#but like also dont read it if you want to live
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
Brooock call her Jenni. Brock.
nah this pirate hates parrots. I dont want one they live forever it seems Jenni. With me parrots dont last a day. Repeating something they read or i said or something is a death sentence. All these mostly stupid and useless sayings arent good for nothing for you but im do far ahead of everyone for me they are. Good for nothing i easily and immediatrly disprl anyones anything. And forget about sayings Jenni. My ine theiry is an e equals mc squared level or way beyond theory. In fact its no longer theory i proved it. Just neeeded as much viable data as possible. I have a program. I need just over 7 percent then my computer extrapolates everything else. But i have to still review the findings its only a computer. Its not u or me. Pierre and I also discovered domethi g we broyfht pue findings to a certain someone. Its been a trade secret for more than a minute. Specisl cabbage. With remarkable qualities just like we have.
Jennifer Lawrence
422 notes
·
View notes
Text
𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍
⊱✿⊰ summary: headcanons with bakugo and a black cat girl
⊱✿⊰ warnings: swearing, suggestive comments, fighting ig, idrk
⊱✿⊰ notes: i have had this request for like fifteen months lol but im finally doing it for my pookie's bday. Happy birthday ml 🫶 im posting it now so i dont forget lol
❀ he hates you at first sorry not sorry. bakugo just sees you as yet another one of those extras who happen to have an annoying tendency to fight with him. i feel like he might respect your tenacity but barely and he still hates your guts whoops
❀ on the topic of hatred, your other classmates half are jokingly shipping you and the other half are just wishing you two would stop fighting. mina is at the head of the shipping bandwagon especially after she read a book with rivals to lovers. todoroki might say he ships you guys only because he thinks it means he wants you two to get along lol
❀ your arguments would mostly be stupid shit like who rescued who, who did better on the assignment. you guys are rivals who also get into fistfights because why not.
❀ bakugo doesn't think much of your swearing problem because he's used to it by his mom. you're just another annoying person who happens to like using some naughty words all the time (him in girl form)
❀ i feel like the way you two get closer is kinda sad but also drama yay. basically mineta was being an S-class pervert and he was literally harassing you.
❀ and it made you uncomfortable so you started to fight back. bakugo doesn't find you until the aftermath, huddled in the corner of the dorm while trying to hide your tears
❀ he didn't know seeing someone cry could make his heart clench like that. But for some reason, seeing you all teary eyed and sad made him want to punch the living daylights out of whoever made you like that
❀ as awkwardly as he can, he tries to comfort you. His large hand patting your back, not saying anything since words have never been his forte. He was used to using anger to battle his sadness, he didn't know how to help someone succumb to it.
❀ you guys sit there in comfortable silence until you explain to bakugo what happened. he'd always hated the little brat but now he was wishing he had uraraka's powers so he could throw mineta into space. how was the creep still in the hero course?
❀ lets just say the nice day mineta looked more like a cranberry than a grape
❀ you guys aren't particularly close after that but he does tend to notice you more which means his respect for you goes up. you're in combat training and you beat deku? fuck yeah he likes you now. even if you don't hate deku like he does he still thought it was awesome seeing you beat the daylights out of him.
❀ the moment he realized he liked you was when he almost lost you. by now hanging out was pretty regular for the two of you, even if bakugo would rather die than admit that he sees you as a friend. and since you guys spent time together he was around for whenever you got crushes...and told him about it.
❀ most of the time he would shrug it off, especially since half of your crushes were fictional and why would he care? he's not jealous! however you started falling for a boy in class 2b which (for some reason) was a major no go for bakugo. why would you want to date a stupid extra when he was right in front of you
❀ despite what everyone says he isn't the most emotionally constipated. it takes awhile yeah but i imagine he started going to therapy during the course of the show so he started to understand what feelings went where and etc
and one thing was for certain: this feeling was love.
❀ he started being a massive asshole after that. he went right back to always arguing with you or ignoring you completely. he might understand his feelings but that doesn't mean he knows how to handle them
❀ he was so wrapped up in his angry emoness that he didn't know you had stopped talking to the boy from class 2b, forgetting him entirely. he also failed to notice the hurt looks you'd give bakugo before you snapped right back into your harsh comebacks.
❀ the reason you guys even talk it out is during a simulation where the both of you get stuck inside rubble. you were both exhausted, dehydrated, and heartbroken.
❀ you just couldn't help but ask, "why do you hate me?" which basically broke his heart into a million little pieces. he couldn't help the way he admitted to his feelings, the way he handed you his heart in hopes you'd keep it safe...and safe you did.
❀ if you two as rivals were bad you two dating is even worse. you guys are the ultimate power couple, able to tear anybody down with a few well placed sneers and snorts.
❀ everybody either loves or hates you guys. mina obviously loves you guys even if you two are constantly arguing still plus with the added of you two tag teaming one person. she loves when she manifests things.
❀ you guys still have that silly banter and with your tempers. but now you guys made up your arguments with kisses and cuddles
❀ you guys aren't allowed to get paired together for assignments because you are either bickering or making out. and aizawa is too tired to try to stop it.
lori © 2024. please don't copy, modify, or do anything weird with my writing! i like reblogs and comments but please be kind as this was my writing.
#❀ lori writes#my love skye#mha#mha x reader#mha bakugou#boku no hero academia#bnha#my hero acedamia#my hero academia#boku no hero acedamia#bakugo katuski#bakugou katsuki#bakugou x reader#katsuki bakugo x reader#bnha bakugou#katsuki bakugou#bakugo katsuki#kacchan#x reader
139 notes
·
View notes
Text
i know we're all entitled to our opinions about the finale and i do respect that really
but if youre someone who says that it was "lazy writing".....you can respectfully get tf out- literally- THERES THE DOOR BITCH😭👉🏻🚪
jkjk ahaha....
but fr tho i honestly think the finale was less of a "lazy writing" and more of a "OMG THERES SO MUCH TO WRITE AND WE DK WHAT TO INCLUDE" mess up-
i hope you guys get what im trying to sayy???
cuz even in that one wrap interview with jac.....she did say they discussed about the agathario flashbacks- “They met over corpses”??? “Then the room took it in a direction that then they lived in a cottage”???? “We talked at length about it, to the point of, is Rio Nicky’s father?”??? so its not like they didnt......but it was in a way important for the plot (and ill tell you how) for them to give more preference to nicky/agathas story it was to show why agatha did what she did for billy (AND NO SHE DIDNT KISS RIO FOR BILLY SHE KISSED RIO FOR HERSELF BECAUSE THAT HOW SHE WANTED TO LEAVE THIS WORLD.....TO BE IN THE EMBRACE OF SOMEONE SHE LOVES-......SHE DIDNT NEED TO KISS HER TO SIPHON HER POWERS BUT SHE STILL DID SO DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THAT OMG) ......and yes it wasnt a "sacrifice"....more of a "calculated risk" but we all know agatha did care about billy the key factor tho here was to show WHY she cared for him which was cuz of nicky so before any of you say "UGH THE WHOLE POINT OF AAA WAS TO ELEVATE BILLYS CHARACTER" dont- and also did we watch the same show??? i get being upset about being robbed of agathario....believe me i am too but if you try to look at it from a "positive" aspect.......that is in a way how marvel works.......we got introduced to billy the same way agatha and monica were introduced to us in wandavision albeit billy did get more screen time- and if youve read the comics youd know how important his character goes on to become so ig i do feel like the screen time was well deserved???.....although i still do think we needed more context on agathas story but hey like i said there was so much they wanted to include in the story but not enough time..... and im not a huge fan of his character so this isnt even me defending billy....rather its just me trying to be reasonable
plus i do think theyve left a good amount of loose threads to hopefully work with for a season 2 or a lady death spin off????
81 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mine. - Jeremy Swayman
Summary: Jeremy comes over to beg for your forgiveness, and things quickly take a turn... but not for the worst.
Word count: 3.3k (its short ik im sorry)
WARNINGS: Daddy kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, bad writing??? idk this is porn OKAY READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. pls dont read if you're under 18 thank u!!
Note: i wrote this awhile ago for goalie week and then a bunch of stuff happened and i kept forgetting to post it bc i started my first full time job a month ago and its kicking my BUTT. anyways thanks for reading :)
You could hear your phone going off from across the room. It was Friday night and the end of a very long work week. Your boss was driving you up the wall and your personal life didn’t seem to be going much better. Your friends were good, you just didn’t get to see them as often as you wanted due to just being adults and everyone having their own full time jobs.
The one person who was supposed to make your life easier, better even, was the one currently blowing up your phone. You knew exactly who it was, but he deserved to sit there and stew for a while. But as you looked around your apartment while trying to decide what show to numb your mind with, you noticed things of his strewn everywhere. You didn’t live together, not yet anyway, but based on the amount of things you had at each others’ places, you may as well have.
Your work involved working with many different clients, and making their dreams come true. You were a travel agent, and your boss didn't exactly adhere to the typical 9-5 schedule like a normal job. If you were awake, she expected you to be able to take care of the problem.
You had already decided long ago that men didn’t always think with their brains. Jeremy was jealous, but of what you had no idea. Did you have a lot of clients who were men who wanted to surprise the lady in their lives? Yes. Did those scumbags also try and make a move on you sometimes? Also yes. But you were a professional, and always conducted yourself as such. As much as you wanted to, it wasn’t your job to fix someone else’s insecurities. You could tell Jeremy that he didn’t need to be jealous until you were blue in the face, but you didn’t know when he was going to get it. You weren’t broken up, but you’d told him you needed a minute for him to calm down. It had been a few days at that point, and you couldn’t deny you were also getting antsy. He may be a stupid guy sometimes, but he was yours.
After what had to be the millionth time of your phone going off with a DING of a text, you made yourself get up off the couch. The last message you had read:
Sway❤️: I know I’m stupid. I need you to know I’m sorry. Can I see you, please?
After the stressful week you’d had, you wanted nothing more than to feel his familiar warmth around you. The moment he was near you it was like the noise around you calmed down to its lowest level.
Y/N: I’m at home, you know where to find me.
Sway❤️: I’m on my way, be there in 20. I love you.
The next twenty minutes were going to kill you. Your apartment was already cleaned, because you liked to clean when you got anxious as mess only made you more anxious. Your doorman would recognize Jeremy and send him up when he arrived, so you didn’t need to even get up to let him in. He had his key, he knew exactly where to find you.
After an eternity, at least what felt like one, you heard the familiar sound of a key in the lock. He quietly took off his shoes by the door, and locked it behind him.
“Babe?” He called out, already walking toward the living room where you sat.
“I’m in here!” You called back. Relief washed over you when you saw him, but you didn’t get up and go to him. He had to earn you back the way you deserved.
“Where should I start?” He asked, sitting down in a chair only a few feet away from you.
“How about how you shouldn’t act jealous of my stupid clients? Or any man that I’m ever with that isn’t you? Do you really think I’m that crappy of a person that I would EVER cheat on you?”
“I know I shouldn’t, I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do that because you’re the best person I’ve ever known, but-“
“BUT WHAT JEREMY?” You screamed, and you know it came out louder and meaner than you wanted it to. He recoiled a little bit but didn’t lose his energy.
“I’m stupid. I’m a stupid guy, who knows you are way out of my league. It sounds like a dumb excuse, but I’m so scared of losing you. I want you, I want to love you, I want to be with you for the rest of my life. But you’ve seen the league, you’ve seen what this life can do to relationships and what it turns people into. I don’t want anything bad to happen to us. I know this isn’t the life you signed on for. I think about you being at home alone and I hate it.” He looked defeated and like he meant every word he’d said.
“You can’t lose something you already have.” You wanted to close the space between you so badly.
“You still want to be with me?” You got up and walked to the kitchen as he asked, putting away the wine you’d gotten out so it wouldn’t spoil. He followed closely, less than a few steps away. One giant step and he’d be able to close that space.
“I wouldn’t have told you to come if I didn’t. You just needed to listen, and you weren’t hearing me. You don’t have to be jealous of anyone, that isn’t who I am.”
“I hear you loud and clear now. And I’m not jealous, you’re just mine.” The tone in his voice shifted to another one you recognized.
“I’m yours huh?” You said it like you were challenging him because it sounded like he thought he already won. He should be fighting for you and showing you what that means.
“Do you need a reminder?” He closed the space, so his forehead rested against yours. You could feel his hot breath on your face, breathing in time with you. Without warning, you pressed your lips against his with a new hunger behind you. You’d missed this heat between you, the raw need to have each other right in that moment.
His hands explored your body, finding their way to your ass and lifting you up onto the counter. It was cold against your legs, the shorts you had on weren’t very long and you felt every inch of cold countertop but you didn’t care. His lips left yours with a moan and began making their way down your neck. You could feel how wet you were already getting, responding to his touch so quickly. You reached for the hem of his shirt and motioned for him to take it off. He complied in earnest, his mouth immediately returning to you.
Lifting your shirt up and over your head, your breasts became exposed for him to devour. He licked around your nipple, biting it and chasing you to arch off the counter while letting out a scream. Your nails were digging into every spot on him that he could reach. Momentarily he kissed your mouth again, bringing his still covered cock against your center. You could feel it hard against you, the friction only giving you the slightest relief.
“Please daddy, please I need-“ You tried not to beg but the torture was killing you.
“Tell me you’re mine and I’ll give you exactly what you want. Tell daddy who you belong to princess.” He whispered in your ear, continuing to kiss around your neck in the spot he knew you liked.
“YOURS. I’M YOURS!” You needed relief or you were going to go insane.
“Now was that so hard baby?” He asked. You didn’t even have the time or energy to reply as he pulled off your shorts in one big motion.
“No underwear? Even better.” You attempted to push his head toward your swollen clit, but he wouldn’t go faster than he wanted to. He kissed and bit your thighs, leaving marks where he knew no one could see. You’d have those marks there for weeks. Each kiss he got closer until you finally felt his tongue brush against your clit. You shivered as he began to devour you, your thighs clenching around his head not wanting him to escape.
He pulled back but only for a moment, instructing you to lick the fingers he was putting in front of your face. You did as he asked, and he resumed going after your pussy. In a new move, he inserted his fingers into you as he continued eating. His tongue was licking in time with his fingers as they pumped in and out of you. He was hitting a spot in you that you didn’t even know was there.
“Holy shit don’t stop, don’t stop PLEASE.” You were writhing on top of the counter as he struggled to hold you in place. He knew you were so close to your high, edging you just along that fine line. You’re burning up and he knows it. His other hand reaches up and pinches your nipple before grabbing onto your breasts like they were his lifeline.
You cursed him silently for having hair you couldn’t grab onto, but you pressed his head as if it could go further into you. His tongue quickened its pace, matching his fingers. You could feel your orgasm building and it was right there, all you needed to do was let go.
“Let go baby girl, cum on my face for me..” He whispered against your clit, and what came out of yours was a series of expletives that you didn’t care to understand. He could taste everything you were giving him, not stopping as you started to come down. Every nerve ending was on overdrive and he held you down against the counter. The wave of your orgasm rolled over you, your heart pounding in your chest. He didn’t let a single drop of you miss his mouth, and you saw his smile looking up at you as you tried to catch your breath.
He stood up without breaking eye contact, and undid his own pants. He made sure all remaining clothes of yours were off, nibbling on your ears and down your neck as he did so. In a move of complete trust, he picked you up off of the counter and carried you down to where he knew your room was. His lips found yours again and suddenly your lungs were struggling for air but you didn’t care. Your arms were hooked around his neck as he walked, kissing him like your life depended on it.
Setting you down on the bed, he laid you down on your back, and stood back to marvel at the sight of you.
“You look… “ his brain was struggling to find the right word, “fucking stunning.”
“And you have too many clothes on… sir.” You put yourself up on your elbows, looking down at his boxers that for some reason, had remained on. You didn’t need to let him finish what he was going to say, you needed him to do something more than speak.
“Sir?” He raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to you.
“Did you like that?” You knew he did but it was your way of teasing. His mouth was on yours before you could process his next movements, placing one hand to your side to balance himself and the other knotted in your hair, pulling your head back so you were looking up at him when he pulled apart. You didn’t even realize that his boxers were already off, as you felt his cock brush against your leg and pussy.
His hand left your hair and explored your leg, getting closer to its destination. His face was so close you could feel his hot breath on your face and his fingers glided over your folds, but so lightly it sent a shiver up your spine. You could hardly catch your breath but you were dying for him to touch you, to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name. You wanted him to hear you. His hand remained on your pussy, his fingers becoming soaked.
“So fucking wet for me baby.. did you miss me?” He quickened his fingers and began pumping them inside you. The feeling of his fingers wasn’t enough, you needed more and a whine-like moan escaped you. You whispered a response to him, and it spurred him on.
“Please Jeremy please, please I need you inside me..”
“That’s not my fucking name, not in here. In here I own you, isn't that right princess? Do you want me to be gentle?” You nod no, but that isn’t enough for him.
“Use your words princess.”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“Don’t be gentle!” You tried pushing his head towards your core again, but he remained looking at you with his fingers teasing you. He added another, stretching you from the inside. You gasped and scratched your nails up his back.
You gasp again, as you feel him part you with two fingers and put his tongue against you again. He wasn’t done tasting you yet.
“Please baby, I need your cock. Please!” Your mouth couldn’t move fast enough and you didn’t even care that he had reduced you to a begging mess beneath him. Your hips wanted to grind, needing more friction. You could feel your release building again as he sucks on your clit. It was right there, you could feel it as you clawed at your sheets trying to grab onto something but there was nothing.
Your legs spasmed around his head as your release flooded over you and he ate you once again.
“So fucking wet for me, you’re so stunning baby girl.” He kissed his way up your body and aligned himself with your entrance. He isn’t gentle as he slams into you as he kisses your mouth like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.
You’re left begging for air as his head drops down, ducking your nipple into his mouth.
“Oh god, oh fuck..” you cry out as he wasn’t holding back. He slammed into you over and over, bringing his hand up to find your clit. As he fucked you he was playing with your clit again, causing your wetness to pool onto the bed. Every single nerve you had was on fire, and only he could put it out.
“Tell me you need it, tell me how bad you want you want my cum.” The hand not on your clit slowly moves up your body to the bottom of your throat and locking his hand around it. Not putting too much pressure, but enough to lightly choke you. Both of your hands gripped his arm as you felt his cock filling you and his thighs slapping against yours. His speed was increasing and so was the hunger in his eyes.
“Oh fuck, fuck daddy please I need your cum I need you so bad..!”
“You are mine, your orgasms are mine, everything about you is mine.” Without warning he withdrew from you, earning a desperate moan. Quickly he flipped you over into your stomach, pulling your hips back so you were on your hands and knees facing away from him with your ass in the air waving him in like an invitation.
“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He whispers into your ear from behind you. He places kisses on the spot in your neck he knows drives you crazy, running his cock along your folds at the same time. He pushes into you again and holds back nothing. Jeremy grips both of your hips with his hands and brings your hips back to meet each one of his thrusts. The sound of his thighs hitting your ass echoes throughout the room, reaching spots inside you that you didn’t know he could.
You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, you collapsed into the bed as he fucked into you.
“So fucking tight princess, this pussy was made for me.” His nails scratch down your back eliciting a loud string of moans. His thrusts become more erratic and he brings his hand up, then down to smack your ass as hard as he could. The scream you made encouraged him more, and you could feel a third orgasm building.
“Fuck daddy, please I’m right there I need to cum daddy please..” You didn’t know how he had gotten that many out of you, but you could already tell he was determined for more.
“That’s it baby, cum for me, cum all over my cock..” He brought his hand around as he leaned into you to tease your clit some more. You were right there, you pushed back to meet his thrusts to get yourself over the hill and the relief washed over you. You moaned out his name, begging for him to fuck you harder and faster.
He loved seeing his length go in and out of you, taking all of him so well. Spreading your legs to give him a better angle, his cock continued hitting that spot inside you. He slaps your ass again, and again. You cry out, knowing his release was close behind. His hands wrap in your hair and pull you back, making you arch towards him.
“Fuck yes baby, you like it when I fuck you like this? You ready for my cum?” He chases his release just as badly as you want it from him, feeling him trying to reach his high. You nodded in response to him, not being able to form any more words. The only sounds coming from you were moans of encouragement, it felt like you could be on cloud nine.
“FUCK!” He screamed as he pulled almost all the way out, slamming back in and releasing his load into you. Jeremy almost collapsed onto you, but he brought you into his arms as he pulled out of you as his cum slowly leaked back out. You knew he thought it was the hottest thing ever. Both trying to catch your breath and come back down to earth, he pulled you in once you laid down so that you were on his chest. You could hear his heartbeat going a million miles a minute inside his chest, but it brought you a sense of calm. Your person was back where he belonged, he had finally heard you.
“I love you.” He finally spoke but he still sounded out of breath.
“I love you too.”
“No, you don’t understand. I love you, I really love you. THIS is what I want. This body, your perfect fucking curves. Every minute of every hour of every day, I want you. Not just your body, I want all of you. I’m sorry I was so stupid. I can’t promise you that I won’t make stupid choices sometimes, but I can promise to be better for you every day.”
“Jer-“ You attempted to stop him, you knew he was it too.
“Please let me finish. I want to make you feel good, I want to be the person you want to come home to every day, I want to be the person who pushes you to be the best version of yourself and make you feel like the queen of the world. You’re it for me, there is no one else. I’ve spent my whole life doubting myself and chasing this dream I couldn’t even describe. But I can see it so clearly now, and I know that dream is you. And I want to be able to have forever with you, if you’ll have me.” You took a moment to absorb his words.
“You have to make me a promise okay?” His eyes gleamed at you, like you were holding up the moon just for him.
“Anything, you name it.”
“Promise me forever. There is no past anymore, there is only us and the future we make together. I want us to help each other be better. Okay?”
“Okay. How about we start forever now?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
#nhl#hockey#danielle writes#fluff#angst#smut#jeremy swayman#boston bruins#boston bruins fic#jeremy swayman fic#jeremy swayman smut#jeremy swayman fluff#jeremy swayman x reader#jeremy swayman imagine#nhl writing#nhl imagine
20 notes
·
View notes
Text
u either hate me or want me to go into cardiac arrest because HOW COULD I COPE WITH THIS FEEDBACK???? HOW 😭😭😭😭😭😭 i cant tell u how happy it makes me that you dont just read my fics but truly read them. you allow my characters to live in your heart and mind and that’s the biggest privilege for me. thank you thank YOU for making writing so enjoyable, reading ur feedback is easily top best thing about this entire process.
