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bonvoyagenoona · 4 years

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The Road to You (M) | 05: Tests, Allies, Enemies

The Road to You | Masterpost

Word Count: 11,155 | read on ao3

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader, Yoongi x Reader

Summary

Armed with your quick wit, creative passion, talent for storytelling, and innate understanding of your fanbase, you have met every challenge, surpassed every goal, and achieved the unimaginable. Despite the earth shifting erratically under your firmly planted feet, you’ve always had a plan. You’ve made peace with the sacrifices you’ve had to make, and you’ve long forgotten the rejections and heartbreaks that came as a result. Your agent keeps reminding you that you’re at the precipice of something new, that your audience is waiting for your next project with bated breath. This is usually when you thrive. So why do you feel so lost? And who can you count on from your past to help you find your way?

Chapter Excerpt

“Wait,” he says, concerned. “Are you going to… Are you going to use our stuff---”

“Not exactly,” you say. “No one will know it’s you. No one will know what truly happened. But I do want to pull stuff from my actual life. Put it up against a magnifying glass.”

“Inspect?” Namjoon says warily.

“Observe,” you correct.

Namjoon folds his lips into themselves and looks down at the eclair he’s just taken a bite out of.

“You lured me here with an eclair, and now I’m trapped because I want to finish it,” he says, half-joking.

“Not my intention,” you say lightly. “And you can take the eclair and go if you’d rather not talk.”

Namjoon nods. “OK.”

You brace for the rush of cold air from him leaving his seat, but instead, he leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “Where do you want to start?”

You smile.

“The beginning.”

Content Warnings: Soft and hard smut, anxiety, panic attack, depression, infertility, infidelity

Taglist 💜: permanent @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld | the road to you @aliceollormusic @tangledsparkles @daydreamqueenjaycee (reply here if you want to be added!)

05: Tests, Allies, Enemies

Your apartment is uncharacteristically spotless.

The first place that you were going to attack, your kitchen sink, looks like it has been power-washed. All of your dishes have been cleaned and stacked neatly on their shelves. The trash has been taken out, and the room smells lemony fresh. You forgot that the faucet knobs had blue and red rings around them to indicate hot and cold.

Your living room, bathroom, and bedroom are also gleaming. Everything’s been dusted, scrubbed, and laundered.

The dirtiest thing in your apartment is you, a bit sweaty and tired from your drive back home, and only cleansed by motel shower water and a complimentary, tiny bar of soap that didn’t quite lather.

You pull out your phone and call Sejin.

“There’s our little vagabond!” Sejin greets brightly.

“I’m not a vagabond,” you say, frowning. “Explorer, sure. Wanderer, sort of. Voyager, arguably.”

“Well, you’re definitely still a writer,” Sejin grumbles.

You chuckle. “Calling me a vagabond implies that I have no home, but I’m currently standing in my home and wondering what the hell happened to it.”

“What do you mean?” he asks quickly. “I took care of everything!”

“That’s what I mean,” you say, letting the handle of your suitcase go and walking around your living room. “How is everything so clean?”

“How did everything get so dirty?” Sejin asks.

You sigh. “What I mean is, how did you get in? I revoked your key privileges the first time I went down a spiral, when you brought me that gross ginger-beet juice that I swear didn’t even have beets in it.”

“It was red!”

“All I could taste was the ginger, and it made me gag! How the hell did you get into my apartment?”

“Your super recognized me,” Sejin explains. “I said you were my girlfriend, and I said that I thought I smelled a gas leak. When he let me in, I called a local cleaning service. I put away all your personal belongings before they got there and stayed while they worked. It didn’t take long, but it took way longer than it should have taken a team of three to clean a one-bedroom apartment.”

“But… why?” you ask, overwhelmed by Sejin’s kind act.

“I wanted it to be clean when you got back to it so that you could focus on your writing,” he says. “According to your most updated schedule, you’re jotting down ideas and updating the show bible for a couple of days before meeting your next victim, right?”

“Wow, victim?”

“Sorry. Casualty?”

“Now who’s the writer,” you mock. “And don’t think that each of these relationships ended just because of me!”

“I don’t think that,” Sejin says softly. “I just know first-hand how all-encompassing and transformative it is to be loved by you. Honestly, you kill me.”

You sigh, your heart filling to the brim. “Aw. I do love you Sejin. Deeply. But you can’t say things like that to me in the state that I’m in. I will cry, and you will feel uncomfortable.”

He laughs. “How is that different from any other day?”

And you’re back into your routine repartee. You chat for a while, updating Sejin on everything. Everything with your family. Everything you’ve learned. Everything you plan to bring into the show. You even share some things that you don’t, but that you feel are interesting anyway. It’s funny. He’s decidedly not a fan of dramas or romcoms, but he’s riveted by every detail. You wonder if you can use that as a barometer for the kind of audience you’ll attract, but then again, his dedication could merely stem from the fact that Sejin deeply loves you, too.

“I’ve been in a state, too,” Sejin says. “Anxious about you being out there on your own. Driving at night. Driving at all.”

“Hey!”

“Still. It sounds like you’re getting some answers, and that those answers are sparking some great creativity.”

You smile. “Hey, wait, how did the pitch go?”

“They ate it up. They asked for seconds. They’re excited that you’re back for good,” he says excitedly.

You look around your apartment. You’ve been home for an hour, and you still haven’t sat down. Are you back for good?

“Well, tell them I’m still working,” you say.

“They know,” Sejin replies. “They promised not to interfere. They’re trusting the process.” You can hear him grinning from ear to ear. “Can you believe it’s taken this long for them to say that phrase back to you? How many times did you insist they do that on the first run?”

You laugh. “Progress all around.”

“Speaking of, I’ll let you get settled in,” Sejin replies. “Eat something, OK?”

“Don’t worry,” you say, patting your stomach. You’ve put on a couple of pounds. They look good on you. You don’t look so feeble anymore.

You’ll need strength to get through these last three.

You unpack, shower, and change. You start the laundry. You order some dinner.

And then, as you sit down to eat, you wonder what Taehyung is having.

You pull out your phone and start digging into your meal.

“Birdie,” he says warmly. “Hi. Are you back in the city?

“Yeah, got back a couple of hours ago.”

“What’s up?”

You smirk. “Nothing. I was just…” You laugh sheepishly. “Well, I was wondering what you were having for dinner.”

Taehyung laughs. “Just some noodles and soup. Let me put you on speakerphone.” You hear his voice change. He sounds just a bit farther away. “Grandma, do you wanna say hi to Birdie?”

You hear her lean over. “Hello, dear!”

“Hello!” you exclaim.

“How are you on rent? Do you need help with the store this month?”

Taehyung laughs. “She thinks you’re my sister.”

“Don’t laugh,” she replies. “Your sister works really hard. The least we could do is help her out whenever she needs it.”

“You sound like you’re in high spirits,” you say.

“Of course I am!” Taehyung’s grandmother cheers. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You smile fondly. You miss her. You wonder if it’s weird that you miss her.

“We’re gonna finish up here in a little bit, and then we’re going to watch a movie,” Taehyung says. From the sound of it, he’s taken you off speakerphone. “One of her old favorites. Helps her stay entertained but calm. What will you be up to?”

