for human problems.

amaimon:

gender identity: agender

reason: just like meph, amimon had possessed(?) many different forms over the course of their existence. we even see him take on a rather feminine presenting form when they were destroying the earth. but unlike meph, he is less fluid in terms of gender and instead, prefers to not identify with one. she does use all pronouns and doesn’t exactly care on that front but i think there’s certain terms and compliments they don’t exactly like. meph does use gendered terms with amimon, but these two seem to be very close and have probably communicated this before as well. like koneko being genderfluid, there’s no definitive evidence to support this claim other than these are my own headcanons and i can do what i want.

[beached-thing]

tbh i never have came to terms or have had like closure or anything with the fact i was in a ldr for like 6 years with a girl who then stole my lifes savings and then ghosted me. The whole relationship was a scam obviously but like in my defense it was not a catfish i know for 100% fact that she is who she says she is and i know where she lives like i could track her down if need be so it wasnt like im a complete stupid gullible piece of shit. I just deluded myself into believing anyone could ever love me. Which i guess does make me a gullible piece of shit but my point is i dont think i deserve to be perceived as a stupid one. I was a good girlfriend even if the whole thing was just smoke and mirrors and my OCD has been telling me for so long that i never could be a good person to be in a relationship with or that i would be abusive or whatever but at least i know that like i could be a good girlfriend if there existed someone who actually cared about me in any capacity. I just wish that you know she didn't take all my money leaving me completely and hopelessly trapped in poverty. Frankly thats the worst part. Like I'm so beyond fucked that I'm basically going to have to commit suicide just because i literally cannot afford to live.

That and I just cannot really understand how any human being can do what she did to another person. Tricking someone into loving you, especially someone with clear mental health problems, is just like genuinely true evil. Like this might be controversial but frankly that feels to me like it should be considered up there with like murder and rape and kid diddling and shit, but i dont think anyone else would agree with that. But it is real true evil in my opinion. I just can't comprehend that level of cruelty. Like, I'm a real fucking piece of shit but I would NEVER do that to another person. That's just a goddamn sick, horrifying thing to do to someone.

And actually the real worst part is that I just don't have anyone to talk to anymore. Never get notifications on my phone telling me someone actually knows i exist and wants to communicate with me. My only other friend is herself in such a bad depressed cycle that she doesn't ever want to talk really. Unfortunately I'm the exact opposite way and like to distract myself with communication when I'm having real bad mental health periods. So now I'm just like genuinely completely alone and dont even really have online friends anymore either. Just complete and total social isolation. Like, literally on some solitary confinement shit. At least i can attest that that really does make you go crazy. Cuz I am just fucked in the head lmao. But yeah just in general just really lonely. I really want to text her and say all of this to her really even if she doesn't respond but drunking texting your ex is generally frowned up for some reason so i assume that would be a bad idea. But fuck i just can't get past the cruelty. I have no closure for the cruelty. I need to understand how she could have ever done something so horrific. I don't know if i can ever really move on without knowing that. Probably I'll just keep bottling it up and trying not to think about it until i inevitably eat a bullet. But really i just want something good to happen in my life just for once. I'm pushing 30 now and literally not 1 fucking good thing has happened to me in my life since i was like 12. I just need fucking anything to happen. I'm bored and depressed and full of rage and just man this shit is awful.