NOWWW to actually respond,, truthfully i tried to search for an equivalent for déchirure in english but tear imo doesn’t convey the feeling of being ripped to shreds, in french it feels more raw, even when u pronounce it this combo of letters have a sort of blunt force in them, like something being teared apart not by choice but by a sick twist of fate (like our mc and hyune) that’s why i picked it!!! :p thank you for asking 🥹
THANJ YOUUUU 😭😭😭😭😭 no this is my favorite compliment i try to put sm thought into the characters and for u to pick up on that!!! on the floor rn…. i originally intended for the mother to apologize but then i realized that someone like her would still think that they did nothing wrong. in her mind, she was a mourning mother trying to make her late daughter’s memory live through her new one. but it doesn’t work like that. it still hurts. maybe she apologized later on, maybe she didn’t. still i think it would be too late anyway. so that’s why i left it at that. (also the dad just faded. anger is hard to carry)
also u calling it movie… im going insane. if one of my fics ever get adapted into a movie ull be front row PROMISE.
the characterization of mc hurt me a lot 💔 i mean i tried to make her as realistic as ever and i think the anger being directed towards someone who isnt here anymore helped her cope :(
i get u for the slightly rushed part 😭😭 it’s partly because i wanted the “good” parts to be short because there was this sense of impending doom, in a way, haunting them. like they both believed this happiness will end sooner or later and it did pass by quickly on both of them. but also because i wanted to post the fic because it’s been so long and i dont think tumblr dot com loves fics that are longer than 20k 😭😭😭
also SO HAPPY U PICKED UP ON THE DETAILS 😭😭😭😭 i love a good full circle moment. and i thought ending it in a graveyard would be nice. mc lived a good life loved by hyunjin and she has someone waiting for the day they’d meet her again. this was her biggest fear– to never be loved, because she grew to believe she hasn’t deserving of it—but she was. so i thought :D that sounds good. death doesn’t have to be a horrible depressing thing in this fic anymore 😭 also yes the olympics were my inspo i actually got inspired by many things while writing this fic u can tell it consumed my mind KANSND
i love YOU thank you for reading and for being so attentive to every detail and for being here in my life. like genuinely i appreciate your presence and existence more than i can describe. i hope u are always happy and healthy!!! i love you, my favorite reader :p
La déchirure
You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.
pairing: figure skater!hyunjin x ballerina!reader.
genre: angst. slowwww burn. heavy and recurrent grief. healing.
warnings: mc has a bad relationship with her parents. grief is a prominent theme here so please be aware. some allusions to sex but no smut. description of injuries.
word count: 21.8k
author’s note: heyyyy…. haven’t posted anything in 3 months i feel so shy AJNSJD i say this about every fic but this fic is truly my baby it took me so long to get it done and i poured my heart into it. so please if you enjoyed reading pls pls pls let me know. it means the world and more to me. happyyy reading!!! also thanks to @hyunverse for indulging all my brainrots about this fic i LOVE YOU
Your bare soles are bleeding across the graveyard. You don’t remember when your sandals slipped away from your feet, nor when your body decided to bring you here, heels scratched from the tiny rocks littering the ground.
But the pain doesn’t register in your brain, not yet. You’re only paying attention to the last name written on the tombstone— your last name, to be exact.
Right now, more than ever, you wished your first name was engraved beside it too.
You’ve memorized this graveyard like the back of your hand, know what sound the tree branches make during spring— gently swaying, like a melancholic flute, aching because flowers refuse to bloom upon them. And during winter too— even sadder, angrier, perhaps to mimic the sound of the souls left alone in the graves to fend off the cold.
Though you’ve never approached this tombstone before. You always remained a few feet back, each time your parents brought you to your late sister’s grave— every Sunday, for the past eighteen years of your existence, without fault.
You don’t know the person they’re mourning.
You don’t know the person they wish to mold you after.
Somehow, in a sick twist of fate, the course of your existence was set in stone before you could draw your first breath into this universe.
She looks just like her sister, your mom whispered in awe, tears brimming in her waterline as she beheld you close to her bare chest.
That is what your grandmother recalls about your birth, the rejoice of you being an exact copy of your sister’s features. There was nothing in her, in everyone’s memory about you. Everything orbited around your sister, the way the planets chase after the sun. You were, after all, born to replace the void she left behind.
You sometimes wonder, is your physique the first setting stone of your pain? Had your hair been lighter, darker than hers, your lips smaller, plumper, would your parents be forced to look at you, behold you for who you are, learn to love you for who you would be?
The question first popped into your brain at age five— maybe less intricate, a feeling that pressed against your ribcage: your parents don’t love you a lot, do they? You are now eighteen, the question has yet to desert you.
You’ve always been aware of this reality— there are more pictures of your sister than of you in your house. Your parents always spoke of her, the perfect little girl, whisked away by a terrible sickness, at age seven.
And she loved ballet.
So, you had to love ballet too.
You weren’t given a choice, per se. At age four, you were thrust into a ballet class with little oblivious girls; just like you. Flushed cheeks and glossy eyes as you all tried to follow the teacher’s instruction. It wasn’t easy, it never got easier, year after year, only more challenging, only harder on your body.
Bigger bruises, sprained ankles from time to time, you’ve lost count of the injuries this art has inflicted upon your body. But thankfully, you ended up loving it too. You loved how graceful it made you feel, how the music seemed to whisk you away to an enchanting world, how the applause roared each time you came first in a competition, all eyes on you alone.
Or so you hoped, you prayed. You wished to dance better, harder until all your parents could see was you. Not the daughter that came before you.
It was hard to admit at times, certainly something you never said out loud. But surely, yes, you were jealous of your deceased sister.
How could you not be when it seemed like you were competing with a ghost, someone whose absence weighed more than your presence?
Snippets of your life flash before your eyes as you stare at her grave. Pirouette, arabesque, plié, tendu— those are words engraved within your mind, ones you breathe in more than oxygen. You hear them in the voice of your ballet instructor, Jihyo. She’s a woman in her forties, though she looks older from the harsh lines framing her face.
Her voice is high-pitched, her hair always tied back in a sleek bun you’re sure pains her brain, her words are harsh each time she corrects your posture.
And she’s the only person who believes in you.
She’s not nice, she has made you cry more times than you can count. So, you knew when she leveled her eyes to yours when you were nine, when she told you, “I see something magical in you”— that she was telling the truth.
You wanted to prove her right, because for once, someone saw something in you, not in a ghost, not in ground-up bones.
In you.
You feel an uncontained anger swell within you, waves of relentless hurt swarming you as you fall to your knees.
You worked hard. You worked so hard. Between classes and ballet practice, the days strung you by like a puppet and sometimes you didn’t have enough time to breathe.
Your entire life revolved around ballet. spin, point well, adjust your posture, you can’t stop now. Suddenly it’s two a.m. and you only get four hours of sleep before your classes begin. You didn’t have time to socialize with your peers, to have a crush on the sweet guy in your maths class, to giggle at an arcade with your friends. Soon after you were in your ballet class, even more spins, points, arabesque.
But all of your exhaustion dissipated today. All of it seemed okay, for the first time in your existence, perhaps, the breath that escaped your chest wasn’t heavy. It was light, it was airy, it was one that yearned for the next, for the days that will follow, tinted with happiness, for once.
“I got into Julliard”
That is what you told your parents an hour ago, voice brimming with uncontainable happiness, tears dripping down your eyes in an uncontrollable flow.
Your mother’s eyes became teary in an instant. You thought the past was past you now. You’ll forgive eighteen years of coming second in your mother’s heart. Surely, she will only see you now.
But then her eyes set on the portrait of your sister on the wall, her tone desolate when she whispered—“she would have loved Julliard too.”
You don’t remember what happened after that. What curse escaped your mouth from the years of barely contained bitterness, when everything lashed out like venomous poison on your parents.
You remember screaming, lots of it, something breaking too, you don’t recall if it is you who threw the vase or your father. The latter seemed more plausible— he was always bound to these sudden bouts of anger. Effects of grief, consequences of your sister’s absence. Her, yet again, poisoning your life.
You remember feeling like a stranger in your home, a nobody, someone they’d kill in an instant to bring her back.
It was no longer a feeling, though. It was a fact. Your father cemented it loud and clear for you— “I wish she never died so you would’ve never been born.”
A pin-drop silence followed. Your father was always bound to bouts of anger, you knew that. He always regretted it afterward too, just like he felt in that instant, scrambling to apologize, to cup your cheek and say he didn’t mean it.
For how long has this thought festered in his brain, taken root in his veins, and flashed before his eyes each time he looked at you?
For how long did your parents wish you were dead instead?
You don’t remember how you got to the graveyard. You don’t recall when it started pouring heavily on you. You only register the rain because the earth is wet as you clench it between your fists, as you punch the ground under which your sister is buried.
You are crying, sobbing, a hysterical mess, you don’t know what you’re yelling, who you’re calling out for, what you’re trying to achieve by punching her grave.
Unearthing her body and burying yours there instead, perhaps.
“What are you doing?” a stranger’s voice startles you, cutting through the fog in your mind like a thunderbolt.
You don’t reply, simply turning around to look at the man standing a mere inches away from you.
“Do you know her or are you just desecrating her grave?” he asks calmly, as he brings a pink umbrella over your head. You realize that you’re drenched from head to toe, your feeble pajama does nothing to fight off the cold filtering between the fabric and your skin.
You are freezing. You fear there is no place warm enough for your soul, not anymore.
“She’s my late sister,” you say, voice raw, scratched like a broken record.
“She died young,” he says, looking at the dates engraved on the tombstone.
You feel so horrible, for a millisecond.
She was only seven.
Her grave is too small compared to your body.
But the anger quickly comes back to blind you. You invite it into your heart, push away the sadness and welcome the rage instead. It is the only thing comforting you in that instant.
“Did she do something to you?” he asks, his voice contrasting nicely against the heavy shatter of rain. It reminds you of the intro of your ballet music, soothing.
“No,” you admit, a bit shamefully. But all sense of guilt dissipates at his next question— “then wouldn’t she be sad seeing you do this?”
“What about MY sadness? MY anger?” you shout, lips trembling like the branches above your head. the storm picks up with your rising voice, the rain’s pitter-patter mimics the chaos inside your brain.
He remains silent and you can barely grasp the expression on his face, concealed by the umbrella’s shadows. You imagine that this conversation must have bored him, so you turn around yet again, your heart pounding angrily against your skin.
But then, he kneels beside you, his umbrella completely discarded. You don’t dare to tilt your face towards him, so you simply stare ahead, your breath caught in your throat— what is he thinking of your most vulnerable state?
“I am rage,” he says, his voice permeating your being softly, the storm seems to calm down too to follow the ebb of his voice. “It means I am alive, or better, I am life, according to Armand, a modern art painter. You are alive today, and you get to be angry. That’s not something anyone here can enjoy,” he points out, taking a fleeting glance at the graves surrounding you.
“You get to do something with that anger. But this, this won’t cure it.”
He’s young, roughly your age it seems, but he speaks as if he beholds a wisdom beyond his years. You wonder what he went through to understand rage doesn’t fix anything. You wonder if he has ever been this angry, too.
Did he move past it? Or did he drown the anger deep within the wells of his soul so he wouldn’t confront its ugly face?
The question roams in your head as you watch him place a bouquet of red lilies atop the grave. You didn’t even notice the flowers at first, your view was too distorted by tears to grasp anything beautiful.
“You’ll catch a cold,” the guy points out, smiling at you, or at least attempting to since the grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His words come out slower, as if weighed down by a sadness only he can feel.
He is in a graveyard after all, the flowers were meant for someone else than you.
“Wait here,” he says, quickly getting up and jogging out of the graveyard.
What a silly request, you think, it’s not like you would dare move. Your feet are aching and you have nowhere else to go.
He returns a few minutes later, a hoodie in his hands that he promptly pulls over your head. The warm fabric engulfs you in a cloud of roses and musk. “I tried to warm it up with the car’s heating,” he says sheepishly, and you blink slowly at his kindness, a pink tint blooming across your cheeks.
“Thank you.”
His eyes fleet to your bare, bleeding feet, and you fidget in place, trapped by a bout of embarrassment.
“I have spare shoes in my car. Do you want me to drive you home?” His voice is gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal, too bruised by the hands of humans. Tears spring to your eyes once more, you wish the earth could crack open and swallow you whole.
“I don’t want to burden you.”
“You won’t,” he says, and as if sensing your hesitation, he adds, “I promise. Leaving you here is what would burden me.”
You are very tired as he drives you to your place. You speak once when you ask him if he wasn’t there to visit someone, he says that it’s okay, he can come back tomorrow.
You only dare look at him at the last red light before you arrive at your address. He’s beautiful, black strands sticking to his forehead, a tiny pout pulling his rosy lips forward. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, contrasting beautifully with the mole on his cheek. Then, by his jaw. Another at the beginning of his neck. You wonder if he has a map of ebony stars trailing down his chest.
You don’t know why this stranger instills such safety in you. Why would you rather stay in his car than set foot into your house once more. You dread what will await you behind those doors, you don’t think your heart could handle another tear at its tender flesh.
You don’t think you could handle looking at your parents and only seeing strangers.
But you know this safety has something to do with the way he placed the lilies atop the grave; as if it beheld someone dear to his heart and not a stranger. How he made sure you got home safely, how he didn’t seem to care that you dirtied his front seat and the carpet below your feet.
He looks like a good person.
You wish to tell your good news to a good person.
“I got into Julliard,” you quickly let out as soon as he parks. You don’t allow yourself time to regret your confession.
A breathtaking smile overtakes his face, the thunderstorm outside pales before the sun shining in his features.
“Really?” he asks cheerfully, and you nod, a tiny smile painting across your lips. “Mm. Really.”
“That’s amazing!” his grin further widens, his eyes disappearing into two lovely moon crescents. “I know I’m just a stranger but, I'm proud of you,” his voice softens, “I mean it. I hope you’re proud of yourself too.”
It takes you a few seconds to answer, you wish to bask further in the sound of his voice, to store his words into your memory, to revisit his kindness on nights that are too cold.
This was all you’ve ever wanted to hear.
“Thank you,” you smile softly. A moment of silence passes, you find yourself missing this stranger before you even leave his car. You wish to carry a piece of his memory within you, a souvenir of who he is— “I'm Yn, by the way.”
“Yn,” he repeats, his voice tender. “Nice to meet you, Yn. I’m Hyunjin.”
Four years later.
“You need to work on your landing more, but the rest is good.”
“Thanks, coach.” Hyunjin gives Jihyoun, his lifelong mentor, a thumbs-up as he loosens the laces of his ice skates. A dull ache is throbbing through his legs, like the faint buzz of bees circling roses.
His body is weary, every muscle reminding him of the sheer effort he’s poured into perfecting his routine for the upcoming figure skating competition— the most important one of his life, by far.
“Are you leaving now?” Jihyoun’s voice pierces the delicate silence and Hyunjin nods, resting his head against the cold concrete wall. “Just gonna take a breather.”
“I’ll head out then,” Jihyoun says, patting his back gently, “make sure you get some rest.”
Hyunjin waits till his coach is far out the corridor to release a relieved breath. A familiar silence wraps around the ice rink like a comforting cloak, the stillness sits beside Hyunjin like an old friend. It is here, amid the soft hum of machines and the chill of the rink that Hyunjin feels most like himself.
A few minutes trickle by, slow and silent. An uncomfortable feeling nudges at Hyunjin’s rib as he remains as still as a statue; he knows he’s on a losing bet to make time stretch forth, hoping that the sun outside will pause in its descent— a few more moments before the darkness completely sets in Seoul. Because the night will surely string along with it the next day, and the next day is one Hyunjin isn’t ready to face.
When does he ever?
But the sun always sets and rises once more, even if you dont wish for it to.
With a sigh, Hyunjin grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He makes his way to the vending machine upstairs, in the dimly lit corner near the dance studio. He drops a few coins into the slot, punching the number for his usual drink. But it gets stuck—of course.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his forehead against the cold glass before frustratedly kicking the machine.
“I am rage,” a voice suddenly teases from behind.
Hyunjin is quick to distance himself from the machine, startled, and admittedly, very embarrassed. His shame morphs to surprise when he sees you standing there.
Your lips curve into a gentle smile, and your eyes sparkle with quiet amusement— that light, however, dims slightly when he doesn’t immediately respond.
It takes all of Hyunjin’s will to act like he doesn’t recognize you.
“You get to do something with your anger, but this won’t cure it.” You quote, your voice softer now. “You know, you told me this, near the graveyard…” You point vaguely behind you, each word growing quieter as if you’re no longer sure if that scene was real or a figment of your imagination.
Hyunjin nods in recognition, and you relax, the tension lifting from your shoulders.
“Miss Julliard,” he murmurs, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. Your grin brightens at his words and Hyunjin notices faint smile lines tracing your lips and eyes. It seems as if you’ve laughed quite often for the past four years. The thought brings him a strange sense of comfort.
“What did the vending machine do to deserve this?” you ask, tilting your head with playful curiosity.
“Stole my money,” Hyunjin mutters.
“You’ve got to hit the side when that happens.” You show him, tapping the machine with an experienced hand. His drink clatters down, and he shoots you a thankful grin as he bends to retrieve it.
In those brief seconds, with his head bowed, Hyunjin begs his heart to slow its frantic beating.
“What are you doing here?” you ask once he stands.
“I’m an ice skater,” he says, and your eyes widen with genuine surprise.
“Really? That’s amazing!”
“Yeah… I guess it is. Are you back from Julliard?” His voice is softer now, more tentative, reminiscent of the day you met.
“For a little while. Just a few months. This studio—” you glance around, “—it’s where I used to train before I went away.”
“I see,” Hyunjin nods, “I train upstairs, in the ice rink. Because I’m an ice skater,” he repeats, before closing his eyes in embarrassment as your giggles spill forth. No shit Hyunjin.
“I’ll see you around then,” he quickly mutters, eager to end the conversation, before turning around and hurrying away.
He’s almost by the stairs when your voice calls out his name, urgent, pressing.
“Hyunjin!”
His body freezes before his mind orders it to—he’s not the only one who remembers, then.
“Did you eat dinner?” you shout, a little out of breath.
“No,” he admits.
“There’s a place nearby that makes the best kimchi stew. Want to go?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It’s my treat.” Your smile has slightly dimmed, and you’re unconsciously scratching the skin by your nails. Even from afar, Hyunjin can discern a shadow looming in your eyes, a plea unspoken.
“Are you lonely?” Hyunjin’s question comes out before he can stop it, blunt and raw. He’s always been honest, maybe too honest for his own good. Time has taught him that every moment matters, that each second slips away faster than you expect, and that it’s better to speak the truth before it comes back to poison you.
Your smile falters. “I just… don’t want to go home. not yet,” you confess quietly.
“So you’re using me?” he teases, leaning back against the wall with a smirk. You roll your eyes, muttering “Never mind” under your breath as you start to turn away.
“Fine,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “But I’m craving sushi.”
…
Hyunjin’s eyes are more worn than the last time you’ve seen him.
Four years ago, they were puffy, soft with exhaustion, their brown dulled like the last flower clinging to life as fall sets in. But now, the lights have gone out completely, like a bloom crushed underfoot, its color bleeding into the cracks of the pavement.
You steal glances at him between spoonfuls of kimchi jjigae (he silently followed you to your restaurant), watching for any sign of recognition. But he doesn’t seem to remember your name, nor the day at the graveyard as much as you do.
The thought strips you of embarrassment and clothes you in sadness instead.
Hyunjin has written your name into his diary more times than he’d care to admit, even less so to you.
He has always walked this earth alone, a stranger even to his own emotions, especially his grief— no one understood how his mother’s death consumed him whole.
It is true that only one body was laid to the ground many years ago. But Hyunjin’s soul followed hers into the ground when he was just fourteen.
His sadness made sense to his teachers, his classmates, and even the distant relatives who only came around occasionally. But no one grasped the depth of his anger—at the universe for taking his mother when he was still a child, at the illness that wore down her bones, at himself, mostly, for still breathing when she no longer could.
That rage had devoured him, tore through his flesh with its canine teeth. He only saw its reflection once—when he met you.
Hyunjin didn’t know who or what you were mourning that day at the graveyard. But he remembers your screams on his way to his mother’s grave, raw and stripped down to the marrow. It was as if he had stumbled upon his younger self, begging his mother to dig through the earth and hug his frail body once more, just once more.
“How long have you been skating ?” you ask suddenly, your gaze flickering over his face. He blinks slowly, as if to bring his consciousness back to the present moment.
“Since i was a kid, nearly two decades now,” he says.
“Do you like it?” it is a harmless question, a natural succession of the one that came before it. But nothing was ever that simple with Hyunjin, because ice skating reminded him of his mother, and his mother was the wound that had yet to stop bleeding.
“I do, I really do,” he speaks softly, a fragile smile curling his lips. He waits till you both finish the first bottle of soju to ask— how have you been? and it’s your turn to frown slightly. He notices the tightening of your fist around the spoon, the subtle tremor in your hand. You, too, carry an ever bleeding wound.
“I’m okay.”
The next question slips from him without thought, “are you still as angry?”
You remain silent for a few seconds, holding his gaze as the question settles between you. His cheeks flush, and he almost apologizes for his bluntness, but then you speak.
“Was I ever angry? I think I was just very sad.”
Snippets of a younger Hyunjin flash through his mind. The numerous brawls he got in with his classmates, the way he pushed away anyone who tried to show him kindness— He was all thorns, keeping others from reaching the tender petals beneath.
Tears spring in his eyes, unbidden, and he bites his lower lip. He understands what you mean perfectly, you understand what he feels perfectly too.
“I feel as if my heart is too tired now to bear such big anger,” you say with a smile. “Have you worn out yet? That’s what I’d like to ask.”
“Aren’t you afraid of the answer?” he pauses, adding in a quiet whisper, “I am.”