“Writing, as usual,” you say. “But I’m eating now. And I’ve showered this time.”

“Ooh,” Taehyung says. “For future reference you should call me when you’re doing that instead. A video call would work in that scenario.”

You both laugh, and then you hear Taehyung’s grandmother ask about what’s so funny.

“I should go,” Taehyung replies. “Talk tomorrow?”

“Call me when you’re free,” you say.

You spend the next couple of days summarizing your journey so far. The surprise of Jimin. The warmth of Taehyung. The heartache of Yoongi. The thrill of Jungkook.

And then the first day comes that you really dread.

You pull out the one journal that isn’t pristine. There are some pages ripped out.

You want to read, but it takes you a long time before you can bring yourself to actually look at the page.

November 11th

I love my new apartment. It’s so much bigger than my place with Dae. And I miss her, but if we have to be apart, then I’m glad it’s because of opportunity rather than a falling out. I can see her in suits and heels, globetrotting and whipping marketing teams into shape, talking about SEOs and ROIs and… other stuff. I never really paid attention when she got into the acronyms.

Work’s going well for me, too. Being a staff writer is kind of like just being myself, only in a room with other people. It’s weird, writing with a team. It feels mechanical at times. But it also unleashes a different sort of side to my creativity. The part I love most is building with each other. Building off of someone else’s comment. Building from a prompt or idea. Building from the previous episode. I always thought other writers would get in the way of my own development. I never thought I could create something with someone like this.

I also just really love living in the city. There’s a bakery downstairs that also sells amazing coffee. I go there to start my morning almost every day. I even get great recommendations for some cool spots. I finally made it to the art gallery that one barista told me about.

And lo and behold, I met someone there.

People talk about seeing someone and knowing who someone is instantly. I think that’s what I experienced today. His name is Namjoon, and---

You slam the journal shut.

You stare at the cover.

You’ve brought your journals with you on each visit, but you really, really don’t want to bring this one with you. It was hard enough resigning yourself to packing it in your suitcase. But you also know that you need to have it to start the conversation.

Then again, maybe you’re overreacting. You know the conversation will be civil. He didn’t sound brusque on the phone. He sounded, well, fine. And he did agree to meet you. Even if you’re asking him to revisit some things, why would he drive across town just to yell over things that you had put away years ago?

You walk a few blocks to your old place and smile when you see the familiar building. You never go this way anymore. You see the bakery, and you quickly learn that the staff is completely different. Younger. You suspect that more families have moved into this part of town. Or, maybe it’s that the neighborhood kids are older now, and therefore more independent, and more visible. At any rate, the staff is mostly made up of high school students looking for a little bit of money of their own.

You order some pastries, a hazelnut latte for yourself, and an espresso for Namjoon. You sit down in a booth by the door. You sit there so that he sees you right away, and you leave him the seat closest to the exit, in case he wants to bail at any point.

He’s only a few minutes behind you, and your chest constricts when you see him.

He’s pushing a stroller.

You get up and help him through the door. He smiles at you gratefully. You look down and see a tiny Namjoon in the stroller, dimples and all. He’s fast asleep, wearing a huge pair of headphones, the earpieces as big as his head. They squish his chubby cheeks together.

You melt instantly.

You lead Namjoon over to your booth, and a barista brings your orders to your table.

Namjoon parks the stroller so that it clears the aisle.

“Wow,” you whisper, staring at his incredibly adorable son.

“Oh, you can talk at full volume,” Namjoon says confidently. “This little sucker’s gonna be out for at least another two more hours. And he can’t hear a thing with those headphones on.”

“What’s with those, anyway?”

“They wanted to go to a concert, and we were nervous about hearing loss,” Namjoon replies.

You grin. “They? Last we checked in, you had one baby. This is number…?”

“Four,” Namjoon says. “Three girls.” He gestures to his son. “First boy.” He sighs, exhausted. “Last child.”

Your eyes widen, and he laughs.

You switch Namjoon’s and your coffees for the correct orders, and then you dig into some pastries. You select a cheese danish. He picks out an eclair.

“Thanks,” Namjoon says, raising it to toast you.

You smile and hold up the piece of danish on your fork before scarfing it down.

“Dainty as ever,” he says, laughing at the bit of cream cheese poking out of the side of your mouth.

You roll your eyes and wipe your mouth with your napkin, and then you watch as Namjoon swallows his bite, wiping his own mouth and looking out the window.

“Did you have a long drive?” you ask.

“No. It was kind of nice. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to hang out here. It all looks so different.”

“I know,” you muse.

He looks back at you. “So we’re here to talk about stuff for your new show?”

You shift in your seat. His eyes linger on you.

“You seem nervous,” he says, a little seriously.

“I am.”

“You never seem nervous when you’re on TV,” Namjoon says.

You grin. “You’ve seen me on TV?”

“We watched your first show,” he says. “And she loves awards season.” He grimaces. “Am I talking about her too much?”

“No,” you say, and you think you’re being fully honest when you say that. Sure, it was painful, what happened. But how could he not talk about his wife? Especially when he has four kids with her?

“It’s relevant, actually,” you go on. “I’m writing a show about my past relationships.”

You toss the journal onto the table like it’s not a big deal.

Part of you wonders if you’re letting the wife talk slide because you’ve just brought up the journal.

Namjoon looks down at it. He looks at it like it’s a corpse that’s come back to life. He sighs heavily, exhaling every molecule of carbon dioxide in his body, staring up at you.

You wince, and then you nod.

“Wait,” he says, concerned. “Are you going to… Are you going to use our stuff---”

“Not exactly,” you say. “No one will know it’s you. No one will know what truly happened. But I do want to pull stuff from my actual life. Put it up against a magnifying glass.”

“Inspect?” Namjoon says warily.

“Observe,” you correct.

Namjoon folds his lips into themselves and looks down at the eclair he’s just taken a bite out of.

“You lured me here with an eclair, and now I’m trapped because I want to finish it,” he says, half-joking.

“Not my intention,” you say lightly. “And you can take the eclair and go if you’d rather not talk.”

Namjoon nods. “OK.”

You brace for the rush of cold air from him leaving his seat, but instead, he leans forward and rests his arms on the table. “Where do you want to start?”

You smile.

“The beginning.”

“Hi,” you say brightly to the guy standing at the register.

“Hi, what can I get you?” the barista asks.

“Hazelnut latte,” you say.

“To go?”

“Yes, please.”

You pay with the app on your phone, and you bounce in place as he finalizes the transaction.

“You seem chipper,” he observes, laughing. “You sure you need this coffee?”

“I’m just excited. I just moved here,” you say, grinning. You look around the charming bakery. Everything is so neat and bright. The baseboards are a beautiful pale yellow. There’s a gorgeous orchid display in the back corner. It’s not so empty that you can’t people watch, but not so full that you can’t hear yourself think.

You’re going to get so much writing done here.

“So, will this be your usual?” the barista jokes, writing your order on your cup.

“I guess so,” you reply, following him over to the bar.