The chandelier above dances across his glossy eyes. You’ve never been optimistic—life hasn’t allowed you that luxury. But a small part of you wants to offer Hyunjin hope, to breathe life back into his weary heart, even though you no longer believe in hope yourself.
But no words of reassurance come. So instead, you offer something much simpler, much more realistic. “Let’s ask it another time, then,” you smile, pouring each other a new round of drinks. You quickly down three shots before laying your head on the table.
“Are you sleeping?” Hyunjin asks with a quiet laugh, the sound light, like a melody played softly on piano keys.
“It’s fine,” you wave a hand in the air. “The owner knows me. He’ll wake me when it’s time to close.”
Both of you are running from home, or what’s left of it. Hyunjin watches you, your face softened by fleeting peace, so different from the grief he’s etched into his memories.
Far more beautiful, too.
“Then wake me up, too,” he sighs, resting his head beside yours.
His eyelids close instantly, lulled to a nice sleep by the buzz of the fridge and the soft hum of your breathing.
Many minutes pass by— quiet and uninterrupted. Hyunjin finds that the next day has come much slower in your company.
…
The first time you saw Hyunjin figure skating, you were drawn like a moth to a flame to the music echoing from the ice rink.
You recognized the swelling violin of Can You Hear the Music, and paused by the entrance, torn between stepping in and turning back. What if it wasn’t Hyunjin? Worse, what if it was, and he didn’t wish to see you?
Still, your feet betrayed your hesitation, inching forward. You stood at the door, watching in quiet awe as Hyunjin leaped into the air, spinning with perfect grace. He landed effortlessly on one foot, the other extended behind him in a flawless arc.
The lights danced over his body, his flowing white blouse trailing his movements like a siren’s voice pulling in sailors. His black hair floated weightlessly with each spin, strands resting delicately against his forehead.
For the past four years, you had struggled to feel human. The world tasted bland, as if your heart had lost its ability to savor anything. You were afraid you’d lost the capacity to be amazed—by sunsets, by poignant art that once moved you to tears. So you chased after beauty, desperate for the feelings it could still stir in you, a fragile reminder of your humanity.
But watching Hyunjin skate— that gripped your heart more than anything else had in years.
“He’s good, isn’t he?” a voice startles you and you turn quickly, caught off guard by a man standing beside you, a bottle of water in hand and a kind smile on his face.
“Yes, he is,” you reply quietly.
“I’m Jihyoun, Hyunjin’s coach,” he introduced himself, extending a firm hand.
“Yn,” you hesitated, glancing at Hyunjin, who was still absorbed in his performance. “An acquaintance.”
Jihyoun nodded, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You followed suit, unable to tear your gaze away from Hyunjin as he spun, cradling his chest as if holding a memory close, his body lowering toward the ground in a quiet ache. It was a pain you knew all too well.
As the music softened, Hyunjin stilled, closing his eyes, taking a moment to catch his breath. You were about to slip away, retreating like a shadow escaping the light, but Jihyoun would have found you weird, perhaps he’d think you were a stalker. So, you remained there.
“Hey, coach,” Hyunjin waved, skating toward you both. Anxiety flickered in your chest like a match that refused to light up—you regretted coming now. You had shared a meal just days ago, but Hyunjin hadn’t asked for your name, nor did he seem to remember it. Maybe you held onto his memory more warmly than he held onto yours.
“Miss Julliard,” Hyunjin greeted with a soft smile as his eyes landed on you, and just like that, your worries dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
“Julliard? That’s impressive,” Jihyoun whistled, but you shook your head. You often forgot how prestigious your school was—perhaps because no one ever celebrated your acceptance in it.
No one, except Hyunjin.
“Have you eaten?” Hyunjin asked, gliding to the edge of the rink, his blouse clinging to his sweat-soaked skin.
“No,” you shook your head. He nodded nonchalantly.
“I’m craving kimchi jiggae again,” he tipped his chin towards you, “we can go again, if you’d like.”
“Sure, I’d like that,” you grinned.
“Okay. Wait for me.”
…
Hyunjin’s routine has always been quite simple.
He’d work out in the morning, the rest of his day lost in practice, his nights reserved for painting or reading, sometimes pouring his thoughts onto paper. It was a life untouched by turbulence, a pattern he rarely swayed from— until you wove yourself into it.
For the past two weeks, you always came to see Hyunjin at the end of his practice. Some nights you’d go eat dinner at your usual spot; sometimes you’d simply buy a drink and find a quiet refuge on the rooftop, watching the city lights twinkle beneath the stars.
There was a strange sense of comfort, he had found, in two bruised souls sitting with one another— an unspoken understanding of what your tongues had often failed to express.
But you hadn’t come to see him in two days.
It’s past one a.m. when Hyunjin finally exits the practice building. He pauses outside, turning back to see that the lights are still on in the dance studio.
He hopes it is you dancing there.
With a faint sigh, he takes the stairs two at a time, not wanting to dwell on the fact that, for the very first time in a while, Hyunjin, the ever lonely man, is seeking someone else’s presence.
When Hyunjin pushes open the studio door, he finds you sitting on the floor, knees tucked to your chest. Your tutu encircles you the way petals would hug a stem— layers of soft tulle in pale pink, contrasting delicately against your sheer tights and pointe shoes.
You appear just like the water lily he sketched only yesterday—soft pastels and an unmatched delicateness. His cheeks flush at the comparison, and, in a hurried attempt to leave, he fumbles, catching his shirt on the doorknob and bumping into the door.
He’s frozen in place, wincing when you call out his name in surprise. Does he have to embarrass himself each time he’s around you?
He turns slowly, a sheepish smile creeping onto his face. “Miss Julliard,” he waves, and you grin in return, your eyes warm, “What are you doing here?”
The words are lost on him as you run over to him, stopping mere inches away from his figure. His fingers twitch for his sketchbook, a sudden urge seizes him to draw you.
“You didn’t come by yesterday so I came to see you,” he explains, voice soft like a summer breeze.
Your grin brightens like the sun. “Ah, did you miss me?” you tease, and he rolls his eyes playfully, walking past you to sit on the floor.
Did he miss you? no he didn’t, but his heart did ache, just a little, at your absence.
“Why did you look so defeated sitting on the ground?” he asks instead of replying, leaning against the mirrored wall.
You sigh, taking your place across from him, “practicing this dance is so hard, I got sick of it.”
He nods, understanding the frustration that stems from being a perfectionist, always chasing ideals in your work.
“You know what helps me? Performing to a song I love. Reminds me what I love about the sport.”
You hum, before a mischievous glint sparks in your eyes. “There is this one song.. From a barbie movie.”
He blinks in surprise, laughing as you dash for your phone.
“Barbie?”
“Yes! The 12 dancing princesses. My mom made me watch it to convince me to take up ballet.”
“Is that so?” he grins, placing his chin atop his palm.
“Yeah, she wanted me to follow my sister’s footsteps,” you say, and he thinks back to the small grave you were both kneeling next to. “I wonder if I wouldn’t have become a ballerina if I didn’t watch it,” you muse, before clearing your throat.
“Anyways,” you force a smile on your face, as a whimsical melody streams through the loud speakers. Your grin turns childlike as you stand onto pointe, your raised foot grazing the knee of your supporting leg.
You glide across the floor as if you are floating, your tutu catching the soft glow of the studio light. Your leaps are as light as air, and you slide to Hyunjin grabbing his hand to pull him up, drawing him into your orbit.
You laugh, spinning around him, your movements fluid and free, yet your arms frame your figure with a rehearsed prouesse. He can’t help but laugh with you, the warmth of your presence filling the room, the music wrapping around you both like a spell.
You’re a blur of pink and light, you appear like an angel dancing to the tune of childhood memories.
As the song reaches its end, you twirl one last time before bowing gracefully. Hyunjin claps, the sound echoing in the quiet studio.
“I haven’t danced to that in years,” you say, catching your breath. “I probably looked ridiculous.”
He shakes his head, his voice steady and sincere. “I think ballet would’ve found you anyway. It’s like you were born for it.”
Hyunjin is used to the cold bite of the ice rink, that is where he feels most like himself. But he is somehow drawn to the warmth of this particular studio—no, not just the studio. It’s the warmth you bring, the way your smile lights up the space at his words, that makes him feel, for the first time in a long while, that he could have a friend. That he doesn’t need to walk down the path of life alone.
…
You’re lingering at the doorstep of your home, keys gripped like a lifeline in your trembling fingers. It always takes you three heartbeats to open the door—one to shut your eyes, two to fill your lungs with air, and three to prepare for the tidal wave of hurt waiting on the other side.
You push the door open and slip inside, peeling off your shoes like a shadow trying to leave no trace. With each step, the house pulls you in, a black hole swallowing the warmth that once flickered in your veins, devouring any trace of light.
Dinner with Hyunjin still burns faintly in your chest, like the lingering heat of a fireplace after the flames have died. He makes you laugh a lot, because he’s clumsy, and a peculiar fan of weird debates. You had just spent an hour discussing whether humans have two buttcheeks or simply one.
But you wither down inside this home, your joy punctured like a balloon drifting too close to the sun.
The walls have permeated your sadness, they echo the killing sentence your father cast into your heart four years ago, a wound that festers no matter how much time has passed.
Hyunjin asked you a few days ago why you were back to Seoul. You told him you were competing in the Seoul International Ballet Competition, and he said that he was preparing for the Olympics selection. He then laughed, saying how strange it was that after a month of seeing each other every day, it was only now that you’d shared this.
You tried to laugh with him, but the sound felt like a stone sinking in your throat. Guilt gnawed at you, not because it was a lie, but because it wasn’t the whole truth. The ballet may have brought you back, but something else called you home.
At times you wonder if you had made the right call by answering it.
“You’re home,” your mother’s voice cuts through the quiet as you enter the kitchen. You nod, humming absentmindedly.
“I made pasta, it’s in the oven. And I bought that drink you like,” she says, but her words are too sweet, too forced—like the artificial flavor of apple in fizzy drinks.
“Thanks,” you whisper, barely loud enough to carry the word across to her.
“I’ll grab it for you,” she says, moving toward the fridge. But when she opens it, her hands falter, hovering over empty shelves. “That’s strange… I could’ve sworn I put it here.” You grip the counter tighter as she flits from cabinet to cabinet, her search growing frantic.
“It’s fine, I’m not thirsty,” you murmur, but she continues, finally pulling open the dishwasher.
“Ah, silly me,” she says softly, retrieving the can with trembling hands. You keep your eyes low, unwilling to meet hers. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice as fragile as a cracked vase, “I forget so much these days.”
And just like that, she slips out of the kitchen, leaving behind a gaping hole in your chest that threatens to swallow you whole.
You hate it when she forgets in front of you, because it shatters the illusion. You see her now, as something frail, crumbling under the weight of time. Her mind, like a worn-out book, is losing pages faster than you can salvage them.
And the cruelest part is that it forces you to forgive her—to hold her in the softness of your heart, knowing that one day she’ll forget who you are entirely.
But has she ever known who you were to begin with? Has she ever dared to ask?
Has she ever cared to?
…
The first time Hyunjin spoke about his mother, you were both lying on the grass underneath a starry night.
You had been rambling about a specific bagel from New York that you missed, while he hummed absentmindedly, his thoughts entangled in memories like marionettes tugged by invisible strings from the past.
He hadn’t meant to ignore you; so when you turned to him, playful mischief dancing on your lips—“Are you listening to me?”—he could only offer a sheepish grin in response.
“What’s on your mind?” you asked, and he bit his lip, worry knitting his brow.
Hyunjin had never had anyone to speak to about his mother; her memory resided in the pages of his diary, the strokes of his paintings, the rhythm of his dances—never out loud, never to another soul.
But he suddenly felt an insatiable urge to speak of her; thorns pricking his throat, his skin growing feverish as he fought to form the words he longed to speak.
“What’s wrong?” you pressed, your tone shifting to one of concern. He thought you wouldn’t mind if he shared her memory, but what he would even say? There was so much to talk about, so much he admired, so much he missed.
“My mom…” he started, his voice tentative. He had your full attention now, he could tell by the way you fully turned around to look at him. “She used to make the best kimchi stew,” he confessed, closing his eyes in slight embarrassment. Is this really what he decided to speak about?
Still, he pushed through. “She made it for me whenever I was sick. I don’t attach it to bad memories because it was delicious, and I could feel that she made it out of love, out of concern.” He pauses, sucking in a deep breath. “I hadn’t eaten it at all since she passed away. I couldn’t bring myself to. Until you took me to that restaurant.”
His eyes glistened as they settled on you, “So thank you for taking me there. I think you would have liked her kimchi stew.”
Your eyes widened slightly, dewdrops brimming in your waterline before you smiled softly. “I’m sure I would’ve.”
He cleared his throat, somehow emboldened by the tenderness of your gaze. He thought that her memory would be safe within the confines of your mind. He thought that he wouldn’t mind sharing her with you. “She was the best figure skater I’ve ever seen.”
“Was she? Is she the one who inspired you to become an ice skater?” you asked, curiosity lighting up your expression. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, she was graceful with her moves; it felt as if she floated atop the ice. The media dubbed her the best figure skater of her generation,” he spoke, pride swelling within him as he noticed the admiration in your expression.
“It was always just her and me, so I’d stay late into the night watching her practice. That was my favorite pastime. She’d always buy me the food I wanted afterward, as a thank you.”
“She sounds like a good mother,” you said, and your words morphed into fingers pressing on his tender bruises.
“She was. She is.”
“Tell me more,” you smiled, and so he talked, and talked and talked. He shared everything he could recall: their weekly picnics beneath cherry trees, birthday candles they’d blow out together, the medals she dedicated to him, and her silly jokes that had once filled their home with laughter.
He spoke of her kindness, her joy that lingered even until her last breath, the love that she beheld for this life and her art, and him. He didn’t mention her illness; it was a mere passing moment, never defining her, never stripping her from the passion that bound her atoms together.
When he finished, he found his cheeks damp with tears, but his heart felt lighter than it had in years. The air around you was sweeter, for once, it wasn’t fourteen-year-old Hyunjin weeping over the memory of his mother. The ache had softened.
His last words hung in the air, echoing softly in the stillness of the empty park. You didn’t speak; instead, you gently placed your palm atop his.
It is his very soul that twitched at your touch.
“What are you doing?” he asked breathlessly, a foolish question, perhaps.
Your reply was even more obvious, simpler.
“Comforting you.”
“I…” he hesitated, eyes darting furiously over your face, then your hand resting upon his, then your eyes once more, watching him patiently, leaving him the space to retract his hand or intertwine your fingers with his.
“I’m scared,” he finally admitted, the shadows of his fears looming large. It terrified him even more to utter such words, yet he knew you wouldn’t use them against him; you understood what it felt like to be deprived of comfort— somehow that only saddened him even more.
“What if… What if I forget the coldness of her fingers wrapped around mine?”
“Your mom loved you, Hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hand to feel warm.”
Something shifted within his heart, atoms rearranging themselves to spell out a simple truth for Hyunjin— your mom would want you to be happy.
He nodded, willing his fingers to slip in the empty spaces between your fingers. You squeezed his hand—once, twice, thrice—each pulse a silent invitation for your warmth to seep through his veins, to permeate his bones and sink into his heart.
He could get used to this, he thought. He wants to get used to your warmth, he realizes.
What does that mean?
…
Hyunjin has always known who he was, memorized to heart the architecture of his personality.
He knew he loved art, that he found solace in learning about artists past who, like him, seemed to have sculpted their solitude into something lasting.
He knew he loved painting, he knew he hated egg plants, he knew he’d rather die than not achieve his mother’s dream, for him.
But something within him was shifting—unraveling.
His eyes are drawn to the entrance of the ice rink, like a compass needle to true north. His neck craned almost instinctively as the clock looms over 11 p.m.— the time you usually come by to the studio.
“Don’t worry, she’ll drop by,” Jihyon’s voice cut through his trance. Hyunjin startled, his cheeks blooming with the soft pink of a rising dawn.
“What are you talking about?” he mumbled, but Jihyon only grinned knowingly.
“Miss Julliard,” his coach teased. Was he that obvious? Did you notice it too?
That nickname clung to you both since the first time he uttered it near the vending machine. You never corrected him, never offered your real name, and he never asked—though he knew it well. He had thought of you often over these past four years, wondered if you had been well, wondered if you had ever moved on or if you still carried the anger, the heartbreak as if it were your own spine.
He felt guilty that he had found comfort in your pain all these nights past.
Did that make Hyunjin selfish? Or lonely?
“Don’t stay up too late,” Jihyon said as he waved goodbye.
“Don’t worry about me.”
Jihyon lingered by the door, as if wishing to say something else, but he simply sighed before leaving.
It feels odd now for Hyunjin to stand in the stillness of the ice rink, feeling like a hollow shell without you. The quiet is no longer familiar, nor comforting, not when he’s grown accustomed to your giggles spilling all over the place.
What does it mean, he wondered, when the heart learns to beat to the rhythm of someone else’s presence? When the mind begins to archive every detail, every smile, everything that the other person has ever loved?
Like clockwork you jog into the studio, waving at Hyunjin from afar. He skates over to you, leaning against the railing as he smiles, it is natural for him to smile at you.
“How was practice?” you asked, and he shot you a thumbs-up, his fingers drumming against the railing.
“Isn’t your competition next week?” you ask and he nods, “Can I come watch then?” you say and his heart stutters at your request.
“You can, if you want to, if you don’t it’s okay too, you actually don’t have to,” he mumbles, his words rushing out, until you pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him
“I’ll be there, I have to make sure everyone cheers for you when you win,” you grin, self-assuredly, as if you have never doubted that he’ll qualify for the Olympics.
His heart grows limp at your words, his limbs losing their strength as your finger lingers upon his lips. He gently grabs your hand, moving it away, goosebumps rippling across his skin at how soft your wrist feels.
This isn’t normal.
“Should I bring pom poms? Actually, should I make them from scratch? What’s your favorite color?”
“Will you actually come?” he whispers. Hyunjin has never had anyone cheering for him in his competitions, except for his coach, but he was obligated to do so, in a way. He doesn’t remember what it feels like to smile at someone in the stands anticipating your win.
Somewhat, you sense the gravity of hyunjin’s question, the vulnerability it entails, one he doesn’t try to hide. He has never attempted to hide his emotions from you, now that he thinks about it.
“Of course I will,” your voice softens, your playfulness melting away. “I promise. I…” you point your pinky to him and he chuckles quietly, “I pinky promise.”
You kiss your thumb pad and signal for him to do the same, he shakes his head before following your lead, pressing both your thumb pads together.
“There, sealed forever.”
You quiet down, before giggling for a reason that eludes you both.
“Have you ever tried ice skating?” he suddenly asks and you nod, “I know how to skate, but not how to do all those fancy spins of yours.”
“Do you want to try?” he smiles and you lighten up, “Actually? What if I fall?”
“I’ll be there to catch you.”
A few moments later, you were both on the ice, Hyunjin spinning around you as you found your balance. “This feels so different from ballet,” you chuckle and he grins, “do you like it?”
“Yeah, i do.”
“Come here,” he beckons, reaching for your hand, and you don’t hesitate, your fingers intertwining with his as he leads you across the rink.
Can you hear the music starts playing on the loud speakers and Hyunjin laughs, turning around to look at you.
“I’m scared,” you giggle happily and he shakes his head, “Let go of your fears and hold on to me.”
And then, without warning, he spins you, the motion sending your hair flying around you like wings unfurling in the wind. he’s spurred by the emotions this song alone can bestow on him. Can you hear the music?, it asks. Yes, he can, now more than ever, is his answer.
He wraps a secured arm around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he traces wide circles on the ice. Your laughter can be heard over the music, shouts of exhilaration ripping through you as you lift your leg to a ninety degree, as if doing ballet on ice.
He twirls with you in his arms, as the music hits its crescendo, before finally putting you down, his arm still around you, your chests almost brushing against one another.
You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been, Hyunjin can decipher the specks of light in your eyes, can hear the booming sound of your heartbeat in his chest. Your hand wraps around his bicep as you catch your breath, and Hyunjin is wrapped in a cocoon of your scent.
He doesn’t wish to break free, he wants to remain in the chrysalis woven by the notes of your perfume.
It’s a few hours later, Hyunjin laid on his bed, a pillow tightly pressed to his face. He wasn’t a stranger to late-night thoughts strung along by the twilight, but he had never thought before of this—of your lips, how soft they looked inches away from his, how it’d feel to press them on yours, to move slowly, tentatively, and then ravenously, hungrily, achingly.
“Fuck,” he mutters, further burying himself under his covers. Hyunjin wasn’t accustomed to these kinds of thoughts, he had never pursued someone, never had the time nor the energy to do so. Never had anyone grab his attention, in the first place.
Until you.
“Do I like her?” he murmurs to no one but himself, before shaking his head forcefully. “Go to sleep, Hyunjin,” he mutters, willing his eyes to shut closed, sewed so tightly together images of you cannot slip through his eyelids.
But to no avail.
He groans, kicking the covers off before heading to his desk. There, he opens his diary, grabbing a pen as if to write a new entry. But his fingers itch for the buried notebook from four years ago, the one he eyes from the corner of his eye.
He sighs softly before digging it out of its place, his fingers expertly going to his entry the night he came back from the graveyard. The night you met.
He remembers coming home slightly distraught after dropping you off, he had lingered by the door a bit, hearing echoing screams, a door being slammed, then an eerie silence once more.
Hyunjin had been too immersed in his pain to afford absorbing others’ sadness. A sponge that is too saturated, unable to welcome the woes of any other being.
But you had managed to crack through his defenses, frayed yourself a passage through the small gaps forgotten, shed sunlight on parts of himself he had thought were rotten, lost beyond salvation.
He felt an excruciating sadness for you, for your anger, for your sadness, for the way it consumed you whole, because he knew what would follow—when a body burns up, all that is left after is ashes, scattered everywhere, mingling with specks of dust, meaningless, a heart that serves no purpose anymore.
He never told you, he is unsure if he ever would, but it was the fourth anniversary of his mother’s death when he met you. He had planned to spend the night in a willowing state of sadness, an incapacitating one that didn’t allow for his limbs to move, similar to the first anniversary, then the second, then the third.
But he had spent the rest of it sketching your tearful eyes as you looked up at him, as you cowered away from his words, as you relaxed in his car.
That is the image he finds in his diary entry. But now that he thinks about it, he didn’t skillfully depict the moles scattered on your face, the crease near your eyes, or the way your hair reflects the sun’s light. He didn’t capture the arch of your eyebrow or the way beauty seems to reside in every nook and cranny of your face, seems to pour out of your pores like the sun brushing against a waterfall the way timid lovers do—magical, beautiful.
He sees you in a whole different light, now.
Hyunjin runs a tired hand through his hair, before grabbing his sketchbook. In the hours that ensued, in which he tried to do your beauty justice, erasing and retracing the shape of you time and time again, numerous questions ran through his mind, racing against time to find answers.
Does he like you? No, too simplistic of a question, too dim to encapsulate what knowing you feels like.
Is his soul drawn to yours?
Perhaps. Yes. Most definitely, his heart whispered.
Would he be a fool if he ever confessed it to you?
It is his mind that answered then. A bit forcefully, in fear, in warning: yes, a thousand times yes.
…
There are places in your parent’s house that you always stray from, the way oil stirs away from water. One, the vicinity of their bedroom, two, the living room— the ones in which you are most likely to stumble upon them. Three, the attic, in which you will most likely brush against ghosts from the past.
But somehow you found yourself exactly there, tonight.
It's 10 p.m. The sun has long sunk below Seoul’s horizon, leaving behind a sky awash in an exquisitely deep blue, so inviting you almost wish to disappear into it. Today was your rest day, no dance studio, no late night escapades with Hyunjin.
You find yourself missing his giggles and how they would linger in your mind long after you part ways.
The attic is still, the floorboards creaking beneath the weight of your feet as you fumble for a light switch, your hand sweeping along the dusty wall. It flickers on, weak and golden, and you squint as the air, thick with age, coats your lungs.
Old furniture crowds the room, remnants of a life you left behind four years ago. You’re surprised they kept your bed untouched in your room, one last string tying them to your memory.
Your eyes sweep over old paintings, broken suitcases, and wooden shelves, a hand mixer—useless now. And then, you see it, the reason you climbed here.
Your mother had once mentioned a box, in passing, filled with things your sister wanted to leave for you. Your mother wasn’t pregnant with you at the time nor did she intend to, but she’d entertain the idea to make her favorite girl happy.
You kneel and pull the box to your lap, the cardboard soft and weathered under your fingers.
“She was so kind,” your mother had said, too many glasses of wine in her system, her words loose and unguarded. “She gave up her favorite toys for you, before you were even born.” You never asked why they were never passed on, deep down you already knew the answer. She never deemed you worthy of having them.
Inside, you find a small doll with golden hair and big glassy blue eyes, its pink dress dotted with strawberries, a swan hairpin missing some crystals, and tiny, delicate ballerina shoes, pale pink, unused, small—so small.
And then, a note.
Your heart stumbles, the bile rising fast to your throat as you grip the worn paper in your hands.
Your sister had always been a myth, a memory passed down to you by your parents. An elusive figure you have only seen in photographs, until now.
You’ve never had words that she addressed to you.
The paper crinkles as you unfold it. You can somehow hear the rush of hot blood in your veins—uncomfortable, deafening.
The words blur together as your eyes skim over the paper. You catch fragments— to my future sister—then something about how she wants to play with you, urging you to hurry, come quickly, before I break all my toys.
Your vision wavers, the small, careful handwriting barely legible through the haze. I left you my favorite doll and hairpin. So simple. So kind. I also left you my new ballet shoes. You don’t have to like ballet but if you do that would be awesome.
I would love to dance ballet with you.
The note crumples in your hand as your heart lurches, body jolted upright as if struck by lightning. You stumble out of the attic, discarding the box as the walls close in on you. They press, like the past, against your ribcage until you feel like you might suffocate.
You’ve carried resentment like a stone in your chest, a tide pulled by the moon, ever present, ever rising. You resented her because her memory haunted you, grew larger than life as you did. But she never asked for that. She was just a child, a seven-year-old who loved you before you even existed.
How horrible are you?
Guilt is bitter on your tongue, sour as acid, and you swallow hard against it, tasting the metallic tang of regret. You don’t think as you barge into your parent’s room, blinded by feelings too entangled like vines to tell apart.
“What’s wrong?” your mother asks, sitting in a bed too big for her alone. You throw the crumpled note at her.
“Why did you never give me this?” you demand, and her eyes widen as she skims the lines, a sheen glazing her pupils.
“I…” she stammers, and you laugh—a hollow, jagged sound—as your hands press against your forehead, fingers digging into the migraine feeding off your pain.
“You know I hated her, right? I– I hated a child, my sister because I never felt loved by you,” you choke, voice fracturing, “how– my god how pathetic is that?”
“i’ve always loved you,” she says, voice tentative. but it is too meek of a reply, too hollow before the depths of your abandonment.
“I’ve never, NEVER felt once loved by you! YOU made me feel as if I was competing with a ghost. She wasn’t here but she was everywhere and I was never enough to fill her shoes!”
“I was a grieving mother!” she yells, standing up to face you, her face flushed and her hands trembling. “Do you know how terrible it feels to lower your child into the ground? Do you know how horrible I felt covering her grave when she was scared of the dark, when she hated the cold? She–” her voice cracks like fragile glass, unraveling as tears spill over her face, “She kept telling me that she didn’t want to leave us, that she didn’t want to die. How am I—“ She sobs, the sound raw, torn, “how am I supposed to forget my baby’s last breath? how am i supposed to be a perfect mother to you when I couldn’t protect her?”
“i never wanted a perfect mother.” you murmur, eyes shutting tight, chest heaving with hiccuped breaths. “I never said you had to forget her. But I was right here. I was alive. I was breathing, hurting, waiting for you to see me, to love me.” Your voice breaks, you sound like your seven years old self and you hate that. “Did I mean so little to you?”
You smile sadly before her silence, your shoulders dropping low. You are too tired for an offense, too tired to tear down her defenses. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t always a good child. I’m sorry that sometimes I threw tantrums. I’m sorry for all the ways I failed you. I know I’m not perfect. I hurt, I stumble, I make mistakes. I am filled with resentment. I choke with it, and sometimes I hurt others too. But I try. I always try to make things right. And I apologize if I do.”
Silence thickens between you both like browned sugar, though this moment is anything but sweet. You remain quiet, hoping for your salvation to come in the form of two words, two simple words— I’m sorry—that is all it would take to soothe your heart a little.
You wait, and wait, and more seconds pass as the silence stretches longer and your mother refuses to meet your eyes. And slowly, slowly the hope withers within you. You know she isn’t apologizing tonight. Maybe not ever.
“Forget it.” you whisper as you leave the room and hurriedly walk out of the house. You need something strong, something to burn away the ache, something to scald the memory from your bones, to forget.
It’s nearly midnight when Hyunjin finally steps out of the training building. The air is crisp, cool against his flushed skin, but his relief is short-lived as his eyes land on Sohee, the owner of the kimchi jjigae place nearby, hovering by the entrance.
Hyunjin’s frown deepens—something feels off.
“Ah, hyunjin,” the fifty something quickly jogs up to him. “The security guard told me you still hadn’t left.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Yn has been drinking for the past hours, she looks.. Sad. And I’m worried she can’t get home safely.” Sohee’s tone sets off the alarm in Hyunjin’s mind.
His worry tightens into a knot in his chest as he steps into the narrow restaurant. His eyes immediately fall on you—your cheek pressed against the table, five empty soju bottles scattered around you
He crouches in front of you, his heart twisting as he takes in the dried streaks of tears on your cheeks. What happened?
“Hey,” he whispers gently, afraid to jolt you awake. You stir, blinking groggily, trying to piece together your surroundings.
“Hyunjin,” you breathe, barely a whisper, and his heart softens at the sound. He nods, offering you a small smile, though concern darkens his eyes. “What’s wrong, hm?”
His words unlock something deep inside you, and your face crumbles like a porcelain vase breaking apart. The tears come swiftly, welling in your eyes until they spill over, your lower lip trembling like fragile branches in a storm.
“I’m a—I’m a horrible person,” you choke out between sobs, your voice trembling as much as your body. Your eyes squeeze shut as your shoulders quake, and Hyunjin’s hands move instinctively, gently covering your tightly clenched fists.
“No, you’re not,” he murmurs, his voice soft and steady, as if trying to hold you together with his words alone.
But you shake your head fiercely, a sob tearing from your throat, raw and unrestrained. “I’m a horrible sister,” you manage to whisper, your words barely audible as you wipe at your eyes, only for the tears to fall faster, harder.
Hyunjin watches you break, his heart aching with every tear that slips down your face. He feels weird, feverish, as if your pain has somewhat transferred to his heart. He glances at Sohee, who quietly steps out of the restaurant, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, dim light.
With a soft sigh, Hyunjin gently cups your face in his hands, his palms warm against your tear-streaked cheeks. His thumbs trace slow, soothing circles across your skin.
“You didn’t even get to be a sister, how could you be a horrible one?”
“I hated her for so long when all she wanted was to dance with me. I hated a child for so long, I’m a-a horrible person.”
Hyunjin tentatively licks his lips, thoughts jumbled in his mind like wires. His heart is beating so fast as he wraps an arm around your back, bringing your face to the crook of his neck. You seem to melt in his embrace, tension loosening off of your back as he gently pats your spine.
“I don’t think you hated your sister. You hated how your parents treated you. Those are two different things.”
Your tears are unceasing, trickling down his skin as you sob more and more. He doesn’t mind the dampening of his shirt, he would never mind a lot of things when it comes to you.
“Humans aren’t straightforward lines, we bend and twist and stray from our paths because our hearts are too frail and sometimes we carry emotions too heavy for us to bear. Sometimes we are pushed to feel certain things when we’ve never wanted to go through them.”
He never stops patting your back gently, his hand traveling from the top of your hair to the base of your spine. “A bad person does not worry about being a bad person. I’m sure your sister knows you love her. You have nothing to feel horrible about.”
Your tears are unyielding and Hyunjin feels as if it isn’t enough— to press your body to his hoping the rhythm of his heart would calm down yours, to think of words of his own doing to soothe your pain. He has not had to comfort anyone in so long, he doesn’t know how to stop your ache. He wishes he could soak your sorrow into his heart instead— he’s used to it, he can handle your pain and his, at once.
He’s racking his mind furiously for things to comfort you. In his memory he stumbles upon the poem of Mary Oliver that has held his hand in the dark.
“Would you like to hear my favorite poem?” he asks, in a whisper.
He feels you nodding against his chest, and he peels himself away from you, painfully, like removing a bandaid from a wound that has yet to scab.
Hyunjin’s eyes are wide and glossy as he peers into yours, as he looks beyond your irises and gazes at your soul, as he recites to you, with a steady voice like a current that doesn’t fall prey to the hazards of storms— “You do not have to be good.” He smiles softly. “You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The verb strikes you like a thunderbolt. “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”
It passes him like a vision, a flash of white that blinds him, him holding your cheeks but without tears, him cupping your face, in the mornings and in the nights, because it is you his soft clueless flesh aches to love.
It’s gone as quick as it came, his words come out much slower, much more disoriented as he continues— “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”
“I want to tell you,” you hiccup, your cheeks are all rosy, delicate red veins protruding the white of your eyes. Your lips are all swollen from how hard you bit them to muffle your sobs.
“I will listen,” he reassures. Hyunjin stays true to his words. He drives you to his place, there, atop his couch, lit by a flower shaped lamp casting warm shadows on you both; you felt safe, a vanilla tea in hand, to talk, to tell Hyunjin everything, how you felt and how lonely, excruciatingly lonely you have been for the past years.
And he listens, he listens well, nodding, holding your hand when it shakes, wiping your tears when they slip from your face.
You feel a sense of gratitude swell in your heart, as if a hundred tulips bloomed in your chest at once. You feel safe talking about your biggest fears to Hyunjin, handing him your heart on an open palm, bruised, bleeding. He would wrap it in a gauze for you, he would keep it safe till you can heal it once more.
You doze in and off sleep on the couch, you can feel Hyunjin placing a warm blanket atop you. You swear he sat by your side for a long while, his hand gently patting your hair and threading through your locks.
You resisted the urge to pull his hand, to beg him to climb near you on the couch and have him encapsulate you in his hold once more. It would be too much for him to bear. Too much of you to ask. Too hard for you to handle a no.
Because even in your drunken state, with a heart weighed down by alcohol and ten thousand stones of grief, when Hyunjin cupped your cheeks in his larger, warmer hands, when he peered into your soul with his brown glimmering eyes, when it looked as if he could mirror your pain, as if he could understand the guilt, as if he could hold your hand through the grief— for one second, for a fleeting instant, it was all forgotten.
The grief became a simple myth in your mind, a distant memory, something you could brush away as a bad dream slipping away with the march of time; simply because he was there for you through it.
…
Hyunjin is beautiful.
This isn’t new knowledge for you, per se. You've known it from the moment your eyes met his, through a veil of relentless rain and the sting of unshed tears. Even then, you recognized it—he was the most beautiful human you’d ever seen.
But somehow, you’ve managed to tuck this knowledge away, placed it in a forgotten recess of your mind. You had found other things to like about Hyunjin, things that wouldn’t be weird for a friend to admire— and Hyunjin made that an easy feat for you.
You enjoyed the poems, all the ones he’d recite to you from time to time. You loved watching people’s eyes turn to behold him, and him unaware of this magnetic aura coating his porcelain skin. You felt warm hearing his bright and unrestrained giggles, seeing traces of happiness carved into his eyes, watching his lips stretch into a wide grin that seemed to swallow the world whole.
But there are moments when it’s harder to forget. Like now—when Hyunjin stands before you, slipping on the finishing touches of his performance outfit. His sky-blue top clings to his frame, bedazzled with pearls and diamonds that cascade like teardrops, swooping around his small waist and hugging his broad shoulders. The fabric melts into his black pants, carving his silhouette like a chiseled statue.
There are only ten minutes left before his turn on stage. Last night, over quiet spoonfuls of miso soup, Hyunjin told you to please stay backstage with him, his voice so soft it felt like a secret only meant for you. And how could you refuse? Hyunjin wanted you close—Hyunjin asked for you.
He is nervous, you can tell by the slight tremble of his hands as he struggles with his earring, the delicate hoop slipping from his grasp. It falls, and before you know it, you’ve stepped forward, picking it up, your fingers steady as you help him clasp it into place.
His gaze is heavy on you, and your heart beats a little too fast. You avoid meeting his eyes—he’s too close, too vulnerable of a setting for you.
You finish, stepping back, but Hyunjin’s hand finds your wrist, gently tugging you close again. He doesn’t let go, his fingers playing with the hem of your sleeve. He bites his lip, lets go of the plush flesh before biting it once more, then he confesses. “i’m scared.”
Your fingers find his wrist, settle above his wildly beating pulse, a small part of you selfishly wishes it is because of your proximity. Your thumb gently swipes across his soft skin as you say, “you’ll do amazing. I’m sure of it.”
He nods, though something flickers in his eyes, something unsaid that lingers between you. He swallows it down, offering you a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll see you after.”
“Okay,” you grin back, “I’ll see you with a gold medal.”
You’ve seen this choreography countless times before, memorized every twist, every subtle motion of his body. But watching him perform, under the harsh, burning lights, is like witnessing something new.
Hyunjin moves with a grace that defies reason, a dancer molded by the music, his body bending to its rhythm, his face crumbling as the music swells.
Hyunjin glides around as if he is one with the ice, he glows, like the sun on stage, mesmerizing, dipping low with the music and soaring high with its rhythm. Your hand is on your chest as you watch him deliver the killing move, a deep dip, head thrown back, his body a perfect arch on his knees.
He finishes, under the roaring applause of everyone around. You’re first to stand on your feet and the entire arena follows, giving Hyunjin the standing ovation he deserves, the only one of the night. He bows deeply, a hand on his heart as he soaks in the praise.
You feel like throwing up as you anxiously await the results to show up on the screen. One minute of silence passes by, then, you see it. His name comes in first.
Hyunjin won. Hyunjin qualified for the Olympics.
He’s already skating towards you, and you’re moving, rushing down to meet him. You wrap him in a tight hug, feeling his chest rise and fall with quick breaths.
“How was it?” he asks, laughter bubbling in his voice. You find it to be such a silly question.
How could he be anything but extraordinary?
“You fucking did it, Hyunjin,” you say, the words leaving you in a rush. He tips his head back, laughing, his happiness so pure it aches. You reluctantly pull away from him as Jihyoun comes to congratulate him, pulling him too for a hug.
“Proud of you son,” he says and you can see Hyunjin’s eyes well up with tears. you wish you could kiss them away, the tears and the sadness, will it to desert his heart, kiss his smile and happiness, learn the taste of his joys and sorrows.
Oh god.
The thoughts submerge you like you’re doused in gasoline, and being near Hyunjin is the crickling match that will set you on fire.
“There’s an afterparty to celebrate the man of the hour,” Jihyoun grins, patting Hyunjin’s back in a fatherly manner. You can feel the pull of the crowd, people waiting to shower him with well-deserved praise, like waves gathering to meet the shore.
“Are you coming?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft as his gaze lingers on you. You hesitate, and he pouts, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “I want you to come, please.”
“Okay,” you smile, though your feet are already inching away. “But I left my phone at home. I’ll go get it and come back.” That is the truth, or maybe just a shadow of it.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
Hyunjin, ever the considerate one. His kindness cuts deeper than he knows, a dull blade slicing against your fragile skin. You hate how you pull his thoughtfulness to somewhere tainted with shadows. You hate how your mind cannot accept that someone could care for you. What if he pities you, still? It asks. What if he only sees you as the selfish girl sobbing at her sister’s grave?
How could someone like Hyunjin, radiant as the sun pay attention to a mere rock floating in space, aimless, too unimportant to even be given a name?
“No, it’s a quick drive. Enjoy your moment.” You flash a smile, hoping it covers the tremor in your voice. You quickly slip away before Hyunjin can notice, your pace quickening as his brow furrows behind you.
You’ve never dared to truly like someone. The harsh truth is that people like you, who were born sipping grief in their mother’s womb, only end up accustomed to its metallic tang on their tongues.
You exist to mourn, to ache for what was and all that will never be. Even if happiness brushed against your fingertips, dazzling and radiant, you would not recognize its face, you would distort its features into the terrible grief you’ve always known.
It’s been thirty minutes since you left and Hyunjin’s eyes keep drifting toward the door, pulled by some invisible force. Jihyoun is talking, excitedly introducing him to someone new, someone important from the sound of it. He hears snippets of the conversation— Switzerland, the best coaching center, a guaranteed win, but the words are distant, like murmurs underwater.
His mind is a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts as Hyunjin redoes the calculations: it was supposed to be a fifteen minute errand, at most. Where are you?
His heart feels tethered to a storm as he steps out, muttering a feeble excuse to Jihyoun, feet moving before his brain catches up. The air feels heavy like trying to inhale metal, only to end up crushed from all sides.
He searches the parking lot, scanning the faces mingling there, but he finds no sign of you. His feet keep moving, driven by instinct, by a chilling feeling pulling at his heart, desperate to glimpse you.
Then he sees it—flashing lights up ahead. His world dims as he watches a man on the phone, gesturing frantically toward a car. A car that’s all too familiar. Yours, crumpled like a piece of paper, flipped on its side, crashed against a tree.
A loud ringing floods his ears akin to the buzzing of a hundred angry bees, at once. His legs buckle, his hand slamming against a nearby car for balance, but it feels like the earth beneath him is giving way. His eyes squeeze shut, his back turning away from the wreck. Not again.
Please, not again.
His throat burns with bile, and it feels like nails are clawing at his chest, ripping his skin open and exposing his heart. It’s pounding wildly, erratically, like it’s trying to escape the cage of his ribs and splatter on his feet.
He can’t turn around—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. But he has to. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his vision spotted with white as he stumbles forward. He taps the man’s arm. He struggles to find his voice as if it were never his to begin within. “Did someone get out of the car?” he whispers, broken, pleading. The man shakes his head.
Hyunjin rushes to the window, desperate to find you, to see you breathing, but the glass is tinted, hiding whatever lies inside. Without thinking, he throws his fist against the window. Once. Twice. Again. And again. His skin splits, blood dripping down his knuckles, but he can’t stop. He pounds the glass until it shatters, only to find nothing within.
“Hyunjin?” A voice, so achingly familiar, cuts through the haze. He spins around, breathless, and there you are—limping, disheveled, but alive. You’re breathing.
In an instant, he’s in front of you, his eyes wide, frantic, searching yours as if they behold the answer to every fear, every prayer he has ever uttered. His hand trembles as it cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, needing to feel your warmth. His gaze flickers over your body, checking for any trace of life-threatening injury, his heart lodged in his throat.
“Are you okay?” His voice is raw, stripped bare.
“I am,” you reply, and your words are his salvation. A sigh shudders out of him, pulled from the deepest parts of his soul, as if he’s been drowning and you’ve finally pulled him to the surface.
He falls to his knees, palms pressing into the ground. Tears spill from his eyes, hot and heavy, streaking down his face like rain in a storm. You kneel beside him, and his arms instinctively wrap around you, pulling you close.
His fingers weave through your hair, pressing you to him, needing to feel you, needing to know you’re real. His body trembles as he buries his face in your hair, his tears soaking through your shirt, inhaling your scent, grounding himself in you.
“Yn,” he breathes, your name the only thing that could express the magnitude of his relief. He holds you tighter, the words tumbling out like a prayer, “I thought I lost you. My god, I thought I lost you.”
It takes a while for you to process his words, to understand the scale of his fear at the thought of losing you. Those are foreign notions for you, a sight you never thought you’d grasp one day. A sight you never deemed yourself deserving of.
“You’d care this much if I died?” Your voice is a whisper, small, uncertain.
Hyunjin’s bloodied hand smooths your hair, his eyes red, chest heaving. “Yn, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Yn, please don’t leave me.”