You’re the only one placing an order at the moment, so the barista goes ahead and makes your drink. You haven’t really gotten to know anyone in your neighborhood yet, so you decide to make some small talk.

“How long have you lived here?” you ask him.

“A while,” he says.

“Any recommendations for a newcomer like me?” you ask.

“Sure,” he says, amused. “Where do you live?”

You grin. “Just upstairs.” You love that you live close to a bakery. You can always smell fresh bread baking.

“Oh, cool,” the barista replies. “Well, there’s tons of stuff around here. There’s a new Greek restaurant that does that whole flaming cheese thing. It’s about five blocks east. There’s a nearby club that hosts local musicians. And there’s an art gallery down that way that always has amazing exhibits.”

“Nice,” you say. “I’ll definitely have to check those out.”

He hands you your order.

The next day, you animatedly ask the barista if you can call this your “usual” yet, and he chuckles at you.

Weeks later, you bring one of your usuals to the art gallery that he mentioned. It’s a sweeping, sterile space with impossibly white walls and delicate frames around differently-sized paintings, some of which you don’t recognize, and many of which everyone in the world recognizes. You stare in awe as you move from painting to painting, stopping and pausing at each work and reading the labels for more information. You spot a Gaugain, one of his lesser-known works, a painting of a woman, two people, and a bird in the corner. You recognize it as a Gaugain because of the subject material, colors, and shapes, which , thanks to the label, you learn are characteristics of the Synthetist movement.

You stare at the woman’s face in the painting. She seems unsure. You feel seen by her.

You feel seen by someone else, too.

Specifically, you feel someone else’s eyes on your shoulder, and you slowly turn to see a guy watching you from over his shoulder. He has a good-natured smile on his face, and his arms are crossed in front of him, some pamphlets dangling from his hand.

You smile back, and your gazes linger a little bit before you return to the painting that you were admiring.

You almost forget about him by the time you’re leaving the gallery, but you catch sight of him by the exit. He’s taking a coffee and a pastry from one of the food stalls by the gift shop. He leaves a tip in their tip jar, and he exchanges thank-yous with the person at the register. You watch him walk out to the courtyard, sit at a bench, and enjoy his coffee and pastry.

You watch as his dimples deepen as he brings the cup to his lips and takes a sip.

He’s extremely handsome, but he also looks like a cute grandpa, sitting there in his jacket and baseball cap on the bench under those trees.

You’ve got a new energy within you. You’ve had it since you moved here and started working on your new team. You’re more open to talk to people, more eager to make conversation where you wouldn’t have before.

So you get a coffee and a pastry, and you ask for some extra napkins.

You walk over to the guy at the bench just as he drops the remainder of his pastry and spills some powdered sugar on his jacket.

“Here,” you giggle, handing him some of those napkins.

He smiles, and he takes a couple.

“Wow, thanks,” he says. “You couldn’t have had better timing.”

You laugh and watch him gently brush the sugar off of his chest and to the ground.

“Did I see you earlier?” you ask. “I was over in the Post-Impressionism wing.”

“Yeah,” he tells you. “I noticed your hair. It’s very pretty. ”

You blush. You’ve been so busy and distracted that you haven’t gotten it cut in a while.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to have a seat?” he asks. “I’m still enjoying my coffee.”

“Wanna split this with me?” you ask, holding up your intact pastry.

“Oh, no, that’s OK---”

You sit down, set your coffee down gently on the bench, and then use a napkin to tear your pastry in half. You hand him his half, along with the napkin.

He smiles at you, surprised.

“What?” you ask, looking at your clothes to see what you’ve spilled.

“You’re really sweet,” he says.

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Not really. Most days, I’m far from that.”

“Doubtful,” he replies, still smiling. “I have a soft spot for sweet things. What’s your name?”

You tell him, and he says, “Even your name sounds sweet.”

“And what about your name?” you ask, making him laugh.

“I’m Namjoon. I’ll let you think about what that says about me.”

You exchange numbers, and you text every now and then. You talk about art. You talk about being new to the city. It turns out that he’s also new to the city. He moved into his apartment, which is pretty close to yours, a month before you did. He also has a new job. He’s an art critic, and he writes pieces for a major magazine. You get a sampling of his tastes when he finally asks you out a month later. He invites you as his plus one to a new exhibition at a smaller gallery, and he asks if you want to get dinner afterwards.

You meet him at the gallery, and you’re stunned by him in his white button-up, sleeves rolled up, tucked into black pants, and his thick, black glasses. It’s so simple. You don’t know why you can’t breathe.

“Hey,” he says, smiling warmly at you.

“Hi,” you say meekly, looking down at the ground and feeling self-conscious.

But he reaches for your chin and raises it so that he can see your eyes.

He’s so tall.

“You look stunning,” he says, and you grin.

He offers his elbow, and you loop your arm around it, following him inside, thrown by the way he easily breezes past security.

You wonder who he is. You realize you never looked him up.

When you get inside, he explains who the artist is and what the show is about. You don’t fully understand it, but it has to do with playing with time. There are a variety of abstract paintings of sundials, clocks, and hourglasses. Namjoon holds his champagne flute delicately by the stem, extending his index finger and leaning into you to explain the shapes.

“See the two lines that deepen and stretch across the entire canvas? And then the grey lines fanning out underneath?”

“Yeah?”

“I think that’s the hand of a clock or watch, and the grey lines are meant to show the seconds or minutes that pass before and after the time that’s displayed.”

You nod. You see it now. And for as long as you know Namjoon, you’re amazed at how much of the world you wouldn’t have seen had he not shown it to you.

“Oh, this one’s dope,” he says excitedly, swinging you around and leading you to the showcase piece.

It’s a monstrous, rectangular canvas that takes up nearly a whole wall. The painting looks just like a bunch of dots of color. You see the artist, a graceful, fit woman in a bright yellow bodysuit, talking to a crowd of admirers while standing off to the side.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“Pointillism?” you ask.

Namjoon grins. He leans into you and whispers, “What she’s saying is that each pinpoint-sized dot was painted on the hour, every hour, for decades and decades. Each color that she chose was a color of the mood that she was in. She claims to have a story for each dot. And she also had someone radiocarbon date the paint layers to legitimize her claims.”

“The dedication it took to pull that off,” you sigh in wonder.

When the crowd clears, Namjoon walks you up to the artist and introduces you both to her. She’s incredibly stylish and gracious, thanking you for coming to her show and commenting that she’s been watching you both all night.

“You caught my eye by the door, earlier,” she says. “First date?”

You and Namjoon exchange glances and laugh sheepishly.

“It looks like it’s going well,” she says, raising her eyebrows and grinning.

Someone tickles your elbow, and you turn around to see another writer from work. Minji is whip smart and an amazing senior writer on the show that you’re currently working on. She’s taken you under her wing as an unofficial mentor, and it’s paid off. People are interested in reading your spec scripts. You’re slowly but surely getting closer to making the connections you’ll need to launch your own show.

“You look amazing!” you exclaim. “But then again, you always look amazing.” And you mean it. She’s probably one of the most modelesque people you’ve ever seen up close, and her sartorial choices are always so avant-garde. Tonight, her long, black hair is slicked back into a tight, angular ponytail clasped together with a highlighter-orange cuff that matches her orange eyeshadow and orange, rhombus-shaped dress.