“I’m sorry,” your lower lip quivers at the sight of his tears, somehow seeing him sob leads to your own unraveling, as if your emotions are tied by one red string. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to worry you,” you apologize, you the forgotten one, the ghost in your own home, apologizing because for once, your absence did hurt someone, because for once someone would miss you if you were ever gone.
Hours later, you’re in Hyunjin’s home, tucked into the safety of his bed. You’d refused to call your parents, not wanting them to know what had happened, how close their wish had become reality.
The ambulance had taken you both to the hospital, where they patched Hyunjin’s wounds and checked you for a concussion. You repeated, over and over, like a broken record— “The brakes stopped working, and I jumped out of the car.” Hyunjin spoke for you when you grew tired.
“How are you feeling, Yn?” Hyunjin’s voice is soft, as he hovers over your figure. Your name sounds sweeter from his lips. It sounds as if it was always his to pronounce.
“I’m okay. I’m sorry I ruined your night.” Your apology is quiet, but he shakes his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Your eyes shut closed as his lips caress your skin, as if wanting to drown out all the other senses, useless, needing to focus solely on his touch.
“If you’re okay, that’s all that matters to me.”
He goes to leave, but you catch his hand. You don’t overthink your next words, you think you’re long past that when it comes to him. “You called me by my name. I thought you didn’t remember it.”
“I never forgot,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve known who you were since the moment I saw you. I… I thought about you a lot for the past four years, Yn. I think about you now too,” a pause, “for different reasons. Sweeter reasons.”
He remembered. He has come to know you and he still thinks of you.
“Me too,” you smile softly, “I think about you so much it feels as if you’re all I’ve ever known,” you confess breathlessly. Your eyes flicker to his lips, and his do the same.
Before you can think, you’re standing on your tiptoes, your lips resting on his, unmoving, driven by a desire so raw it blinded you.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” You pull away, stumbling back.
But his hands find your waist, pulling you back. “Can I do that again, Yn?” His voice is soft, and you nod, dazed. How could you ever refuse him?
His mouth returns to yours, slow and deliberate, like a melody reuniting with its refrain. Sweetness spills from his lips onto yours, a blend of honey and wildflowers and something that is entirely his. His breath surrounds you, intoxicating, pulling you into a world where all you wish is to melt into him, to slip beneath his skin and flow through his veins.
Fireworks bloom behind your eyelids, explosions of colors you’ve never seen before, as if the universe itself has unraveled in the space between you both. His hands cradle your face, thumbs tracing circles along your cheeks that send a thousand butterflies flapping their wings throughout your being. Your fingers weave into the silk of his hair, a breath of relief escaping you as you touch him the way you’ve longed for.
You’re still kissing him and yet you already ache to do it again, again and again, till you forgive the world every cruelty it has inflicted into you, if it allows you to hold his warmth a little longer, to keep your sun cupped between your palms.
“Is this what happiness feels like?” he murmurs against your lips, a smile threading between your breaths, your teeth grazing his in the closeness. You laugh softly, your foreheads touching softly, “I think it is. It tastes so sweet.”
“Mm, I think I need to taste it again, to make sure,” he teases, his lips finding yours once more, playful and hungry. Time loses its meaning, minutes slipping away like sand grains between your fingers. By the time you part, your heart has memorized the rhythm of his breath and the weight of his lips upon yours, as familiar now as your own pulse.
…
“So, how do we do this?”
Your laughter echoes softly down the corridor. Hyunjin has you pinned against the wall near the skating rink, his right hand braced above your head, the other hovering over your waist—yet, it’s that mere sliver of air between his fingers and your skin that ignites a wildfire within you, burning bright with longing.
“Wouldn’t it be strange if we just walked in, holding hands? I mean, Jihyoun knows me, but…” Your voice drifts away like chimney smoke, dissolving into the background of Hyunjin’s thoughts. He’s no longer listening—he’s observing. Memorizing. His gaze skillfully captures every curve, every shadow of your face, as if this is the last dawn he’ll ever witness. As if, by morning, he’ll be blind, and this moment is his only chance to engrave you into his memory.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, his voice soft, almost reverent. Your words falter, fading like the final notes of a song only he remembers. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek with a tenderness that paints your skin crimson red.
He smirks, satisfied by the effect—perhaps, he thinks, that is how the sun feels as it kisses the horizon goodnight, leaving the sky a blushing mess.
“You were saying?” he teases, and you roll your eyes, pretending to be exasperated. “I was saying that it would be—“ But his lips find yours once more, plucking the words from your tongue like petals from a flower.
In the dim glow of the corridor, the world around you fades to an afterthought. It feels as though you exist only for this, only for him— to kiss and to be kissed by Hyunjin.
“Finally!” Jihyoun’s voice shatters the moment, ringing out like a bell, pulling you both apart. “Thank you for kissing him, Yn. Now he’ll stop with the longing stares at the door.”
“What stares?” you laugh, the sound bubbling sweetly up your throat. Hyunjin scratches the nape of his neck, shrugging innocently when your eyes meet, as if he has no idea what Jihyoun is talking about (though he knows all too well).
Hyunjin catches his coach’s eye over your shoulder, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Jihyoun once told him that he seems to bloom around you, like a flower starved of sunlight, finally nourished. The thought warms him—knowing that the people closest to him feel your presence like a balm to his soul. His mother would have loved you too, he’s certain of it.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hyunjin whispers later, as you’re leaving the practice building, his arm draped over your shoulder, yours wrapped around his waist. Natural. Familiar. Like two rivers flowing into one.
“I don’t have anything of mine there,” you pout, and Hyunjin stops, cupping your cheek, his nose grazing yours in a gesture so tender it makes your heart float within your ribcage. “That’s part of my secret plan—to get you in my clothes.”
“Oh, what a very secretive plan,” you giggle, stealing a quick kiss. “And what would we do tonight?”
“Sleep together.” You raise an eyebrow, and he shakes his head, flushing crimson. “I mean—sleep, actual sleep, not that I wouldn’t want to make love to you,” Your laughter rings out, as his forehead finds its hiding place against your shoulder, embarrassed. “I just want to hold you close. That’s all.”
Your sweet Hyunjin.
“I want that too, Hyune.”
Hyunjin has never been much of a writer, his forté has always been to express himself with his body, spell out words out of the movement of his limbs. It is more evident as he opens the door to his apartment, with you trailing behind. As he looks at both your shoes sitting side by side near the entrance, your accessories resting next to his in the bathroom.
He lacks the words to explain how right, how natural it feels for him to have you in his space, for you to fill it with the music of your voice and the fragrance of your perfume. As if it has always been his reality, to walk home with you, to watch you slip into his clothes, to brush his teeth next to you, to lay atop the bed with your warm eyes staring at him instead of a cold wall.
“Do you believe in fate?” you suddenly ask, your thumb trailing alongside his neck, pausing right where his pulse beats. He has never been aware of the weight of life against his skin until he knew you.
“I never did, I didn’t want to believe in something pre-written for me. Wouldn’t that confine who I am, who I could be?” he muses and you nod softly, inching closer to him. “But somewhat,” he trails off, lifting your hand to his mouth, peepering the sweetest kisses alongside your palm and wrist, like dewdrops caressing leaves. “I believe in it now, because of you.”
“I think I was meant to find you that day in the graveyard. I think what I feel for you is too grand to be a pure coincidence,” he confesses.
“And what do you feel for me?” you ask, your voice soft, curious.
Hyunjin doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gently twirls a strand of your hair away from your eyes, before tucking it behind the cuff of your ear. He presses his forehead to yours, like two pages of a book meeting one another, then he exhales slowly, like a man who has found peace after a lifetime of searching.
And in a way, he has. He can stop looking frantically for something that would stitch his soul up, he has found you, now.
“I used to resent hearing my own heartbeat. At times it felt like a punishment, because existing felt like a chore. I wanted the sound to quiet down, I didn’t want to hear anything, nor feel anything anymore.”
“But now,” he pulls you closer, your legs intertwining with his, like roots seeking comfort in one another, “it’s reassuring to hear, because it means there is still life within me to love you in it.”
Love. The word has long felt like a thorn ingrained into your skin. You have always recoiled from it, less from repulse and more in fear— if the people who were put on this earth to love you, didn’t, then weren’t you meant to remain unloved for the rest of your life?
But looking at Hyunjin now, at the way the word rests gently on his lips, rolls off his tongue with such ease, with such certainty, you don’t want to run.
You want to stay.
It is when Hyunjin traces maps along your skin with his lips, as you drift down the constellations of moles on his chest, as you find yourself lost within everything that makes up his being— his scent, his sounds, the weight of him pressed against you— that you find your words to reply, to breathe your first I love you to him.
And in that confession, another realization comes, though this one is bitter, sour, like a chilling premonition: if Hyunjin were ever to leave, what would be left of you after?
…
Hyunjin has never been fond of the concept of time, minutes seemed to march differently when it came to him— seconds stretching out like thin threads, nights unraveling in restless turns, sleep plucked right off from his eyelids.
But with you, time softened, as the hours spun forward, swift and gentle. Around you, Hyunjin no longer felt the weight of passing days on his heart.
Hyunjin didn’t feel the two months of happiness you bestowed upon him slipping from his grasp.
He was lost, adrift in the gentle tides of your being—swept by the melody of your laughter, cradled by the softness of your curves. He often wondered if he was deserving of this happiness, yet never lingered long enough to find an answer. He selfishly accepted the joy you gifted him, for once.
Your belongings filled the empty nooks of his apartment gradually, corner by corner—your satin pajamas settling just above his plaid ones, your skincare nestled near his on the bathroom shelf, your favorite mug clinking against his in the dishwasher.
In some way, it mirrored how you’d seeped into him, like sunlight breaking through the longest of nights— threads of the sun illuminating what was once lost to darkness.
He’d steady your chin to help with your mascara, your doe eyes looking up into his. You’d brush his hair, pressing gentle kisses along his shoulder blades. He’d do your laundry. You’d make his coffee each morning. He’d brew your tea each night.
You didn’t have much time to talk during the day, both of you engrossed in the practice of your respective arts. Yet, the knowledge that you were just a floor above him, close if he ever wished to see you, was enough to soothe his heart.
It was at night that you bared yourselves to each other, in ways that went beyond the tender grip of his hands on your waist, or the slow trail of your fingers down the curve of his back.
In the hush of the twilight, you’d unfold softly, revealing the hidden layers within—you’d share your dreams and hopes, and the moments that shaped you, letting the fragments of your pasts settle in the safety between you both.
“I think I know my purpose now,” you whispered one night, and he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “What is it?”
“I think I kept ballet at a distance because loving it felt like surrendering to my parents’ dreams, like I’d be becoming what they always wanted me to be.” You paused, your voice a little softer, a little braver. “But I do love it, Hyunjin. I want to be the best at it. I want to honor my sister through it.”
His gaze softened, as a tender smile blossomed in his lips. “You already do.”
Some nights were less sweet, tangled with heavy grief and unshed tears, yet it felt easier to walk through them if you were there holding his hand.
“Would you go into her room with me?” he asked quietly one night, his gaze locked on his mother’s bedroom, its door sealed for a decade. He had never dared to enter it once more, afraid it would further cement the notion that she was gone.
That truth felt easier to confront with you near.
“Of course,” you replied softly. “Whatever you need.”
The room was just as he remembered, only stuffier with dust and heartache. Time hung in the air, dense and unmoving, clutching at her last moments alive, unwilling to let go.
He looked to the bed, and he could almost see the shape of her there, frail and thin, her clothes too loose over a body worn out with sickness.
You held him close, steadying him as he took in each familiar corner: their photos framed with gold on the desk, her countless medals hung on the wall, her perfume and hairbrush untouched on the vanity, her rings resting in a small seashell container.
He walked slowly to the vanity, his fingers reaching for the ring he had loved most—a thin band of gold, crowned with a small emerald, dulled by time. Gently, he wiped away the dust with his shirt, before turning to you and slipping it onto your finger.
“Keep it,” he whispered. “It will live again through you.”
In the days that followed, you helped him breathe light and air into the room once more, sweeping dust from the framed certificates and photographs, polishing the medals until they shimmered as they once had. You washed the linens and her clothes, packing them carefully for a donation to cancer wards—something he never found the courage to do, until now.
Grief no longer felt like a knife lodged into his heart, its metal rusting with the passing of time. He saw its true face now—a soft ache, a quiet longing, a thicket of thorns that can only grow from the roots of love.
Your voice floated in his mind that night, echoing like the bells of a long standing cathedral. “your mom loved you, hyunjin. And someone who loves you would want your hands to be warm”— would want you to be happy.
Happiness swept into Hyunjin like an endless, gnawing hunger—an insatiable ache that demanded to be fed. He was ravenous for joy, longing to sink his teeth into it, dip his tongue into its sweetness and let it spill all over him.
When an exoneree tastes freedom after decades of longing, it is the small breeze, the waves lapping hungrily at his bare feet that make his heart twitch. So it was with Hyunjin: the small joys swelled within his ribcage, vast and boundless. His heart strained against his chest, eager to burst free and feel it all.
Somehow, Hyunjin’s biggest joy came from watching you dance— the principal dancer of your competition team. Whenever he had a break, he’d choose to slip away from the ice rink and climb the stairs at a hurried speed, slip into the dancing studio and sit in the corner.
There, he’d watch you, leading the group of dancers you’ll perform with. You stood in the center, beckoning the attention of everyone around. Beautiful, so beautiful.
How foolish of him it was to try to deny it. How foolish of him to think that there was any outcome but to fall for you.
You always caught his eye across the mirror, your face breaking out in a wide grin, as you waved shyly at him, the strictness melting off your features and morphing into something warm. He felt special in a way, to be the sole recipient of such a breathtaking smile. He felt as if he could write hundreds of poems about that alone.
That smile feels even more precious as you stand on stage at the Seoul International ballet competition, seconds before the light would turn on and you’d begin dancing. In the split second of darkness, it is him your eyes sought after in the crowd, it is him you wink at, before switching into your professional mode.
You aren’t as nervous as he expected you to be. Somehow your facade only slipped when five minutes before the stage you beckoned hyunjin in for a hug. “Do you need anything?” he asked as he kissed your temple softly, tightening his hold on you.
“I just need to hug you for a minute. It helps me calm down.”
Hyunjin had always known you were a stellar ballerina. You were humble with your achievements, speaking of your art as if you don’t have years of practice to attest to your expertise, as if you hadn’t gotten acclaims nationally and internationally.
Still, seeing you on stage made a different pride bloom in his heart. You are the rightful star of the night, the swan of ballet as the media had dubbed you— delicate with your movements, spreading your arms like the unfurling of their feathers, spinning delicately into the air with a grace that made his breath catch in his throat. You were mesmerizing.
You didn’t simply move, or dance, that would be too simplistic to encapsulate how you breathed life into this art. Into him.
And it is hyunjin’s arms that you run into, scurrying down the stage steps, an overflowing bouquet in your right hand and a gleaming trophy held tightly in the other.
“You won, my love,” he shouts, ecstatic as you throw your arms around his neck, as he cradles your waist, spinning you around like how he always orbits around you.
He puts you down, leaning in to kiss you with no second thought, your eyes closed as you savor one another, as your lips move as if commanded by the stars, to part only to meet again, and again. Till your cheeks are both flushed and all he can taste is the strawberry in your lip tint.
Your eyes lock on his, your pupils widening till they swallow your irises, mirroring your breathtaking grin. Hyunjin felt as if the sun had left the sky and lodged within his chest.
But what Hyunjin failed to understand is that, for souls like his, happiness is only a fleeting passenger. Even then, it isn’t meant to be swallowed whole; it is to be eaten bite by bite, back hunched, hidden from the harsh glare of the universe. Perhaps this is the price he pays for defying the sadness that shadows him—his own eager canines sinking into joy, ultimately tearing it apart.
…
“I think I’ll go to Switzerland.”
It takes a few seconds for Hyunjin’s words to settle into your mind, for the syllables to unfurl slowly, like a wave gathering its strength before inevitably crashing on the shore.
Once, Hyunjin had spoken of a figure skating center in Switzerland, one that Jihyoun praised endlessly—the pinnacle for skaters reaching toward gold.
“Will you go?” you’d asked, and he’d only shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.” The conversation had dissolved then, lost in the press of his body against yours, in the paths his fingers traced down your stomach— dizzying enough to make you forget the sound of your own name.
But you should have known—some things cannot be buried beneath the covers. They always resurface, haunting, inevitable.
You draw in a deep breath, your gaze settling on your congratulatory bouquet. The flowers have started to wither now, despite the sugar cube Hyunjin dropped in the water.
Were they a trigger for the slow withering of your relationship, too? Did the fall of that first petal set the course for your own undoing?
“Okay,” you nod, biting your lip anxiously. “When will you go?”
“In three days. Or else I’ll miss the deadline to join.”
Oh.
You remain silent, feeling as though barbed wire coils around your throat, each metal spike pressing deep into your flesh. He steps closer, his warm hands cradling your cheeks. It takes you a few seconds to meet his gaze.
You suddenly imagine a life untouched by him. The thought fills you with a horrible urge to weep.
“I know it’s sudden,” he murmurs, voice low, “I tried to delay it as long as I could, but Jihyoun kept insisting, saying it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want you to feel abandoned.”
You shake your head, as if to push that thought away, as if the notion itself is meaningless.
“I’ve always known we wouldn’t stay in the same place forever. I have to go back to Juilliard soon, too. I just… never thought it would happen this fast.” You sigh softly, a tender smile slipping across your face as you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks. “But you’re meant for grand things, Hyunjin. If Switzerland is where you’ll find them, then I couldn’t be happier for you.”
“I love you,” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours, a gentle, aching gesture. “We’ll make it work, right?”
He searches your eyes, pleading, his brows drawn into a worried knot.
“Of course, we will.”
It is the first time you lie to Hyunjin.
“I love you,” he repeats, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the counter.
“I’ve only known love thanks to you,” you murmur. That much is true.
Hyunjin kisses you with hunger, his hand tangled in your hair, his body moving with a fierce rhythm—passion and love dripping from each one of his touches, each one of his spilled i love you’s between broken whimpers and moans.
He loves you tonight like he has something to prove. As if his fingertips must be etched upon your skin, as if his name should be the one carved deep within you, the one found if you were split open to your soul.
Lying against his bare chest, you feel his breath rise and fall beneath you, the tip of his fingers sketching aimlessly upon your skin. Yet, you sense as if there is already a rift between you both. As if the news of his living has seeped between your bodies— the distance has already laid its claim, separating you both.
…
You’re back in New York, slipping into the rhythm of your classes like a puzzle piece wedged into place, not quite fitting, yet you force it to. You spend each waking moment practicing your final dance at Juilliard—The Sleeping Beauty—the ballet that will close this chapter of your life.
Your apartment has remained unchanged; the conversations with your classmates are as futile as ever. And your heart still pulses, aches for Seoul, for the warmth you found there, in Hyunjin.
Winter settles in, snow gathering in quiet drifts along the streets. Two languid months slip by, time dragging its feet, as if too wishing to remain right where you left Hyunjin. You lose yourself in the pursuit of a perfect performance. And yet, the praise of your professors and peers no longer fills you as it once did.
It all feels hollow, empty, when you can’t remember the last time you and Hyunjin spoke, actually spoke, the way you used to.
You’d already seen this scene unfold in your mind the day he broke the news—more vividly still as he walked away in the airport. You had known the first few days would be good—frequent calls and texts, sharing the smallest details of his new life and of your familiar one.
But then, the silence would settle in, as it has. Because you and Hyunjin are both perfectionists. Because without your art, both of you are left with nothing but shadows of yourselves— hollow shells calling out in agony to what truly pleases your souls.
You’re afraid to say it out loud, but Hyunjin’s face is blurring in your memory, details softening as though sketched by an impressionist’s brush. All that remains clear are the shadows under his eyes on your last video call, dark circles carved deep into his soft skin, his exhaustion bleeding through the screen as he struggled to stay awake for you.
There is no one to blame, and somehow, that only hurts you even more. You could sacrifice your hours of practice, and so could he. But then the guilt would come, ravenous, gnawing at your soul. And guilt is a hungry being, soon enough it won’t be satiated by you. Soon enough it will turn to your love for Hyunjin.
And you couldn’t afford that.
You miss him most on days like this, when nothing seems right from the moment you open your eyes. The city’s chill feels sharper, as though mocking you, reminding you of the warmth you left behind.
The wind bites as you step into the night, wandering aimlessly, your feet carrying you to nowhere in particular. Tears hover at the edge of your lashes, but you refuse to let them fall.
There’s no grace in the way you don’t allow yourself to cry, no mercy in how you hold yourself together. You've always been a performer, haven’t you? Even your pain feels like a scene you must perfect. Is it tragic enough? Does it carve deep enough to justify being felt?
You bite your lip, numb fingers pulling out your phone. You type out Hyunjin’s contact— my love. Your last message to him was two days ago.
With a sigh, you press call. He answers on the final ring.
“Hi, my angel,” he says, a bit breathless. Probably mid-training.
You force a smile, hoping he won’t hear the tremble in your voice. “Hi, baby. Practicing?”
“Yeah.” He hums. “Are you outside?”
“Im going for a walk.” Your voice quiets as the lump in your throat tightens, a chain wrapping around your words, binding you.
“Are you okay, my love?” he asks gently, and you nod though he can’t see.
“I am,” you lie. “I just miss you.” The confession slips out before you can stop it, and the weight of it crushes you. You miss him so much it’s killing you.
“I miss you too,” he says softly. You feel like throwing up. You have to make it quick before your courage betrays you.
“I think we should end things,” you say quickly, biting down so hard on your lip that blood beads up, sharp and metallic on your tongue— just like your words.
“What?” he whispers, and you hear his faint apologies, the rustle as he moves to someplace quieter, someplace where you can break his heart without an audience.
“Why do you want this? Don’t you love me anymore?” His voice is small, fragile, and you feel the tears welling in your eyelids, but not yet.
“You know there’s no one I love but you,” you say, drawing in a breath that doesn’t wish to be trapped by you. “But we’re both so busy it barely feels like we’re together anymore.”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby, I’ll try to text more, I promise. I’ll cut back on my training for you, I’ll—.”