“Ugh, that is exactly why I’m always so excited to see you!” she squeals, hugging you. “How are you here? I thought you said you were going on a date tonight?”

“I am currently mid-date,” you whisper, glancing over at Namjoon, who’s still speaking with the artist.

“Wow, he’s cute,” Minji coos, raising her eyebrows.

“I know,” you say. “Min, I don’t know what to do. He’s so smart and sexy. He’s totally out of my league.”

“No such thing,” she tells you. “We all may have different jobs and titles and experiences, but in the end, people are just people.”

You smile. “So wise.”

She basks in your praise, even if it’s sarcastic. “I know.”

You both laugh, and she takes a sip of her martini.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

She nods as she swallows her sip. She pulls the toothpick of olives out of her drink and eats one. “I know the guy who owns the gallery. His partner and I were both Lit majors together in college.” She leans into you and speaks out of the side of her mouth. “They sometimes ask their friends to come to these things just to help fill up the room, but this lady seems pretty popular, so I think I’m gonna bounce soon.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Like ten minutes.”

You laugh, and she rolls her eyes. “What?” she asks. “I fucking hate art galleries. They’re so goddamn boring, and all the people are so snooty.”

Knowing Minji’s personality, those opinions definitely track.

She grins. “So it’s dinner after this?”

You nod.

“And then definitely sex after that, right?” she asks, slapping the side of your thigh playfully.

You laugh, but you stare at her in confusion. She’s not usually this touchy-feely. “How many of those have you had?” you ask, rubbing where she slapped you.

“This is my third.”

“In ten minutes?!”

Minji pulls you close, and her breath smells like olives and gin. “Have the best time, and I want to hear everything on Monday,” she says. “I wanna know where you went. What you ordered. How much it cost. How much of it you ate. How many times you had sex. Where. What positions. How big his dick is. I’m guessing it’s fucking Brobdingnagian.”

“What’s Brobdingnagian?” Namjoon asks, joining your conversation and smiling.

“The canvas,” Minji says, without missing a beat. God, you’ve gotta love her.

“No, I mean, what does Brobdingnagian mean?” Namjoon asks, laughing.

“It’s from Gulliver’s Travels,” she says. “It means gigantic. Y’know, like your cock.”

Namjoon’s cheeks, even his dimples, are a bright crimson.

“Minji’s on her way out,” you say, biting back laughter and spinning her around. “Bye, Minji!”

She walks away and waves her hand dismissively. “See you Monday!” she calls, wiggling her fingers but not turning back to see you.

“We work together,” you say, turning to Namjoon. “She’s a senior writer.”

His skin is starting to return to its normal color. He smiles. “She seems fun.”

“She is. Sometimes, too much fun.” You grin. “Uh, so, how was the talk with the artist?”

“Great,” he says, nodding. “I’ve gotten what I need for my article, so… Would you like to head out to dinner?”

“I’d love to,” you say, slipping your arm in the crook of his elbow.

The rest of the evening provides you with answers for Minji’s questions. You eat dinner at a small, intimate cafe, all exposed brick and soft, industrial lighting. You order seafood pasta, and he orders a salad and a steak. You eat it all. He generously offers to pay, but you get a free meal when the owner of the restaurant recognizes him as an art critic. You feel so grown-up and posh.

You’re kissing by the time you step out of the cafe and onto the curb, as he orders a rideshare.

“Yours or mine?” he whispers, his phone screen reflecting in his glasses.

“Do you wanna come to mine?” you ask.

He smiles. “I would.”

He hands you his phone, and you enter your address. You slip his phone back into his pocket when you’re done, and you feel a preview of how Brobdingnagian he is. He moans a little at your touch, and you make out so fiercely that you almost miss your rideshare as it pulls up next to you.

You can’t keep your hands off of each other during the ride. You spill out of the car, laughing and pawing at each other, and you excitedly lead him upstairs and to your apartment. He tumbles into your bed, and you straddle him as you slip out of your dress and lean down to kiss him.

He looks up at you and smiles softly, saying, “You ready, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you say happily.

But you’re not.

You’re not ready for the way he gazes at you as he sits up slowly and unbuttons his shirt. How he carefully slides it off of his lean body. How he tosses it aside and looks back at you. How he uses the same care to undo the front clasp on your bra. How he plants kisses on your shoulders as he removes the straps from them. How he gently slides them down your arms. How he plants his lips on your sternum, kissing there before taking the swells of your breasts in his mouth. His lips look so plump against you, and he looks like he’s enjoying the taste of you. You shiver as you think you feel the back of his throat against your nipple. He’s forcing as much of your chest into his mouth as he can. He’d rip your breast from your bones if he could.

You rock gently against him, moaning and quickly becoming wet as his cock rises to meet your flesh. You run your fingers through his hair, and then you grab at the crown of his head, forcing your breast out of his throat and making him look up at the ceiling. You kiss him, and then travel down his neck, his chest, his stomach, and then to his waist. You undo his belt buckle and fly, and he stands to allow you to pull his pants down. You push him down, and he laughs. You aren’t sure why, but you think it’s because he finds you so cute and charming, gazing at his length. You circle your lips around it, and you run your tongue in circles around it, transforming his gentle laughs into groans. He starts to pump his hips up, and you feel like you might gag. But you squeeze your eyes tight and try to let your throat relax to let him enter you. Slowly, he does, and it becomes easier and easier to have him there. It feels more and more right. It feels more and more like you’re an extension of him.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, slowing his pace down. He’s noticing your furrowed brow. You shake your head a little, and you open your eyes to look at him. He moans when he sees your eyes, and you run your hands along his thighs to help coax him back into the moment.

He starts moving faster, and you stay with him. And then he stills, panting.

“Let me go,” he whispers.

You slide off of him carefully, your throat feeling a little sore, and he reaches for his pants. He pulls out his thick, leather wallet and puts a condom on. And then he reaches for you. He pushes you down onto the bed and brings your arms behind you, folding them into the small of your back. You whine hoarsely when he enters you. It feels like you’re sinking, in the best way possible. He starts off slow and measured, but as you blossom for him, he thrusts deeper and deeper. Your skin claps for him with each push. Your body mourns the loss of him with each exit. You feel like he is the moon, and you are the tide responding to him, swelling and receding.

You cry out.

“There,” you moan, your voice thin.

“Mmm.”

He slams into you exactly the way you need him to, and with a couple of strong strokes, you come so fully that your limbs feel like they disconnect from your body. He’s taking you apart so well. But his hands stay wrapped against your wrists, pinning them just above your ass. You don’t think you’ll ever be whole again without him keeping you together.

He flips you over, and traces of your juices stick together, threading up from your mattress. He licks you clean, and he starts the process all over again, only this time, he pins your hands onto your stomach. He presses down onto you with the full weight of your body. You’re flattening out for him. You can barely breathe.

“More,” you gasp.

He’s so sweaty. He smiles and takes off his glasses, a move that you unexplainably find sexy, like he’s about to put in some real work. You can’t believe that everything up until this point wasn’t real work.

He slams into you again, and you come almost immediately, your woken clit still sensitive from being pressed and rubbed into your duvet. And then he runs his fingers over it, quickly moving back and forth, and making you feel like he’s going to pluck it out of you.

“Hurts?” he whispers.

You nod. “But don’t stop.”

He does as you say, and then you come again, crying now.

“Aw, sweetie,” he teases, leaning down to kiss your tears away.

You pucker your lips, and he meets them with his. You start to move your hips, and he grunts warningly. You keep moving your hips, and he knows that you want him to come.

“You gonna take care of me?” he asks you.

“Mmhmm,” you moan, sliding up and down your bed.

He lets an “ooh” pour out of him, and then he smirks. “Like I took care of you?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Say thank you,” he tells you.

Your eyes are still closed in ecstasy, but you frown slightly. “Thank you?”

“Thank you, what?”

You open your eyes, and you see him peering down at you not quite lecherous enough to make you feel uncomfortable, but to suggest a tone of playful danger.

“What does my sweetie need to say?” he says, trying to prompt you. He doesn’t want to tell you outright. “C’mon. You’re smart. You know me. You know what I’d like to hear.”

You smile. His big ego. His big dick energy.

“Daddy,” you moan, and he bites his lip as a shiver travels down his spine. “Thank you, Daddy. I wanna take care of you, Daddy. Just like you took care of me.”

You twist your hips into all sorts of angles now, pressing your thighs together and crossing your legs underneath him every which way to make yourself as varied and tight as you can for him.

“Fuck,” he cries out before he comes. You almost wish that instead of pooling and collecting that it was spilling all over you, painted inside of you, bold white brushstrokes on the walls of your pink canvas.

You squirm and come again, and he collapses on top of you, peppering you with so many cute kisses that you giggle.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes. “That was ridiculously amazing.”

You smile. “It was for me, too.”

“Can I spend the night?” he asks, already drowsy.

“Of course you can,” you whisper, kissing him back.

He ties off the condom, throws it away, and jumps back into your arms, wrapping you up in his and snuggling against you in your bed.

You run your fingertips around the cap of his shoulder, a smooth, slow circle.

As he drifts off to sleep, he tells you, “I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave.”

It’s taken you about a year, but you’ve finally successfully pitched a script.

Namjoon picks you up and twirls you around when you tell him. “Are you fucking kidding? That’s amazing!” he cheers.

He sets you back down on the ground. You both stare at the text that Minji has just sent you. She’s giving you a heads-up to make sure that when you get into work today, that you’re ready to be bombarded with all sorts of questions and instructions for next steps. You’ve finally made it. Head writer is within your sights.

But if you don’t go into the bakery in the next five minutes, you’re going to be late, and you might lose it all.

You and Namjoon step inside, and luckily, there’s no line.

You catch the barista’s eye, and he grins at the two of you. “Morning, folks. Usuals?”

“Can you whip up something unique?” Namjoon asks, beaming at you. “We’re celebrating.”

The barista smiles. “I think I have an idea.”

You and Namjoon wait at the bar, and in almost no time, two identical coffee cups are being slid over to you.

You pick it up and taste it. Your eyes flash open, and you turn to the barista. “I love this! It’s like a liquefied Kit-Kat bar!”

Namjoon tries it and grimaces a little before smiling. “Sweets for my sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing you.

The barista grins before heading back to the register. “Congrats on whatever it is that you’re celebrating.”

You and Namjoon head outside and giggle happily about this new opportunity as you walk toward the nearest subway entrance. You drive much less now that you live in the city. It takes forever to get anywhere, and parking is so expensive. You haven’t even checked to make sure that your car is still in good shape.

Namjoon parts with you at the turnstiles. You go north, and he goes south. But he kisses you deeply before you go.

“We’ll have to make tonight extra special,” he tells you, as he leans in.

“Between this and your first major feature, I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk at all this weekend,” you purr, after sucking on his juicy, bottom lip as you pull away.

“Good. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

You laugh, and then you head off to start the day with your commutes.

As the subway travels above ground for a stretch, you feel yourself being pulled to do something you haven’t done in a while. Your fingers feel itchy. You reach into your purse and pull out your phone.

You aren’t sure if this is OK to do, but after thinking it over, you decide that it’s totally fine. Namjoon doesn’t necessarily have to know everything, and even if he did, he’s an open-minded person.

You bring the phone to your ear, and you feel your heart flutter.

“Hey, missy.”

You smile. It’s been years since you’ve heard Yoongi’s voice.

“Hey,” you say brightly. “Good morning.”

“Morning?”

You check the time. 7 AM is definitely morning.

“Yeah?” You furrow your brow. “Wait, where are you?”

“Oh, I’m on a shoot. Out of town.”

“How far out of town?”

“Far.”

You smirk. Yoongi was always more fond of written words than spoken ones.

“Am I interrupting you?”

“Nah.”

You smirk. You know from his tone that you are, but he doesn’t want to tell you so. “I just wanted to say that they’re doing my script. It’s gonna be part of the second half of the season.”

“Oh, missy, that’s fucking brilliant,” he says. He whispers his next words. “I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you.”

Your chest swells. You feel like you’re glowing.

“Listen, I have to go. But I’ll call you back soon. OK?”

Your lips curl into a smile. He won’t. “Bye, Yoongi.”

“Take care.”

Work feels like a flash of lightning. People are congratulating you as soon as you get into the office. You think about what it’ll be like on set in a few weeks. Minji nearly has tears in her eyes, she’s so thrilled for you.

But then, you’re heading home. You’re showering. You’re exfoliating. You’re moisturizing. Everything you’re using has glitter and smells like flowers. You’re getting yourself ready for Namjoon, who searches for you as soon as he opens the door to your now shared apartment.

He sees empty plates and a full bottle of wine set at the kitchen table. He sees food containers on the counter, still wrapped up to be kept warm.

“In here,” you beckon from the bedroom.

And when he walks in, he sighs at you.

You’re lying in a sheer, champagne baby doll dress, resting your back against your headboard and rubbing the last of your lotion into your knee. Your hair, in long, beachy waves, spirals down and grazes against your thigh as you move.

“I didn’t have time to put on makeup,” you grumble, looking up at him.

But Namjoon’s eyes are soft and bewildered.

“You… God,” he breathes.

You smile and blush, and he strides over to you. He doesn’t grab at you. He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t even touch you. He just sits on the bed next to you, grinning at you.

“I love you,” he tells you.

You smile.

He reaches over and strokes your calf.

“Smooth,” he says, making you laugh.

“I made sure of it,” you say.

“Not just your leg,” he says, smirking. “The whole thing. The food. The wine.” He runs his hand up your leg and runs the edge of your skirt through his knuckles. “The lingerie.”

You bite your lip and place his hand on your thigh.

“Congratulations,” you tell him again, breathless. “I’m so happy for you.”

“I’m happy for us,” he replies. “It’s all happening. Just like we wanted. Right?”

“It’s even better,” you say.

He smiles and finally kisses you. Your kiss grows heated, and he starts to push you back against the headboard.