“You know I’d never ask that of you.” You cut him off, smiling sadly and he falls quiet.
You see him then, in a haze of memory—Hyunjin’s head resting in your lap, your fingers lost in his hair. You hear his voice again, soft and raw, “My mom’s last wish for me was to win that gold medal. I’m terrified of letting her down. Just thinking about it—” He’d let out a humorless laugh. “She isn’t here, and yet I still feel this debt to her. Isn’t that strange?”
You know it well—the pain of failing those you love, even those who don’t love you back.
“Your mom wanted you to win that medal, didn’t she?” you say softly. “I would never come between you and that.” A pause. “But doesn’t it hurt more to wait for a message that never comes?”
“I…” he stammers, a sniffle slipping through the phone, and it nearly undoes you.
“Yn, I- you know that I love you.”
And in that instant, you know he understands. It’s because Hyunjin understands that you love him.
“I love you too, my Hyune.”
“Then don’t say this,” he chokes out, “say something cruel—something that’ll make it easier not to miss you so much when you’re gone.”
You can hear him crying, and the sound permanently breaks a rib within your heart. It sounds so raw, so painful that you wish to abandon everything and run to him. Had life not been this harsh to you, perhaps you would. Perhaps you’d have enough courage to believe that love can suffice for everything.
“I came back to Seoul because my mother was sick. I thought…maybe it would bring us close again. But I think now that I came back just to meet you, Hyunjin.” His name falters, slipping from your lips in a stuttered breath.
“Thank you,” you whisper, voice cracking, “thank you for making me happy.”
The call ends, and you fall to your knees in the snow, finally surrendering to the grief tearing through you. Sobs wrack your body, raw and relentless, so fierce it feels as if your heart might just stop, as if you’ve become nothing but an ache, a bruised, throbbing mass of memories, pulsing with each thought of him.
Is this enough for you? you want to scream at whatever cruel hand pulling the strings of your fate. Has my suffering finally paid the debt of my existence— for both me and him?
…
You’ve come to understand that the expanse of human emotions is boundless, as vast and unknowable as the space that holds the universe. And with each passing day, it feels as if another star dies within you, its light dimming slowly, far from rebirth.
You once thought your heart had grown accustomed to grief—your life spent in mourning: parents you wished you had, love you wished had dared, even just once, to find you.
But mourning the happiness Hyunjin brought is something else. It’s a different kind of ache, not like the eruption of a volcano that fades into a quiet resigning. This pain lingers, dull and relentless, day after day, a wound that refuses to close, a pulse that never stills.
It has been a month since your fateful call. Hyunjin first sent you a bouquet of white roses, with a note nestled within—To the one who made me find love again, I will love you until my last breath.
You didn’t reply, but Hyunjin kept sending bouquets, each one arriving with a message that tore at your heart a little more than the last. I am thinking about you often; please think of me, too. As if you could do anything but that. If I am to exist in only one place, let it be in your mind.
You’ve hung each note on the fridge, their words staring back at you every morning as you make your coffee, exactly the way Hyunjin likes it.
Sometimes, you’d let the water run, overflowing in the coffee maker as you read his words again and again. Then, you’d catch a glimpse of your own distorted reflection on the water’s surface, wondering what it would feel like to drown in the sea, to let the liquid fill your lungs and wash over you.
But you never let the thought linger too long, chasing it away with the hum of a song. You know it will only lead you somewhere scary.
After three, maybe four months, the bouquets eventually stopped arriving. Hyunjin had surely grown tired of your silence.
The heart is no rigid thing; it doesn’t stay frozen in one place. It stretches and contracts, bleeds, then patches itself together again. But you hadn’t done much to heal it—truthfully, you hadn’t believed you deserved to feel good once more.
Then month five came, and there was no time left to dwell on anything. A strange relief, you thought, for a mind like yours, that never quite stops turning, even in sleep. Graduation loomed on the horizon, and you were terrified of your efforts going to waste, of them somehow never being enough to set you apart.
But one night, your professor placed her hand on your shoulder, her gaze warm as it met yours. Suddenly, you felt seven years old again. “I think you could be this generation’s prima ballerina assoluta, she said—absolute first ballerina, the best of the best.
“Really?” you whispered, hardly breathing, and she nodded. “Yes, if you keep going this way, you will be.”
You thought about calling Hyunjin to share the news, but quickly brushed the thought aside. Instead, you spent the night picturing his reaction. It was pathetic, maybe, but you liked to believe he would’ve said he was proud of you, called you angel, kissed the tip of your nose, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. You fell asleep with his words murmured on your lips, as if they’d been real.
Month six rolled in, then seven. You had been keeping tabs on Hyunjin’s name as the Olympics approached. There has been news of him wanting to attempt a quadruple axel spin— forty-four years after the triple one. An automatic win, some would say.
You knew that if anyone could do it would be hyunjin.
You wondered if he too read the articles released about your performances. Did he smile at them, his sweet dimple surging forth? Or did your name sting him, like droplets of acid falling into an open wound?
Month eight arrived, genuine joy weaving into your life once more. You took your final bow on the polished stage of Juilliard, the roaring applause ringing in your ears for days to come. You had the highest performance score of the history of the institution. Your professor’s eyes then searched yours— “where do you see yourself now? where would you feel happiest?”
Hyunjin’s arms. You almost said. Barely holding yourself.
“I don’t know. I think I’ll try at operas. I want to perform the white swan there.”
“Then go to opéra garnier in Paris. I have a friend there. Talk to him, feel it out.”
You had almost kissed her cheek right there and then. Not only because the Opéra Garnier had been your childhood dream but because now, Paris was where the Olympics would be held.
You now had an excuse to be there.
You kept looking for Hyunjin in every monument you visited. In the hush of night by the Louvre, along the quiet flow of the Seine, in the gentle strokes of Monet’s paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie. What would you do if you met him on a random street in Paris?
Thankfully, or unfortunately, you still hadn’t decided, you never had to find out. You didn’t see him.
It is the men’s singles day at the figure skating Olympics, and somehow, you feel more nervous than in all your own performances combined. You’re seated close to the ice, close enough to feel the chill radiating from it, close enough to capture every detail of the performances.
Then Hyunjin steps onto the ice. If not for your seat, you might have collapsed, your knees a mass of useless ground bones.
He’s dazzling—achingly, excruciatingly beautiful. His hair falls longer now, delicate strands brushing his forehead like a prince out of a fairytale. His outfit is pure white, adorned with emerald diamonds cascading like droplets of light. Instinctively, you reach for the emerald ring on your finger too.
Your gaze follows him everywhere, drinking in the sight of him tipping his head back in laughter, his nose crinkling as he talks to Jihyoun, every stretch, every step, every quiet act of his being.
He was still as lovely, still as beautiful as you have always known him.
You wonder if he’s thinking of you, too, as his eyes flutter shut before his music begins. What image knits behind his eyelids in that instant?
It has always been his face for you.
The air buzzes with anticipation, thick with belief and doubt alike as everyone knows what Hyunjin is attempting tonight. All eyes follow him as he skates, tracing wide circles across the ice, bending low to the ground, spinning in perfect arcs.
Then, he launches into the air.
The seconds seem to trickle by as slowly as blood droplets rushing to a dying heart. You see it— one spin, planets orbiting around the sun, aching to inch closer to the warmth.
Two spins— seconds marching forward to catch up with the next ones in a ticking clock.
Your breath freezes in your throat, your hands grip the chair so much your knuckles turn as white as the roses hyunjin sent you after you parted ways.
Three spins— fireflies dancing around the light, drawn to it like milky stars.
And then he does it.
His fourth and final spin— your heart orbiting around Hyunjin as he achieves his dream, as he breaks the world record he long yearned for.
You fall back in your seat, a rush of relief loosening the tension in your body as the crowd erupts into thunderous applause. Unbelievable is the word on everyone’s mouths.
But not on yours.
Your Hyunjin did it, like you knew he would.
Tears gather in your eyes as he stares at the scoreboard, his gaze fixed, waiting, breath held alongside every other skater.
Hyunjin’s name comes first.
He collapses to his knees, the weight of his victory pressing down his body, finally breaking him open. Jihyoun rushes over, cradling him, shaking him, laughing, “You did it, Hyunjin! You did it, son!” The tears won’t stop rushing down your face; they have a life of their own now.
You watch as Hyunjin circles the audience, waving at the crowd cheering his name. He drifts closer to your section, his eyes scanning the sea of faces until, finally, he finds yours.
The world stills, you force the earth to stop spinning to have this one moment with Hyunjin. You lock onto his gaze, holding it, savoring the way his lips form your name.
Then, as if pulled by a force greater than either of you, he climbs over the stands, moving swiftly across the seats until he reaches you. In an instant, his arms are around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck. “Yn, I…” he chokes, and you nod, whispering, “I know. You did it, Hyunjin.”
“I did it, Yn,” he echoes, his voice trembling. He pulls back to look at you, his hands resting on your shoulders, both oblivious to the flash of cameras, the seas of people flocking around you.
No one here could ever understand what this moment means to him. No one but him—and you.
As he takes his place on the podium, tears shimmer in Hyunjin’s eyes akin to the reflection of the sun across the sea. He bites his lip, struggling to hold it together as the bronze and silver medals are awarded. Then the official steps forward, gold medal in hand. Hyunjin extends his shaking hands, watching as the ribbon drapes over his head, at long last.
Suddenly, the past eight months of heartache are justified. You would endure it all again, twice over, if it led to Hyunjin having this moment.
“Miss Juilliard,” Hyunjin says softly as he meets you by the door. He had asked Jihyoun to tell you to wait for him. Jihyoun seemed happy to see you once more.
Hyunjin is different now than he was twenty minutes ago, when he threw himself into your arms, overcome by emotions too vast to name. Now, he stands before you, more composed, more guarded, though his gaze remains tender. He’s never been able to hide his eyes from you.
“Congratulations on your win,” you say.
“Congratulations on your graduation.”
He knows.
In that moment, you see it all—the two paths unfurling before you. You could smile at him and he would smile back. Then you would part ways. And you would meet again, in a ceremony of some kind. And he would have grown only more beautiful, and the ache would have not softened. And his loving gaze would set on someone else but you.
Or, you could speak now.
“I made some tiramisu back at my Airbnb,” you say, your voice tentative. “Would you like some?”
Hyunjin’s shoulders stiffen, a debate flickering in his eyes. Then he exhales softly. “Of course.”
You sit side by side in the uber. His phone keeps lighting up with congratulatory messages until he switches it off.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, feeling the need to break the silence. He tenses beside you.
“For what?”
“For stealing you away.”
His shoulders relax. “Don’t apologize. I wanted to come.”
The apartment you rented is small—studio-sized, really, but near Montmartre, where you’ve loved taking nightly walks by Sacré Coeur. Hyunjin slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours by the door.
For a moment, you both pause, staring at the sight of your shoes, side by side, once more.
He clears his throat as you gesture for him to make himself comfortable. He moves to the window, gazing at the city below, while you retrieve two plates, carefully setting a slice of tiramisu on each.
“Thank you,” he says softly when you hand him his plate. But neither of you takes a bite. It’s as if opening your mouth would lead to a torrent of words escaping, ones neither of you can contain.
He yields first.
“You came,” he whispers, glancing over at you.
“I couldn’t miss seeing you win.”
“I missed you,” he says, biting his lip. Hyunjin has always been honest, especially when it comes to you. “It hurt a lot to miss you, Yn.”
“I’m here tonight.”
Your words settle into the air as the hum of the world outside fades away. Hyunjin’s gaze, sharp and knowing, meets yours—those piercing eyes that have always stripped away your defenses, reading between the lines of your every unspoken thought.
He holds your gaze for a beat too long, and you fumble for your fork, needing something—anything—to diffuse the weight of what lingers in the silence between you.
Then, suddenly, his lips meet yours.
Kissing Hyunjin again feels like breathing in after being starved of air, like a cool breeze caressing your skin on a scorching day. A shiver spreads through you as he gently lowers you onto the couch, his body a pressing weight above you. Your hands find their way to his back, moving with the instinctive ease of muscle memory, while he kisses you with the fierce urgency of someone who’s finally tasted salvation.
You wish to never part from him. You wish for your body to liquefy and morph into the hot rush of blood within his veins— anything so you wouldn’t have to part from him once more. You don’t think you can handle it. You don’t think you can lose Hyunjin again. You know you can’t.
When he pulls back, his cheeks are flushed a soft pink, like fresh dahlias, his eyes glossy and filled with something unspeakable as they trace over your face. “Tell me, Yn,” he breathes, “do you still love me? I need to know, please. It’s been tearing me apart.”
“I love you,” you say, with every bit of honesty you can muster. “I loved you before I even knew what love is, and I will love you, Hyunjin. Whether you are near or not. I will always love you.”
A breathtaking smile unfolds across his face, warm enough to thaw every frozen corner of your heart, to make decades of loneliness melt away. You would endure it all again, face the heartbreak and the grief. Fall at your sister’s grave and repent once more. You’d do it all if it means your path will cross with Hyunjin.
“I was always ever yours to love.”
Epilogue.
Hyunjin has always felt as if he has lived many lifetimes at once. Like a serpent, shedding its skin, he had lost parts of his being in various places. Some he managed to retrieve, others not. He had a lot to learn, overwhelmed by certain things past. His thoughts weren’t always kind. His hands didn’t always sweep gently against his skin.
But on days like those, you were there to love him. He had learned and unlearned many things with you. Hyunjin had found that love wasn’t a sharp emotion, it didn’t slice away at the heart, it didn’t puncture. There were no sharp edges when it came to you. Even if he lost you along the way, he would round up a corner and find you there.
And he did. Hyunjin found you, even when you didn’t wish to be found. You scurried from place to place, set foot into Paris to Seoul, Alexandria and New York. The distance lessened then widened. But it never tore you apart once more. Your souls were satiated in a way. You could rest side by side now.
And you did, as you settled in Seoul, decades down the road. Where both you and Hyunjin built a new training center. Figure skaters on the first floor, ballerinas on the second. The days passed by in happiness, laughter and giggles. There was no curse. No punishment. Not anymore.
You are in a graveyard once more. You watch as Hyunjin sweeps the name atop the tombstone gently. Prima ballerina assoluta, he reads, the swan of my heart. His weathered hands shake as they clutch a bouquet of fresh red lilies, and your heart still aches at the sight.
It is late at night at the graveyard, the branches are still humming to one another, like a melancholic flute. You understand now that they speak to the buried ones. “Not so long now,” they reassure, “your loved ones will follow.”
You believe them, and you will wait. For now, you’ll find solace in the red lilies sitting atop your grave.
They are now meant for you, at long last.
589 notes
·
View notes
Text
pelican town, ‘72
#stardew valley#stardew valley spoilers#sdv#sdv spoilers#grandpa#mister qi#mr. qi#idk how dates work in stardew universe im just bullshittin#i love qi’s huge fucking eyebrows you dont notice them at first but theyre there#(gives our collective grandpa a ponytail) i think he had one. whatever#’why isnt mister qi blue’ my hc is he is blue from long-term iridium supplementation#and was originally just a regular person#but also it’s nice to see ur fav be like a normal human color#if u read tag essays tho consider this:#qi discovers secret to immortality (consuming iridium in a specific manner)#wants to share discovery with his farmer (player’s grandpa) and in that way. they will have all the time in the world to build#a perfect farming/business empire whose legacy will last forever and ever and theyll be 2gether forever#but it turns out. like a lot of normal people would. his farmer does not want to live forever#and obv he doesn’t#in an attempt to try not to ever lose the thing that means more to him than anything else in the world. qi inadvertantly ensures he will#because his farmer is dead. and he’s going to live forever#but. it’s kind of ok. because he has infinite money and was able to figure out how to talk to his dead bf#and now YOU help them fulfill their joint goal of making the farm’s legacy last forever#smile. heart#sobbing
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
DAY 71: shy
#codacheetah#isat#loop isat#isabeau isat#isat spoilers#i'll never get over loop being described as 'shy'. what a wonderful image#top one casual remarks from isabeau that cleaves loop's facade#like loop's personality is just a targeted missile to piss siffrin off. they're not at all confident and snarky#they're doing like the physical manifestation of winning an argument against yourself in the shower#second they see the party though Oopsies we're in scary territory. That's your family and they dont know it's you Oops#ok anyways ever since i saw that post i was like damn. this is just how i view loop in party postcanon#for as much as I think they SHOULD go explore around and be their own person for a while i think realistically they would not do that.#theyre going to go be a weird freak hovering around the party and refusing to socialize with anyone but siffrin and theyre gonna feel awful#(read: they're going to antagonize siffrin and it fails tremendously bc now The Rumor Come Out and siffrin knows what loop is doing.)#like loop as much as they can barely stand to even look at isabeau (for instance) i think their claws are sunk far too deep in.#onehats maybe the circumstances are different because there is a gap in understanding. there's no point forcing siffrin to confront the#obvious conclusion that loop is them (and thus siffrin's happy ending nails loop's coffin)#(THIS IS IGNORING TWOHATS PREREQS GOTTEN ONEHATS. BC THATS ITS OWN CAN OF WORMS)#but twohats. idk. for as much as it lets loop release some of their rage and process their feelings a bit. i think it might also be the pus#that makes loop consider their own existence as a person a bit more. theyre not a sponsor->corpse theyre just loop#theyre just somebody who wants desperately. they want to stay with them#theyre still siffrin. if also loop.#i think loop would force themself to reconnect with the party in the same vein as siffrin forcing himself to communicate more.#but of course having conviction and living an experience are not the same thing. so siffrin's going to flounder the emotional honesty thing#tremendously and loop's going to be. blair witching it in the corner.#hey i might have forgotten which post i was writing the tags under. oopsies#idk if these tags are comprehensible at all. i just really want to see loop fail upwards into friendship with everyone
305 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thinking about the crazy love triangle situation in Blue Eye Samurai and debating heavily with myself on how I'd like to see it conclude. And yeah this discussion can be thought of purely as shipping, headcanons, and fandom fun. But when analysing the show and engaging with it in a more in-depth, almost-literary level, it's impossible to dismiss who Mizu's potential love interests are and how different endgame romances would affect her character arc and the overall story and themes.
So in this post I'd like to look at the love triangle a bit more closely, and speculate on where the story will take this.
DISCLAIMER: It is my personal interpretation of the text that Mizu is non-binary—I use this as an umbrella term denoting any gender that does not adhere to the binary restrictions, norms, and expectations of what it means to be either a man or woman in a particular society; it's not just an androgynous "third gender" that exclusively uses they/them pronouns. Thus, while I personally believe Mizu is not strictly a cis woman, she does still identify with womanhood, despite definitely feeling a level of detachment from it due to living as a man for so long. With that being said, I will be using she/her pronouns for Mizu in this post, but please note that this is purely personal preference. Everyone is free to interpret the text the way they like. That's the fun of fiction. Now, without further ado, let's proceed.
Okay so, thinking about the pairings on a purely surface level, and even before i got into the show, I was pinning my hopes on some lesbianism going on between Mizu and Akemi, and the show does hint at this; in Ep1, during their first encounter in Kyoto, there is the famous slow-mo shot of their eyes meeting, Mizu's lips slightly parted as she is unable to tear her gaze away from Akemi, while sweet string music plays in the background. This is clear romantic framing, and a marker of attraction. If Mizu was a cishet man, there would be no question that this is a potential love interest.
But then, in the same episode, we meet Taigen, who is introduced to us firstly from hearing Akemi's father describe him as "a fierce and undefeated young samurai", the "best swordsman in the best school" and "a fisherman's son from Kohama [...] whose rise reminds [him] of [his] own."
In the next scene, we meet him in person as Akemi's fiance, and he seems sweet enough. He even gives her sweets! In exchange, Akemi gives him gold, and he feels a bit ashamed that he doesn't have anything better to offer her. But Akemi accepts him and his gift wholeheartedly and flirts with him a little, which makes him smile kinda shyly.
When Akemi confirms their engagement, Taigen is in disbelief because he has no status or noble background, but Akemi reassures him.
So from these first few scenes, we're introduced to Taigen as an honourable and strong samurai, but also as a man who is sweet and gentle with the woman he is about to marry, as well as aware of his own inferiority when compared to Akemi's high station.
Our view of him then changes as his true self is revealed: he is an arrogant and smug bastard among his peers, but more importantly, he is the terrible bully from Mizu's childhood.
And it is this side of Taigen--pompous jerk and unrepentant xenophobic bully--that we continue to see as the show goes on, and it's safe to say that this is his real self, sans any pretense of humility and modesty. Around anyone who isn't an outright superior in terms of class and power (ie. Akemi's father, the shogun), Taigen never hesitates to assert his own authority and "greatness."
But as the show goes on, he gets caught by Heiji Shindo's men, and then tortured. And that's when we see, okay, turns out he's not that bad. He's honourable; "honour" is not just meaningless and superficial pedantry for him, but an internalised, guiding principle.
He was a cruel asshat throughout Mizu's childhood, but in a prejudiced and xenophobic society, he was just playing by the rules. As a child, he knew he was at the bottom of society, but when met with someone even lower ranked than him (Mizu), he can project all those prejudices and insecurities onto someone else. This way of thinking--"if you can't beat 'em, join em"--is what allowed him to climb up the ranks despite being some dirt poor kid from an abusive household*.
*Well, that combined with his cismale privilege of course, because this would not be an option for a woman in similar circumstances.
Thus, his upholding of honour also exemplifies how Taigen embodies the ideals and rules of his society. His insistence on duelling Mizu is another more blatant example of this. He doesn't want revenge like Mizu does. He wants to be accepted by society, within the bounds that society has placed, and that means that his only two options following his defeat at the Shindo dojo were to either chase Mizu down and get his damn duel, or kill himself for his humiliating defeat.
Now! Moving on from Taigen, let's go back to the other end of this little love triangle: Akemi.
Mizu and Akemi only properly meet in Ep4. During their first meeting, when Akemi tries to poison Mizu in Madame Kaji's brothel, she compliments Mizu's eyes, calling them "beautiful."