Being with Namjoon has given you an appreciation for understanding texture. The way paint gathers on a canvas. The way fabric feels against your skin. You love the feel of the soft lace against your skin as he massages your entire body with his hands, starting with your torso, and working his way up to your breasts. You love the feel of the linen covering your headboard, rubbing against your back as he slides you into the center of the mattress. But you love most the feel of his tongue, playful and teasing at first, then strong and commanding as you continue, winding down your body and making the lace dance across your body in little swipes.

He undresses without you realizing. You’ve had your eyes closed since that kiss that pressed you against the headboard.

And now, he’s pressing his tongue into your folds, licking your freshly shaven pussy and delighting in the sensation.

“Mmm, Daddy,” you moan, and he sucks in his spit and breath at the sound.

He kisses your lips. “What do you want, sweetheart? I wanna give it to you.”

“Make me come with your mouth,” you say.

He wraps your thighs around his head and gives you everything. His warm breath. His flexible tongue. Even his teeth, in small pinches and playful nips.

You’re writing, clasping the headboard behind you, starting to hear the wood underneath thump… thump… thump against the wall as Namjoon gets into his rhythm.

“I want you in me,” you mumble.

“I haven’t made you come yet.”

“I want both.”

“Hmm,” he says, grinning.

You smile at him, and you impress him with your lasciviousness.

He slides you down so that you’re lying flat, and then he straddles you upside down, staying on all fours as he eats you out and waits for you to take him.

You reach up for him, stroking his hardening cock, and you see him buck his hips when you finally place him inside of your mouth.

“Fuck, I’ve been so turned on all day,” Namjoon says. “And then seeing you like that? I don’t know if I can last.”

“Do it for me, Daddy,” you say, and he exhales slowly.

You move together, groaning in pleasure and taking breaks to make it last as long as you can. Namjoon tells you that he finds it so unfair that you can come so many times, even though he loves getting you there, loves watching you move in response to him.

“Just come for me,” you say. “I want you to be in the moment. I want you to feel good.”

Namjoon sighs and lets his body take over. He pumps in and out of you, and when you moan, he grunts at the feeling of your throat buzzing around his sensitive shaft and tip. He stills and revels in the sensation when you rub his balls with your hands, spitting and making them wet before taking his dick inside your throat again. And he really goes crazy when you spread his ass cheeks apart. He’s nearly screaming into your pussy, while you run your fingers along his ridges as you suck him off.

Soon, he comes loudly, gathering your blankets and sheets into his fists as you swallow every last drop.

And then he looks back at you and grins.

“Shit,” he says, panting and sweating. “I actually… I think I can keep going.”

You smile wide, and Namjoon scrambles to line himself up against your pussy entrance. But then he changes his mind. He picks you up, and you let out an unexpected “eep!”

He laughs as he kisses you, and he carries you into the living room, setting you down on the couch, making you kneel on the seat and hold onto the back, facing the wall.

You stick your ass out and wave it at him, and he palms your ass cheeks.

You didn’t know you’d love this as much as you do, now that he’s shown you.

He slaps your ass once. Hard.

You cry out, and you feel the blood rushing to your skin.

He pats your ass to prime you. And then he slaps your ass again. The other cheek. Harder.

You cry out again. It’s so hard that, even though it’s impossible, you feel like he might have broken the skin.

He shoves himself into your pussy, smacking you as he fucks you.

“I’m so close,” you tell him.

“Fuck, sweetheart, take it,” he tells you. “God, you look so good when you do.”

He tears into you, and you come so hard that your knees start to shake.

When you get to this point, Namjoon usually gathers you up in his arms and holds you close. It’s what you liked before. It’s how the others used to hold you as you came.

But tonight is special.

When your knees start to shake, and you’re whimpering his name, he smacks your ass again and says, “Who?”

“Daddy,” you whine, “please.”

And then he pushes his gigantic cock into your ass, so tight and red by now that you get slightly worried. But that worry evaporates as he sails back and forth, in and out of you, gliding so effortlessly that it’s like you were both made to do this, and only this.

“Fuck, fuck, Daddy, I’m gonna come again,” you cry. “Make me come again.”

His voice gets uncharacteristically higher and higher, and then you come together. He wobbles and takes a step back, watching as his cream drips out of both of your holes so, so slowly.

Before it hits the fabric of the couch, he kneels and sucks it out of you, swallowing just like you did.

You’re so exhausted and raw. So he takes care of you. You laugh together, and he gently wraps you up in the blanket just next to you. And then he shakily walks over to the kitchen, taking deep breaths and humming happily. He grabs the food. He doesn’t bother putting it onto plates. He swipes the wine. And then you feast as you relax on the couch, naked and pressed against each other.

“Honestly, though,” Namjoon says. “What do you think about calling me Daddy?”

You giggle. “You know what I think. It’s sexy as fuck.”

Namjoon tickles you, and you laugh.

He pulls you closer, and he wipes some sauce from your chin.

“I mean it. What if… what if we had a baby?”

Your eyes widen.

“A baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You and me?”

He laughs. “Yes.” He sighs. “I’ve always wanted to be a father. But I…”

He reaches for your hand, clasping it tightly.

“I guess I hadn’t found you yet,” he says.

Your heart rate starts to quicken.

“Joon,” you say softly.

You lean forward and kiss him.

You’re so warm. You’re heated by your passion. You’re cozy in your blanket. And the love that Namjoon has for you is making you melt.

“Let’s do it,” you say. “Let’s make a baby.” You laugh sheepishly. “If we haven’t just already.”

He laughs, and then he feeds you another bite, kissing your lips and chuckling against you.

Younger you wouldn’t recognize yourself. You bake now. You go antiquing. You wear slippers. You and Namjoon have a pair of grandma and grandpa slippers. It helps make things softer on your knees. But the slippers, cookies, and old furniture are all that you have in common with grandparents. To be grandparents, you’d need to have kids.

It’s starting to weigh on you.

You let the recommended year pass, and then, you make up your mind.

Namjoon makes all the appointments. You can’t bring yourself to make them. You’ve always had this seed of a thought in the back of your mind. It’s grown over time. Before Namjoon, you’d used condoms pretty much every time you’ve had sex, and you’ve never had a pregnancy scare. Your period has always come like clockwork. Sometimes loud and raging. Sometimes quiet and surprising. But it always comes. And you’d always been thankful that nothing happened.

Now, you feel stupid for being thankful for nothing.

The fertility specialist, a referral from your OB/GYN, knocks on the door before she swings it open. She smiles at you both sitting nervously across from her desk. And then she sits down in her chair. Her smile is warm. It’s comforting to Namjoon. But as she sets her file folder down, she keeps her eyes on you.

Just you.

She’s doing all the movements that you would write for a character that is about to deliver bad news.

And she knows that you know.

“This is always difficult,” the doctor replies, folding her hands.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Namjoon says, confused. He looks between the both of you. “What are the results? What did the tests say?”

You look at him, and you shake your head. “I always had a feeling,” you say. “I can’t describe it. I just… I always…”

“It’s you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “But you’re perfect.” He looks at the doctor. “That can’t be right. It can’t be because of her.”

“It’s not because of anyone,” the doctor clarifies. “But it seems like the biggest hurdle that you face is luteinized unruptured follicle syndrome.” She clears her throat. “We’ve run five ultrasounds. It takes four to diagnose, but I wanted to make sure. I haven’t seen any scarring. There’s no evidence of structural issues. Your bloodwork all checks out. In cases like these, we suspect that the issue is with ovulation. The eggs may or may not be maturing properly, but the follicles are not bursting.”

“But that sounds good?” Namjoon asks.

“The follicles need to burst to eject the egg into the abdominal cavity for proper ovulation,” the doctor says. She turns to you. “Essentially, your eggs are staying inside of your ovaries, so they can’t be fertilized properly.”

You take a deep breath. “What does this mean moving forward? Are there treatments?”

“Yes, there are,” the doctor says encouragingly. She walks you through them. They’re a variety of hormonal therapies, with a range of success rates and associated costs. You tell yourself that you’re willing to try whatever you can.

But a dark cloud looms over you as you head home.

You’ve been so disappointed for so long. When you feel like this, you do what you always do. You go to write in your journal.

“So you’re just gonna leave me here?” Namjoon asks, staying on the couch as you get up to write in your bedroom.

“I just need to write,” you say sadly, averting your eyes.

Namjoon rushes to his feet. “What do you need to go write for?” he asks angrily. “It’s not going to solve anything.”

“I just need some time,” you try to explain, disappearing down the hall.

Namjoon stomps over to you and grabs the journal from your hands.

“Don’t retreat from this,” he tells you purposefully. “Don’t keep ruminating on how you feel. Don’t give up.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why does it seem like you are?”

“I just need time,” you repeat. “And I need to write. It’s just how I process things. It’s what I do.”

“What you do is unhealthy!” he cries out.

He flips open the journal and tears page after page out. He already knows what’s in them. Long, sorrowful laments about how your body has betrayed you. How you feel like a failure. How you feel like less of a woman. Less of a person. He hasn't read the entries, but it's all you talk about.

Namjoon throws the journal on the ground. “Don’t let this consume you. Don’t let this consume us. There are treatments. We can try them all.”

“I know, but I just…”

Namjoon’s eyes widen.

“You want to try them all, right?”

“Joon. Just let me write. Let me process.”

“You’re making me work way too hard here,” he accuses.

“Then go be with someone who’s easier to deal with,” you tell him, defeated.

He looks at you. He wants to grab you. He wants to shake you. He wants to slap this out of you. He doesn’t know what has happened to his perfect sweetheart.

So he grabs his coat and leaves.

It’s hours until he gets back, but you’re still up when he does.

When he sees you, Namjoon says a name.

It sounds so familiar.

Why does it sound so goddamn familiar?

And then you realize who it is.

“You fucked the artist from our first date?” you ask in tears.

Namjoon doesn’t know how to answer. “I went to a bar,” he says. “She was there. She said hi. I told her… and we just kinda…”

You cover your mouth. The sob that is about to come out of you is unholy. You feel like your insides are ripping apart. You rush inside to the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind you. You feel like you’re having a heart attack. You feel like you’re gasping for air but can’t ever catch your breath. You feel the walls closing in.

The door rattles against Namjoon’s palms.

“Open the door!”

“No!”

You rip open the shower curtains and turn on the faucet. You don’t know why. You needed more sound. You need to fill the silence. You want to cushion the blow that is the wail that’s rising from your stomach and ballooning into your chest.

You clasp both of your hands over your lips, which are hanging open in despair.

“Sweetheart!”

“Don’t fucking call me that!” you screech.

You climb into the shower, fully clothed. You let the warm water soak through.

“Let me in!”

“Go away!”

“No, not until I know you’re safe!”

“Fuck you!”

He pounds on the door again.

“Why is the shower on? What are you doing? Please!”

“Get the fuck out of my goddamn apartment Joon, so fucking help me!”

You don’t hear him after a while.

You finally, finally let yourself cry.

“Hey, missy. I’m in the city. Call me.”

You play the message again. Yoongi’s voice is so comforting, even when he doesn’t know he’s providing comfort.

You and Namjoon have talked since that night. He stops by a couple times a week, usually at night. He’s wept and apologized to you. He wants to try and make it work. Before your relationship with him, you thought you might have been able to. But after that night, you learned that this was something that you personally just couldn’t forgive.

You play the message a third time.

You roll out of bed and think about the message all day at work. Minji covers for you yet again when you make little mistakes here and there in your scripts. She doesn’t even really have to go out of her way to help. Your entire team knows what happened and is incredibly empathetic. Either way, you’re thankful.

When you get home, you call Yoongi back.

“Hey!” he exclaims, making you smile. “I’ve been waiting for your call. How are you?”

You aren’t sure how to answer.

As always, Yoongi reads your mind in the pause.

“Where can I meet you?” he asks urgently.

You give him the bakery’s address.

You pop into the bakery, order your usual and an iced Americano, and wait in a booth by the entrance.

The barista smiles as he sets your orders down at your table.

And then Yoongi turns the corner.

He smiles so widely when he sees you.

He slides into the booth, and before you can say anything, he takes your hands in his and kisses them. “I am so glad to see you,” he says. Your heart swells in your chest.

He explains that he’s in town for a film festival. You smile when he mentions that he bumped into Dae at the airport while in line for security. He tells you that she’s still got that same pixie cut, but she’s also got a wedding band on her finger. You press your lips together to keep from crying.

He holds your hand as you talk shop, his fingers always weaving in and out of yours. They grasp onto you when you talk about difficult things. They tickle you when you tell a funny story. You wish you were sitting with him in your coffee shop back on campus, but then you remember that even that coffee shop has tainted memories. What you really want is to be able to backtrack to a time when things weren’t so complicated.

Suddenly, you feel eyes on you. You look over at the register, but the barista’s tending to another customer.

And then you look out the window.

Namjoon is standing across the street, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

He sees you and Yoongi holding hands.

“Who’s that?” Yoongi asks.

“No one,” you say, with just a hint of sadness in your voice.

Namjoon lingers, but his gaze doesn’t have the same warmth that it used to. You think of the day you saw him in the art gallery. You realize how different he is. How different you are.

You look back at Yoongi.

“Come upstairs,” you say.

“Why? What’s upstairs?” Yoongi asks, and you laugh.

“I live upstairs.”

“Oh.” Yoongi smiles. “Then definitely.”

His kiss feels exactly the same. His hands feel exactly the same. His body feels exactly the same. When he lays you down on your mattress, you close your eyes and pretend you’re in his college apartment. You think that if you spend enough time with him, he can actually transport you back there.

He teases and pleases you. You’re a bit listless, but he makes you come so many times with his mouth and with his fingers. You barely have to speak.

And then, as he’s lying beside you, and you’re hooking your leg around his waist as he lines up behind you, he says, “Wait, do you have condoms? I didn’t think, like, I mean, I would have, but I didn’t want to be so presumptuous as to---”

“We don’t need one,” you tell him.

“What?”

“We don’t.”

There’s a slight waver in your voice.

“At least, I don’t.”