This seems to genuinely take mizu off-guard for a second before she coolly plays along. We know that Mizu recognises Akemi from the get-go, and thus sees through Akemi's ploy from a mile away. It's also safe to assume she'd expected false flattery, because Mizu understands full well that this tactic is how women get what they want: by using their 'feminine wiles' and playing up their naivety and innocence. But even so, it's interesting that Mizu actually seems surprised by Akemi's compliment.
Then, after Mizu subtly taunts Akemi by lying about Taigen's death, she and Akemi have a bit of a scuffle, and then we get to Mizu saying this:
"Women in our world don't have a single good option. Except you, like some magical forest creature. You could have anything you want, but then you beg to eat trash."
(no screenshot because it's quite a long line but you get it)
Here we see Mizu's opinions on the marginalisation of (mostly poor and under-privileged) women stated outright, and underlying her words is also resentment. Because even though she and Akemi have shared experiences of female oppression, Mizu, unlike Akemi, was also poor, from a rural village, and is a racial minority. Mizu is triply oppressed, while Akemi only faces one primary form of oppression, and to someone as embittered by the world as Mizu is, to see Akemi "beg to eat trash" is a slap in the face, practically tone-deaf to the other injustices around her--injustices which Akemi has not shown much, or any, acknowledgement for at this point.
Then, after this scene, Mizu kills Kinuyo, and this unsettles her to a degree we've never seen from her before. She is visibly distraught, and the entire sequence hammers the theme of this episode (and arguably, a large portion of the show) into our heads: women in this world suffer. And even though Mizu is well aware of this fact, to commit this act is so visceral that is shakes her to her core, and it's what ultimately leads to the ambush of the Thousand Fangs.
But before the ambush, Mizu and Akemi talk a little again, and during this time Akemi taunts Mizu some more.
Right now, Mizu is exhausted to the point where (I believe) she even downs some sake, despite not usually drinking. Thus, worn down, she cuts Akemi's ropes and tells her, "Just go." Akemi recovers from her initial fear of Mizu's blade and taunts her some more, accurately seeing through Mizu's facade of coldness, recognising the raw anger there, and says this:
"I thought you had to be something special. Your face isn't even so scary. You're just... angry."
At this, Mizu is amused and compares Akemi to Taigen ("I see why he likes you. You're just like Taigen when we were children. A fucking brat.")
The reveal that Mizu and Taigen knew each other in childhood surprises Akemi, but before either of them can say more, everything goes to shit.
That's when we get to Ep5. This episode focuses primarily on Mizu, the central piece of this love triangle, and does the most out of all the episodes to shed some light on her character and goals, fleshing her out to be more than just the vengeful, highly proficient samurai we've seen thus far (symbolised by The Ronin), but also a person who is capable of love, domesticity and gentleness (symbolised by The Bride). But in the end, Mizu rejects both these ideals, instead becoming an Onryo, who is neither guided by pride/honour, nor love.
By 'reincarnating' into an Onryo, Mizu is able to win the day and save the women in the brothel. However, as she has now fully embraced her status as an Onryo, and is exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, she lets the Tokunobu clansmen take Akemi away while Akemi's screams echo in her ear.
Mizu says this choice is for Akemi's own good, that Akemi's better off; because Mizu is jaded and weary, and cannot afford the luxury of idealism, and thus must always be strictly practical and realistic. So of course that's why, in her view, yes, Akemi should not be wasting her time in a brothel where women are exploited and abused, nor should Akemi be so naive to think that her marriage with Taigen is even still possible. However, regardless of Mizu's views, it is not for her to decide, because though Akemi is privileged in some sense, she is still trapped and voiceless, and deserves the right to choose her own destiny.
But as it happens, in the end, though Akemi did not choose who she gets to marry, she DOES get to choose her next move when Edo burns down.
"I want to be great."
This one line is the key to her entire arc, which is only just beginning. We see she quickly has acquired the affection and good graces of the shogun's son after their wedding night and consummation, and with Madame Kaji and the girls now serving her, Akemi will only grow to become a prominent political player.
NOW, only after analysing the characters as they are within this season, only can we speculate how their arcs will continue as the show progresses.
First and foremost, I will reassert the popular opinion that Mizu and Akemi are foils. The climax (pun intended) of Ep7 illustrates this as it parallels the turning points in both Mizu's and Akemi's arcs:
Mizu melts the steel of all her loves and shames, the people she's collected: the broken blade wielded by both Chiaki and Taigen, Akemi's knife, Ringo's bell, Master Eiji's tongs - this symbolises her beginning to accept herself, and in doing so, also accepting the help of others;
Akemi consummates her marriage with Takayoshi Itoh, gains his affection, and cements her position as a woman in the shogun's palace - this symbolises her taking charge of her situation, no longer playing the damsel, but using her position to her advantage, empowering both herself and the underprivileged women around her.
These are thus two directly contrasting, diverging journeys:
Mizu's arc moves inward (yin). It is an internal path of self-love and self-discovery, focused on finding peace and tranquility inside herself, and this involves allowing herself to let others into her life, opening herself up to friendship and empathy once more.
Akemi's arc moves outward (yang), it is an external path of growth, transforming from a naive, caged princess to a powerful woman and a force to be reckoned with.
Akemi is always dressed in red, even her eyes are a bit of a reddish-brown rather than brown-black like most other characters, and in her penultimate scene she stands against a backdrop of flames. She is fire: quick-tempered, passionate, full of energy. Red is powerful, authoritative, and in eastern cultures, it is associated with prosperity.
Mizu is blue: her eyes, her sword, her clothes. She is also named after water; it's where she goes to recover, reflect and meditate. Water is fluid like a brook weaving around a stone in its path, always changing and adapting, it is graceful, it is beautiful and ruthless, tranquil yet swift.
Thus, in the future, I expect we will see plenty of political manoeuvring and intrigue in Akemi's plotline, where she fully embraces control of her life, and begins to take action to help others as well, realising that her own oppression is just one piece in a much larger picture. Her main conflict is with society.
In direct contrast, Mizu's main conflict is with herself. She must realise that her desire for vengeance is a projection of her own deep-rooted self-hatred. Her arc must move towards unpacking her feelings and trauma so she can be at peace with herself and allow space for love in her heart. Because as we saw in Ep5, Mizu had come extremely close to achieving peace and joy, as she had not only loved Mikio, but also had briefly believed that Mikio had loved her (and accepted her for who she is) as well.
Thus, assuming the story is not planned as a tragedy, Mizu will likely end up getting her vengeance, but it will not satisfy her, because it is not what she needs. What she needs is to let go of the Onryo within her and to reconcile both The Ronin and The Bride within herself, as she is both a fighter and a lover, but not a monster.
(Edit: I recommend checking out this post by @stylographic-blue-rhapsody for a much clearer analysis about Mizu'a symbolism as Ronin, Bride and Onryo!)
And now that we've mostly covered each of the characters individually, we can finally get to the main point of this post: the love triangle.
--
Let's talk about Option A: Akemi.
As I covered extensively earlier, Mizu and Akemi are foils, a yin-yang pair. But while they play off each other very well in a thematic sense, I personally believe that a serious romance between them will be more complicated if they become endgame. This is because Akemi's natural resolution is to embrace a position of power and influence, where she has both freedom and control over herself and to make much-needed changes in a prejudiced society. Meanwhile, Mizu's natural resolution is the opposite; her happy ending would to find a peaceful life where she is safe and free from prying eyes, and able to be her true self.
Thus, it would make very little sense for Akemi to forfeit power and run away with Mizu and start a humble life together. Akemi wants to be great, and that is absolutely what she deserves. On the other end of the spectrum, it would also make little sense for Mizu to dedicate her life in service of Akemi, such as acting as a bodyguard or something similar, because a life in a palace full of court intrigue and conspiracies is far from what Mizu needs to be happy.
With that being said, if Mizu/Akemi is endgame, and assuming their overarching character arcs do not shift directions, their love story would likely be either tragic, doomed, or bittersweet. I do absolutely love this type of story because personally I'm a sucker for catharsis, so it would be very interesting if the writers do decide to take this route.
Also, as a note, please do not take this as me dunking on this pairing. This is just my personal opinion and analysis and I completely understand if you disagree!
--
Then, of course, we have Option B: Taigen.
Between Akemi and Mizu, Taigen is a bit of a free-floater here, because Season 1 leaves off at a point where his arc is very ambiguous as to where it's headed. While Akemi climbs for greatness and Mizu goes on a journey across the ocean to (presumably) discover more about her heritage, we have little clues about where Taigen is headed. And if I'm being honest, I'm sure he has no idea either! He still hasn't reclaimed his honour, so he would be unable to rejoin the Shindo Dojo; he's been rejected by Akemi; and while he showed loyalty to the shogun, the shogun is now dead, and all the shogun's men who had witnessed his "humiliating" death were left to die by Lady Itoh, who is now pulling the strings within the palace.
Therefore, Taigen has very few options here.
And when considering his role in the story is as Mizu's begrudging ally, his arc will undoubtedly be focused on unlearning his xenophobia and misogyny, the latter of which we have not seen yet, but is surely present. Now, whether he will do this in Mizu's presence or absence will be unknown until we see Season 2. Following the Season 1 finale, he might return to Kohama and wait for Mizu there as he learns humility and remorse over his past cruelty; or maybe he will follow Mizu to London, and the two of them will continue to butt heads until he finally admits to himself that he cares for Mizu more than he would like to admit. There is no room for doubt that his growing feelings for Mizu are more-than-platonic, because we all saw him get turned on by sparring with her in Ep7 lol. Thus, regardless of the exact choice he makes, I am sure that his overall arc will be focused on redeeming his character.
Now, when it comes go redeeming him, I know there are many who simply don't want him redeemed because he was such a jerk to Mizu, and while yes I agree he was awful, I do believe there is also nuance to his character.
Previously I've discussed in great detail the colour and elemental symbolism with Mizu and Akemi, but have yet to touch on how they relate to Taigen. So, let's talk about that for a second.
While Akemi is red and Mizu is blue, Taigen is green.
Green is a complementary colour to Akemi's red. Complementary colours are directly opposite each other in the colour wheel; when mixed, they neutralise each other, but when put side-by-side, they form a pleasing and impactful contrast that boosts the brightness and prominence of both colours. This mirrors Taigen and Akemi's relationship. They are an "ideal" pair because they complement each other very well, and bring out each other's most prominent traits. Mizu's comment about their similar "brattiness" comes to mind here.
Green is also an analogous colour with Mizu's blue. These colours are sitting right next to each other on the colour wheel; their natural similarity makes it easy for them to form a cohesive overall appearance, but using both in equal amounts will make a design overwhelming and too busy. Thus, the best way to use analogous colours is to make one the dominant colour, while the other will serve as an accent. I feel this also speaks to the dynamic in Taigen and Mizu's relationship. They came from the space place, both from nothing; they're both strong fighters who love the sport, and work well together when fighting side-by-side; however, they butt heads too easily, mirroring how analogous colours can be too overwhelming when used in equal amounts. Thus, to work together in harmony, one has to be the dominant colour, while the other serves as the accent. In this case, the dominant force would be Mizu, as she is the protagonist of the story, while the accent would be Taigen.
By fulfilling this role as an "accent" to Mizu, Taigen's character would easily be slotted in as a the love interest. This is in contrast with a Mizu/Akemi relationship, whereby Akemi is Mizu's foil before she is Mizu's love interest. This is because, by being a love interest, a character usually takes a backseat in the story, serving the plot and the themes by playing a purely supportive role, and this is not possible in Akemi's case because her character exists to parallel and contrast Mizu (red and blue), and not to support her.
It is possible to serve as a supporting love interest in Taigen's case however. And this is because he, unlike the other characters, does not currently have a definitive place within the story. He initially served the plot as an antagonistic force, but now as he is slowly unlearning his prejudices and becoming a better person, he can no longer serve the story by acting purely as a rival.
Instead, he will serve the story by literally supporting Mizu. And this relates to Taigen being earth, which is steady, firm and reliable, unwavering in loyalty and principles, hardworking and rooted in stability, which is seen in Taigen's staunch and inflexible obedience to the traditions and rules of society. These traits are what make him a perfect samurai, but not a good man. However, unlike most people in their world, Taigen is still capable of change and redemption, which is why Mizu says that he has the potential to be great. Not great by way of power or glory, but great in character. Already, he is honourable to a fault, and does not betray Mizu even after she technically robbed him of everything he was striving towards. And when he was shot by an arrow in the chasm, he did not hesitate a second to tell Mizu to use him as a human shield and save herself.
The trigger for his redemption is Mizu. If she had never beat him in that duel, Taigen would live on to become a man like Akemi's father. Cruel, power-hungry, controlling, conservative. But through Mizu, Taigen's sharp edges are ground down, much like water that wears down the stones in a river.
Where Mizu and Akemi's possible love story would be a clash of wills, full of passion and even heartbreak, a possible love story between Mizu and Taigen would be the wearing down of souls. Mizu would make Taigen a better person, and in turn Taigen would dedicate his full respect and support to Mizu as his equal, thus getting her to slowly open up and love herself. Already, Taigen has grown enough to admit (begrudgingly, and in his own Taigen way) that Mizu is better than him; though, clearly, he still has a long way to go, as he still calls Mizu a demon shortly after that.
But basically, Taigen is a very simple man (his main goal now is "to be happy"), and Mizu has great depths that he cannot yet fathom. For this love story to work, it has to begin with Taigen changing for the better. If he succeeds in that, and is able to accept Mizu for all her complexities, I believe that they will make a formidable pair. And though he'd likely still throw a jab or snarky remark at Mizu every now and then, I think he'd come tl wholeheartedly admire Mizu as a brilliant swordsman and a kind soul. Thus, should things work out and this be endgame, Taigen would be able to provide Mizu with what Mikio could not: an idyllic life that is not built on a lie, but mutual trust, respect, admiration, and equality.
Or hey, maybe they could both make their own dojo together! I don't know.
(Edit: This post by @rinandsketches does a great job at delving into Taigen's character and a potential Mizu/Taigen relationship if you'd like to read more about this angle!)
--
Now, as I move on from Taigen, there are a couple more options on how to resolve this love triangle and that includes Option C: Ringo.
In this option, Mizu does not have an endgame romance with either Akemi or Taigen. In this route, she finds peace and love through friendship, solidarity, and a found family between herself, Ringo and Master Eiji—a bunch of outcasts in society who make a strong trifecta of sword-makers.
Also, as an aside while I'm talking about Ringo, I'd like to point out that I believe his element is air and his colour is a neutral grey; he is talkative, easy-going, wise, curious, light on his feet (stealthy) and free-spirited, which are all traits linked to air, and traits that complement Mizu nicely, as he is capable of getting Mizu to open up and trust others again, while Mizu helps him reach his true potential for greatness.
--
And finally, there's Option D: Polyamory.
This is basically an "all of the above" option, in which everyone wins and it's a super duper happy ending. It would also be awesome to get some polyamorous representation, and seeing the dynamic between Akemi/Mizu/Taigen play out would be very entertaining and refreshing. So, you never know, this just might be the true endgame!
--
AAAAND with that, I close my extremely long analysis of what is essentially Mizu's love life. Whatever the final outcome of this love triangle though, I just hope it will be well-written and satisfying to all the characters' respective arcs. (Also I just want Mizu to be HAPPY goddamn it because she deserves the world and her coochie eaten out)
Now, I highly doubt anyone will read any of this (especially not until the end!) but that's fine. I just have so many thoughts and feelings about this show and I just needed to get this out of my system lol! But if by some miracle you did read this far, I wholeheartedly welcome any sharing of thoughts and ideas because man am I obsessed with this show! But of course, if we have an opposing opinions, please be respectful when letting me know; I am very open to friendly discussions.
#blue eye samurai#mizu x taigen#mizu x akemi#mizu blue eye samurai#mizu x akemi x taigen#blue eye samurai meta#also if you ask me PERSONALLY. based on my own analysis which you can read above. personally i'm placing my bets on option b (mizutaigen)#and this is simply bcs i think mizu deserves nice things and that includes getting dicked down and pampered and worshipped#whoops who said that#also mizu deserves to live a life where she can hand taigen's ass to him on a daily basis. ykwim.#BUT i am def open to a change of opinion regarding the mizuakemi rship as the story progresses#i just dont want the writers to reduce akemi into nothing but a love interest for mizu#the only way i can see a happy mizuakemi endgame scenario is if blue eye samurai becomes purely an angsty romance story#in which case then yes i fully endorse the akemi ending <3#but that would probs require a whole genre overhaul? bcs currently the show is firstly an action-epic where the romance is just a subplot#but even tho i dont reeeeally want a mizuakemi endgame i still DEF want mizu & akemi to be romantically and/or sexually involved plsss <3#like they cant have that slow-mo shot between the two of them as their first encounter and NOT DO ANYTHING W IT!!!#also i want mizu to be at LEAST a little sapphic plsplspls#shut up haydar#meta dissertations.pdf#haydar's fandom posts#i wrote this whole thing while delirious and covid positive
402 notes
·
View notes
Note
weLL FUCK NOW I really HAVE TO READ THIS SERIES OR ELSE IM GOING TO BE FUCKING SAD WHAT THE fuck
a keep reading cos im on pC!
FIRST OF ALL
ME @ YOUR ANON
actually no
ACTUALLY YES
I GET IT OK I GET THAT HUMANS HAVE A KNACK FOR ANGST OR WHATEVER BUT IN A FICTIONAL WORLD WHERE EVERYTHING COULD BE PERFECT AND HAPPY AND SWEET AND PAIN FREE YOU FUCKING RANNNNNNNNNNNNN 🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️🏃♀️💨💨💨💨💨💨💨💨💨💨 YOU RAAAAANNNNN TO GET YOURSELF INJURED YOU
RAAAAANNNNNNNNNN
TO GET HIT BY A FUCKING TRAINNNN
WHYYYYYY
i remember when i got a rec for smth similar ????????????? AND I STILL WROTE IT DUH IM A PEOPLE PLEASER BUT I WAS LIKE ??????????????????????????????????????? WHY DO PEOPLE WANT TO GET HURT i say as a person who LOVES crying over fictional characters WHY ARE WE LIKE THIS???????????????? WHAT THE FUCK
chile anyway so
The sound of sniffling midwives is easy to ignore in the peace of the moment. In the wake of your efforts, all you can see is your babe. Cradling her red-slicked form close to your chest, you marvel at the downy-soft pale of her hair peeking through the viscera, the tiniest fingers and toes, the puckered mouth and the sweet button nose. You made this. She is perfect.
Why is she not breathing?
WHAT THE FUCK
“Sh,” he had soothed, hand on your back as he walked you to the bed. “You’re alright, sweetling. Just… just let it happen.”
NO. NO. ABSOLUTELY NOT. HE TRIED. HE TRIED BUT THIS WAS A REAL MISS FOR ME. YOU CANT SAY THAT TO HER YOU CANT SAY THAT TO ME I DONT KNOW WHAT HE COULD HAVE SAID I REALLY DONT BUT IM SAD AND IM ANGRY AND YOUR A MAN AND I HATE YOU FUCK YOU YOU WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND HOW SHE FEELS THIS IS YOUR FAULT
going in-fucking-sane over this im not even halfway through nah nah nah nah i hate it here
You had not understood what he meant by it. What choice did you have? There had been very little control to wield in the throes of torment, and you were forced to your side on the mattress as you heaved for breath through the strain of it.
wait SHE LIKE ME FOR REAL. YOU GOT STUMPED WRITING THINS DIDNT YOU HAHAHHAHAHAH DAMMIT FUCK SHIT FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK I HATE IT HERE
“What–” he stops, swallows. He reaches tentatively for the peach fuzz atop her head, fingers trembling through the silver moonshine and down across the velveteen skin of her darling little cheek. “What will we name her?”
controlling myself not to requote everything back but T_T ok ok he's trying we love that for him <3 for her <3 for my mental stability
“It may be best for you to leave, my Prince,” he had murmured to your husband, laying out the instruments from his case as the midwives helped you strip to your shift and pull the sheets back. “This will be a wretched affair, I’m afraid.”
no you jobbernowl lunkhead fucking nincompoop MAN he does not get to fucking absolve himself of this just because the child didnt come out of his penis FUCK YOU HELL JAIL DICKWACKER
“I’m not leaving my wife,” Daemon had replied sternly.
only half correct. you need to kill him now DAEMON WAHT THE FUCK IS STOPPING YOU I DONT CARE
The rest is a blur. Through sweat and tears and the bestial sounds emanating from somewhere so deep inside you that you had not known it existed, the bed had become sticky and rank with the scent of copper and gore and terror. It had made you retreat into yourself, to a place where the increasingly regular paroxysms could not touch you, and you had found a sense of quiet and calm there.
i see it. this was, i dont want to say beautifully written, but [sigh] beautifully written [jumps off a cliff]
What is her name? Kepa is waiting for an answer.
You are at peace. All you can feel is love. “Aemma,” you say, cooing it down to your precious, still child. She is no longer warm in your arms, little body tepid like the air in the chamber around you. You hold her closer, skin to skin, impressing your heat into her. “Her name is Aemma.”
like the combination of these sentences [wailing crying sobbing so alone so sad so broken so T_T HELP ME]
i read fics like this and wonder what its like for actual mothers who've experienced it T_T i cry about my dead cat so much still even after so long . HE WAS A CAT. IMAGINE CARRYING A CHILD THE BLOOD OF YOUR BLOOD THE BLOOD OF THE BLOOD OF THE MAN YOU LOVED TOO AAWWWWWW FUCK THEN THEY JUST dont
they just
... never make it
ahhh i have school? I have placed to be? why did i read this?
WHY DID YOU WRITE THIS?
WHY DID I THINK AW YIS THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD COS SHE WROTE IT
NO??
I MEAN ITS NOT BAD
ITS HORRIBLE?
HELP ME????
i have to take a shower and cleanse myself and get ready now
[stares into the ocean] what is life
Hey! I love your writing. I was wondering if you'd be willing to write an AU blurb of Babey losing her unborn child? If not, that's okay! Thankyou!
Hey, nonnie! Sorry it's taken so long to get this one out - I PROMISE I keep all my requests and will probably get to them eventually. I was in the right headspace for this one, so I hope you like!
THIS IS AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE BLURB, DO NOT PANIC!!!
aemma (a 'terms of endearment' au)
GIF by @targaryenlaena
Your daughter is perfect.
Triggers: WARNING - MISCARRIAGE/STILLBIRTH, incest, age gap, purity culture.
She is so small, you think in wonder.
The sound of sniffling midwives is easy to ignore in the peace of the moment. In the wake of your efforts, all you can see is your babe. Cradling her red-slicked form close to your chest, you marvel at the downy-soft pale of her hair peeking through the viscera, the tiniest fingers and toes, the puckered mouth and the sweet button nose. You made this. She is perfect.
Why is she not breathing?
Your pains had started abruptly – too abruptly. You had thought your womb was ripping in two within you, such was the agony of the feeling. All you had done was pull yourself off the chaise to relieve your aching back, and suddenly your smallclothes were wet with dark and your body was turning itself inside out.
“Daemon!” you had squalled, scrabbling at the fabric between your legs.
When he ventured from his desk, you had noticed the curiosity in his expression turn to panic, to anger, to despair, and then blankness in dizzying speed. The hard line of his lips and the set of his brow had been akin to a man carved from stone as he barked for the guards to fetch the Maester, to retrieve the midwives, to seek out your sister.
“Sh,” he had soothed, hand on your back as he walked you to the bed. “You’re alright, sweetling. Just… just let it happen.”
You had not understood what he meant by it. What choice did you have? There had been very little control to wield in the throes of torment, and you were forced to your side on the mattress as you heaved for breath through the strain of it.
Daemon sits beside you, dispelling your absent pondering.
“What–” he stops, swallows. He reaches tentatively for the peach fuzz atop her head, fingers trembling through the silver moonshine and down across the velveteen skin of her darling little cheek. “What will we name her?”
One of the midwives sobs. The Maester drops something, and a loud clatter rings throughout the room. You bring your hand up to shield her delicate ears from the sound.
Gerardys was a great help, you muse. He had been grave-faced and resolute as he strode into your rooms, handily taking command of the gaggle of disconcerted staff milling about as you had moaned and shivered, prone.
“It may be best for you to leave, my Prince,” he had murmured to your husband, laying out the instruments from his case as the midwives helped you strip to your shift and pull the sheets back. “This will be a wretched affair, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not leaving my wife,” Daemon had replied sternly.
You had felt his eyes on you even through the teeth-chattering hurt that ignited like sparks in your bloodstream. Your belly clenched like a fist, forcing a pop and a stream of bloody fluid from between your legs. At your wail, he had looked away with a tense jaw.
“There’s no hope, then?”
Gerardys had paused. “It is too early,” he murmured, a look of such contrition and sorrow on his face that you had been overcome with the urge to reach forth and comfort him through your own pain.
The rest is a blur. Through sweat and tears and the bestial sounds emanating from somewhere so deep inside you that you had not known it existed, the bed had become sticky and rank with the scent of copper and gore and terror. It had made you retreat into yourself, to a place where the increasingly regular paroxysms could not touch you, and you had found a sense of quiet and calm there.
All at once, her body had slipped from you with a gush, and the protracted silence had lingered for what feels like an age.
What is her name? Kepa is waiting for an answer.
You lean into him, smiling faintly at the feel of his lips against your temple. He curls around you and the babe, grip a little too tight for comfort, but you do not mind.
You are at peace. All you can feel is love.
“Aemma,” you say, cooing it down to your precious, still child.
She is no longer warm in your arms, little body tepid like the air in the chamber around you. You hold her closer, skin to skin, impressing your heat into her.
“Her name is Aemma.”
I am sorry for this. 'TIS AN AU BLURB, NO MORE!
#dead#i am dead#so is aemma#too soon?#deamon targaryen angst#like duh its well written#but like also dont read it if you want to live
452 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ummm.. I really love this fic
*hands @basilf1res this gently*
Any ways go read project “GH05T” it’s really good :)
#danny phantom#ao3 fanfic#dp fanfic#dpxdc#tim x danny#dead tired#that’s their ship name#like bsfr omg#that’s adorable#also might write a fic about them based of the mitski song A Pearl#like-#that song is so them coded if they were like online friends#and it would be slow burn#RAHH#ok anyways..#the tags are where I’m chaotic#bc I’m trying to make a good impression on basil..#nobody tell them..#THIS FIC IS SO GOOD#I WANT MORE#ofc only if the author wants too#YOUR WRITING IS BEAUTIFUL AND IK YOU SAID YIU DONT LIKE THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS BUT I LOVE CHAPTER TWO THE MOST#ITS SO GOOD#this is what i live for#reading fics is my little sweet treat bc I haven’t dropped out of high school when there is 3 weeks left#danny phantom art#tim drake#tim drake art#fan art#fanart
139 notes
·
View notes
Text
You’re looking for something— no, someone, too, aren’t you?
(I can’t comprehend how you understand what’s going on, with your lifeless shell. Craft as you are.)
#isat#in stars and time#live a live#isat loop#cube live a live#RAHHHHHH [COMBINES MY FIXATIONS]#behold my crack fic au. tiny robot in dormont#I’m cooking let me cook. cube has the little guy little dude vibes#and is also canonically like. a baby?#their chapter in the game happens the day they were finished#so. a baby.#cube is so <3. their chapter is a space horror#I would 100% recommend at least watching a video of it#IT GOES CRAZYYYYYY#pov flicking a card that says die child die at the floor. so#anyways. this au makes no sense to anyone but me#this is MY funny house and I’m going to play in it#worlds smartest baby [a robot] figures out timeloop shit before the party more at 2#if you ask I WILL ramble abt the concept of this au I will#<- trying desperately to get away from working on my other au post#[I need to draw smth for it and I’m struggling lollll]#sitting here like ughhh I don’t wanna draw this imageee [puts off entire au post]#ANYWAYSSSS#LOOP WOULD HATE THIS KID. the fuck is a robot.#the fuck is this damn thing and how has it read me literally immediately#how dare you be made of craft. be artificial. and be able to read my despair like a book#how dare you; a fake being made by someone else. be more human to me than the people that once were my party#how dare you want to help me when I dont know you because you didn’t EXIST in my loops#…but. uh. thanks for the coffee. even if I can’t drink it I recognize the sentiment. or whatever#falls to the floor dramatically. oughhhh loop and cube ougughhh
56 notes
·
View notes
Text
hey guys. remy design
#remy the farmer#dol#my art#sorry it took so long for me to make this#im watching live shows for one of my favorite music projects in the corner and i have to pause drawing to scream every 5 seconds#if i were in that crowd id be yelling. id faint. only but a dream to attend one of these#to the people that sent me another personality swap request also. i promise im not ignoring you but the one that said#''avery and eden swap would be a nightmare''#youre completely right. it is a nightmare. i cant think of anything#so if either of you have any more ideas or anyone else does then PLEASE help me im begging you all i can think of is ??? i dont know#i hope you guys like this remy though#i was worried about if it was good enough but special thanks to the people on my side account that told me it was fine#i posted fem remy there too if you want to see it#i think when i do fem vers of them all ill group them up because itll take me less time to make it since ill already have the design basis#and also i feel bad for spamming you guys#actually would you prefer i keep posting them one by one or should i post them all at once? for these designs#i feel bad posting separately because that means the people who rb my posts reblog like 10 separate design posts in a row :(#and i dont want them to spam their blogs because of me#but i do really really appreciate it when i see someone do that in my notifs :) so thank you a lot if you do#and also thank you to everyone who leaves tags i read each and every one of them obsessively like a freak#this is getting too long im going to hit the tag limit at this rate#ill try to work on the avery eden thing again#see you all later :)
112 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've had this theory for a while now, and me n my friend (@nightshadetq ) have talked about it a bit as The Magnus Protocol continues, but I really don't think Alice's indifference to the paranormal/statements/cases ect ect is proof that she like. Has no idea what's going on, or will be in for a rude awakening.
[Note: this post is not free from spoilers up to episode 18]
I think she knows a decent amount of what's actually going on, and is trying to protect Sam (or her uninformed coworkers in general) from getting in too deep.
Other than Lena, who I assume has been the boss since Alice arrived, Alice has worked at the OIAR the longest, "nearly a decade" and has consistently told Sam not to look into anything, to not be curious, and to just do his job, and those moments are when she is the most serious, an odd departure from her typical attitude, very likely a coping or defense mechanism (or survival tactic) on her part.
We also have how she and Colin interact, and her conversation with Teddy in the most recent episode (18 as of writing). While yes, her and Colin's unlikely duo could be in part simply a fun dynamic, grumpy/sunshine, whatever, but we also don't really know what has happened within the last near decade of Alice working at the OIAR. The only person Colin likes is Alice, perhaps because she's the only one he trusts, or maybe they went through something together, that's mostly speculation on my part I'll admit.
What's more interesting is Alice and Teddy's conversation, the weight of Alice calling Teddy a liar, her saying to herself for Teddy to "watch himself" because she's worried. I would point out we have no idea how long Teddy worked at the OIAR, though in episode one there's a mention of "another four years" which implies he's worked there about that amount of time, and so Alice had still worked there the longest.
Honestly it would be weird if Alice hadn't seen weird shit pre-canon given how long she's been there, and that despite the jobs turnover rate hasn't quit despite everything, almost like she's obligated, to the job perhaps not, but maybe to the other people working, given we know that people can and have quit. Of course it could also just be the getting a new job is difficult and she has a younger brother to help out occasionally, but truthfully I find it a bit difficult to believe that being the only reason she wouldn't have quit by now.
Also interesting that the only thing Alice said in response to Gwen talking about Mr. Bonzo, where Sam laughs and thinks she's joking, is after she leaves saying "Curiosity will get you killed, best try and ignore it" wherein Alice clowning on Gwen is what I, at the least, would expect in response. Yes, she questions Gwen interacting with monsters, but she doesn't push her to talk about it, and in fact, gave her an out on what the Externals are.
Considering both Gwen and Sam didn't know about them until 1. Gwen asking Lena to let her "in" and getting work about/for the Externals, and 2. Sam just now being informed. Meanwhile Alice has a fake explanation on what they are, providing Sam with said explanation, therefore shielding him from the truth of the matter, and letting Gwen not have to talk about it, only for Gwen to then say what they actually are. So either Alice already knew what an External was, and lives by the "if you don't know about the real goings on nothing will happen to you" deal and tries to act the part herself, or someone who no longer works at the OIAR AND worked with Externals told her that that was what they were, which I'll admit is also a possibility.
There is also her seeing the drowning victim and her reaction to them. Her primary issue as I remember it was the dead body, given how she implies she hadn't seen a dead body since her parents passed. However, her having a negative reaction to a dead body doesn't mean she hasn't seen other freak shit. There is also the option that she lied about not having seen a dead body since her parents, and she (rightfully) still has an averse reaction to them, though I don't necessarily believe this myself, I am presenting it as an option.
Maybe I'm talking out my ass, but I really don't think Alice has completely avoided everything up until now, especially given how weirdly cagey she is about anyone (mainly Sam, but they have a history so maybe she feels responsible for him in some way) getting curious about what they do, or wanting to look into the cases they receive. If she didn't know anything at all, I don't know why she'd care about someone getting curious about their cases, or at least care as much as she seems to.
#the magnus protocol#tmp#the magnus protocol spoilers#tmp spoilers#tmp theory#the magnus protocol theory#alice dyer#sam khalid#gwen bouchard#lena kelley#colin becher#teddy vaughn#ghost listens to horror podcasts#dude i really think alice knows SOMETHING#i gen cant believe shes just been in the dark the whole time#and i dont wanna bring up tma and how things worked in it#but i think it is a bit important to note that while yes most of then worked at the archives for a while#i dont think any of them worked there for nearly a decade pre canon#to me at least they all read as mid 20s#whereas alice herself is in her mid 30s#ik bc i did the math#so i dont think comparing jon to alice in this instance as mcs really works#i dont think comparing any of them really works bc theyre their own characters but thats whatever#also wayyyy too much of how alice acts is more defense mechanism and i want me and my friends to live#rather than jons i refuse to believe in the supernatural until its thrust in my face#alice is much more 'best leave well enough alone' as a survival tactic#likely because shes seen what happens when you dont leave well enough alone#anywayyyy thats enough of me rambling teehee#im so sorry this post is so long#its comedic
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sort of a ramble, sort of me just writing my thoughts out while I'm stuck with writer's block, but I keep thinking about how Fulcrum was in stasis for roughly 3 million years??
Like, that's a long time, even for Cybertronians. Not a really long time, not an entire lifespan. But still, it's a large chunk of a normal lifespan just gone. Poof.
One second you're crawling across the pockmarked terrain of an alien planet, surrounded by the sound of gunfire, and the shouting and screaming before and after each earth shuddering impact of another k-con hitting the ground. And then it's quiet. You're not there anymore. You're drifting somewhere between not alive and just asleep. Preserved somewhere in the background of a doomed body, ignored by time and space, still here, but also not.
And then there's sound. Not gunfire. Not shouting or screaming. Not the sounds that'll haunt you till your dying days, your own death sentence pounding in your head. No. Just voices, talking, standing out against a silent, dead world. Wondering. Joking. Bickering. Familiar. Just, not familiar to you. And you're awake. Pulled back from the nothingness you've been frozen in, consciousness tugged forwards with the yank of a fuel pump and the nearness of life.
These two moments are roughly 3 million years apart, but only minutes, maybe even seconds, to him. From a hectic harrowing battlefield, to an old silent graveyard in one blink.
How long did it take to really sink in? I mean, he seems to just roll with it. He doesn't seem particularly bothered. But like, what happened outside of what we see? How did he really feel?
Also, his body aged without him. While his mind preserved itself, freezing him as he was right then, his body was left to weather Clemency for all those years. No wonder it crumbled to dust when he jumped off the world sweeper. It's probably a miracle of some kind that it didn't just fall apart each time someone leaned on him.
And even after they rebuild him, give him a better, newer body. His spark, it's casing, all the irreplaceable core bits that make up their inner bodies, it aged in the time without him. Does he feel it? Does it make his body even more foreign to him?
Then he's also a technician with information that's 3 million years out of date. Lucky him that the scavengers probably weren't working with top of the line material. But still it's gotta be weird when faced with anything brand new, because a lot can change and progress in 3 million years, and now some of the knowledge he once prided himself in is obsolete.
Besides those things, his view of the galaxy, of the war, of their kind, of other kinds, is one of the few things actually pointed out when it comes to him being stuck in the past. So, how often were his old views challenged? Facts of life he held close proved to no longer true? There's 3 million years worth of new science, new beliefs, new words, new terms, new views.
And sure, some of it can be familiar, because they're an ever evolving kind, and they have patterns, core beliefs, repeating behaviors, but a lot of it's gonna be unfamiliar at the same time, because it's 3 million years worth of catch up, it's not like missing last week's trend.
In a way, it makes him a living relic of a bygone era for Decepticons. It would've been really interesting to have had that explored a little more.
#rq i wanna say i love seeing others thoughts on these if you have them. esp those that have thought about it longer than i lol#like. im still just starting to sink my teeth into the lore and put things together. so your thoughts are much appreciated#sometimes i wish that i could turn these rambles into those really well worded. slightly pretentious. but in a fun way. character metas?#but i dont think i can organize my thoughts that well. so. rambles it is lol#not to say rambling is lesser or smth tho. i love a good ramble. love to read them. i support ramblers#speaking of rambling-#idk why it fascinates me so. but theres just something rlly interesting about fulcrum being somewhat stuck in the past#i think it could've played interestingly into his and kroks dynamic had it been explored more?#like. the past and history play big parts in their lives. krok having studied it. and fulcrum having been fast forwarded thru it#it would've been interesting to see them talk more about it? since logically fulcrum wouldve gone to krok for more of the 3mill year rundow#and its like. krok is shown to be really knowledgeable on not only history. but cultures as well. theres and others.#so certain eras of their own culture would probably be a slight interest of his. esp decepticon ones.#and then theres fulcrum. who pretty much got plucked from the empire era only to land in kroks lap (metaphorically) ((...unless?))#so heres this walking talking piece of history. and a dude that has a sort of passion for history. why not explore it more?#and like. yeah. the ''history'' krok has studied is all mostly shit he lived through. but people study the times they lived through-#-because while they may have lived through it. theirs is only one perspective. a good historian takes into account multiple perspectives#idk where i'm going with this now. smth smth fulcrum relying on krok for future stuff and krok having someone to talk history stuff with#i just. augh. i wanna know what their dynamic is more. what we see in the comics is so back and forth at times#like. they seem to hit it off pretty well. but then fulcrum fucks it up ig by being oblivious and a little too ''i can fix him'' vibey#and his taste in comedy is bad. to say the least. which is apparently grounds for messy divorce#also krok is sometimes cool with selling a whole dude. at least when the dude is their befriended giant killer autobot buddy :/#that is also grounds for divorce. obviously#sorry. this is derailing the more i start thinking about how messy fulkrok could be. like. ough <3#they're a little ''i hate my wife'' coded. but in a greater scav codependent poly way. and it's more krok being annoyed with fulcrum#its like. fulcrum: ''i can fix him bcs i need to feel validated'' vs krok: ''wtf is wrong with this guy?! who does he think he is??''#i think they'd want to pick each other apart intellectually. maybe emotionally. smth smth two officers. both disgraced. and power dynamics#its fun. they're both hypocrites. they'd need couples therapy. its also 4am. shit. ok goodnight
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
spent the first hour and change at work deleting some old files and am having a grand ol time laughing at myself for not realizing i was a lesbian sooner
#vulnerable tag rambles ahead please be kind abt them i didnt intent to ramble this much but i dont wanna delete it eitehr#me to every single man i have ever dated after 6mo-1y: yeah hey this really isnt working out i dont really know why but i really hate mysel#and i dont want to blame you because i dont think you did anything inherently wrong here; i think this is something about me but i need#space to figure out why im feeling this way [every single one reacted by telling me No i wasnt allowed to leave btw]#i hold very complex feelings about these relationships esp bc of them ending in very violent/chaotic ways most of the time#but its interesting to look back at it all and realize ive left every man for the same reason (which is that ive hated myself Every Single#Time ive dated a man) and its funny bc i recognized the self hate pretty early on w/ cishet men but when it came to queer men it was#much more confusing (esp w/ nto knowing Any lesbians at that point in my life). im so happy im a lesbian tbh#i have a lot of issues w/ the racism fatphobia and transmisogyny present in lesbian groups#and also coming out as a lesbian really truly saved my life. before i met my wife i was quite literally in a 3yr abusive relationship that#definitely would have died in if i hadnt realzied i was a lesbian and ran from him#its also weird seeing liek the hard evidence of the things that happened to me btween 2016-2020 tbh#cause that was such a bad time of my life. i truly dont know how i survived it but im so glad i did#like the three major relationships in my life b4 meeting my wife was: guy who was in college when i was in HS who stalked me when i left;#guy who was a year younger than me who cheated on me the entire time while telling me he was being victimized (he wasnt; this was very mess#guy who saw the very messy toxic ldr i was in and helped me dump my ex then decided that meant we were in a relationship [insert 3 yrs here#and admittedly all 3 years with him werent the same level of abusive but it was definitely unhealthy from the start considering I Didnt Kno#we were together until he wanted to celebrate vday and got mad i didnt know our anniversary - and like this isnt including the other stuff#that happened between those Relatonships[tm] (cause ive never been monogamous; these were just the Major Relationships)#like i genuinely think if i hadnt come out i'd be dead rn given just how dangerous my relationships were/continued getting#i am also so tired now that ive seen all this cause like. fuck i can barely believe it and i not only lived it but have PTSD about it#i should write about my life sometime. i feel like it'd be cathartic to try and make a tangible timeline and stories from the years ang stu#anyway yeah. be nice about the tag rambles. dont message me with pity or curiosity or anything about this. i dont usually talk abt this stu#publicly bc i hate the ways ppl start tryign to baby me when they realize my life has been extremely fucked up until only a few years ago#n im still working on accepting kindness from others bc of [insert life traumas here] but its a long process so pls respect my need for jus#being heard rn w/o too much pressure< 3 (but ig if u do read this can u like it cause i feel a little crazy seeing all the evidence of the#stuff i experienced now also cause fuck ik logically it was but also i cant believe it was all real still yk)
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
reminder that my totk rants are me just rambling about my thoughts, ideas and complaints, im not trying to analyze anything, be smart, be right, debate or convince anyone who likes it that its bad just bc i think its bad or simply dont like the choices made, im literally just spilling out my brain so it doesnt keep haunting me
if you think something makes sense that i think doesnt i, and forgive me for being so blunt about it, do not care why you think it works, my opinion of this game will not change and i am okay with that
you are free to disagree with anything i say of course but i really dont care why, sorry
(sth i said only in the tags before but added now in this edit bc i think its important: its not bc i dont want to hear other peoples opinions and live in ignorance or something, but bc im tired and i PROMISE you i have seen 99.9% of those arguments already)
im not trying to be mean, aggressive or dismissive, but again, these rants are just me rambling with no intention of arguing with anyone, the only reason im still posting whenever i think of something thats bothering me (even if it might be dumb or be disproven in game bc i am not all-knowing and might be possibly misremembering something), and letting those posts be rebloggable/interactable is bc i have been told by quite a few people that they like reading them or that they feel validated in their own disappointment
thats it.
#ganondoodles talks#i usually seek/like interacting with people on my posts but not really in the case for the rants#like if you also have stuff to complain about or agree yeah go right ahead#but if you are trying to take down every one of my thoughts with arguments as to why im wrong or being unfair#i dont care#and thats not bc i want to live in my own little world and never hear of other peoples opinions#but bc i PROMISE you i have seen those arguments already#alot even#too much even#and i dont care that you love the story#im sorry but i dont#i think its shit#so i will say why i think it sucks#and im not looking to be proven otherwise#bc people are biased and will always like different things#and thats okay#its okay to read soemthing you dont like and then move on and forget it ever happened#if i see a post i dont like i MIGHT go and ramble on my own without saying which one it was bc i just have thoughts that need to get out#but im not looking to argue nor bother OP with it#if i dont like something for dumb reasons i think thats just as valid as liking soemthing for equally dumb reasons
114 notes
·
View notes