You really want to feel good. You just want one good night of ecstasy to get out of the headspace you’ve been in, and who better to take you there than Yoongi. But he knows better than to simply give you what you want. He wants to give you what you need.

He reaches for your shoulder and makes you turn to face him.

“Missy?” he asks.

He looks so softly at you that you start to cry.

He doesn’t ask questions. He just holds you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears pricking at his own eyes. “I’m so, so sorry. Come here.”

You sob in his arms. You don’t have to say a thing.

It’s exactly the right thing to do.

You just wish Namjoon had done it instead.

You and Namjoon stare at each other.

His son is still asleep.

Your eyes flicker over to him. He’s so precious. He reminds you of what Mi-cha looked like at first. Helpless. But only because they don’t need to be strong, yet. They only need you. Your heart. A pure heart to take care of them. A giving heart to feed them. A funny heart to make them laugh. A true heart to let them go when it’s time.

“What’s his name?” you ask. “I can’t believe we’ve been sitting here with that angel, and I haven’t asked you his name.”

Namjoon’s eyes twinkle. “Han-gyeol. It’s a family name.”

You grin.

“...You should have called him Kim Nam-junior.”

Namjoon smiles. And then he laughs.

“Are you seriously writing punch-ups right now?”

You shrug. “I’m a writer. It’s what I do.”

Namjoon watches you carefully. “I guess it’s time for the questions, then?” he asks.

You nod.

“The big one is weighing on my mind,” you say.

“OK,” Namjoon says, exhaling.

“...Why did you sleep with her?”

Namjoon shrugs. “I needed comfort. It’s unfair, but I was hurting, too. And you just… kept… drifting.”

“We had just found out that day,” you say, irritated and immediately defensive.

“No,” Namjoon says gently, “I mean for that whole year that we were trying. I couldn’t get through to you. It felt like you didn’t want me to.”

You pause. You hadn’t thought of that. “What was I like?” you ask.

“Depressed,” Namjoon says. “Anxious. It’s understandable. So was I. But things between us became so mechanical. Dutiful.”

“It didn’t help that you kept telling me what to do,” you say.

“I know. I’m sorry for that.”

You look out the window just to have a break from staring into those gorgeous eyes. You knew you could get through the rehashing part because you’d done it in your mind so many times. But you didn’t think you’d get so overwhelmed just two questions in.

Once you feel re-centered, you look back at him.

“You really couldn’t take me back?” Namjoon asks.

“I already knew I couldn’t give you what you wanted,” you say.

Namjoon looks like he’s about to cry. “But how did you know for sure?” he asks. “Did you ever try again?”

You explain that you’d been to the doctor countless times since that first diagnosis. You’d even tried treatments on your own. You’d tried everything that was suggested to you, testing things out with sperm donors and hook-ups. But you never could get pregnant. At one point, you’d look in the mirror, and you’d just see years and years of pointless ovulation sticks and negative pregnancy tests.

“I could have changed,” Namjoon says. You give him a skeptical look, and then he nods. “OK, I know that I wanted to be a dad so badly. But being a parent doesn’t mean conception through sex, or even biological children.”

“But it’s what you wanted, right?” you ask.

Namjoon sighs heavily.

You sit in silence for a little while. And then Namjoon looks at the table. At the booth.

“Who was that guy I saw you with?” he asks.

“One of my college boyfriends.”

“Did you…” Namjoon looks at you. “After we…?”

“No.”

The silence grows longer.

“What is it like, being a dad?” you ask.

Namjoon smiles. His eyes fill with so much emotion. You can’t imagine the thoughts and memories that are swirling around in them. He can’t express them. So he just says, “More than I could have dreamed.”

You smile. You’re genuinely happy for him. You didn’t know if you could get to that point, but you’re glad to say that you’re there now.

“Do you still want to be a mom?” he asks.

It’s so weird to talk about this, but you’re thankful that Namjoon is willing to listen. No one knows about that point in your relationship, or in your life. The failure was just too heavy and shameful to carry openly, so you let it live behind your eyes. You tell Yun and Youngho that you love Mi-cha like your own, and that that’s enough for you. Now, that’s true. But before you knew you couldn’t have kids, it wouldn’t have been.

You’ve decided that you’d rather not worry about building a family until you feel ready again. Until that day comes, if that day comes, you pour that love that you could have had for your child with Namjoon into your beautiful niece, and you’re determined to pour that same love into your other nieces or nephews.

So you look at him and say, “Maybe.”

He grins. “If that’s what life brings you, then you will be an amazing mother.” His grin changes into a sad, longing smile. “I would have died to give you a child.”

“I would have, too,” you say, tearing up.

You cry together and hold hands. You forgot how big his hands were. How strong. How protective.

“Look at us,” he laughs, tears streaming down his cheeks. “We’re a mess.”

You reach over to the napkins that are sitting by your plate of pastries.

You lean forward and wipe the tears from his cheeks.

You think of the bench outside of the art gallery, where you met.

“I’m so, so sorry that I hurt you like that,” he tells you.

“I’m so sorry that I just let you go,” you reply.

You both calm yourselves. And then you say, “But I’m so glad that you’re happy now.”

Namjoon smiles.

“Are you?”

You tilt your head.

“I hope you are,” he says. “I really, really hope you are, sweetheart.”

← 04: Crossing the Threshold | 06: Caves →

The Road to You | Masterpost

#my fics #the road to you #bts fanfiction #bts fan fiction #btsfanfiction #bts fluff #bts smut #bts angst #namjoon x you #namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #rm x you #rm x reader #rm x y/n #paaaaaaain #angst #NAMJOON WHY

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chloetcommathecreator-blog · 7 years

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Nightmares in Hawaii

4/12/14

I had two nightmares in the loft in Hawaii. Both had to do with my mother. In the first, Allie and I were at her house and she acted normally and fake-kind until suddenly she snapped and was threatening me with a large hammer. Glass shattered and Julien was there too but there was a knock on the door and the police and my dad and step-mom entered to save us. My mother dropped on the floor and started crying hysterically, playing the victim, and I looked down at her and asked, “Are you serious?” Before I left. I felt relief knowing that I would not have to see her again.

I woke up and felt guilty.

In the second dream, my brother and I were at our grandparent’s house in France and my grandmother was taking my brother to his externship except I kept telling her that she was confusing the location for a place in a different country. I was in my bedroom that I always take when I stay there, and my grandmother brought the phone to me. My mother was on the other end and had only called to ask how much me and my brother weighed. I responded with a line something along, “Are you fucking kidding me?”. I don’t remember, but I definitely said ‘fuck’ and was enraged in the dream.

What I typed into the notes in my phone while waiting for my flight home at the airport in Hawai’i;

I am at the LIH airport in Kauai. I was woken at 6am to clear out the timeshare apartment and get breakfast. Their flight was at 10am. My flight is at 10pm. I went to the airport with them, then realizing that my flight was three hours later than I had thought--I don't read very carefully. Classic me mistake-- so I took a cab to Queens bath because I hadn't gotten to see it and wanted to swim in it. The cab ride one way was $100. It was too cold to swim. I wandered over the lava rocks until 4:30, when the cab picked me up. My luggage was hidden under the thick, dead leaves of a tree whilst I was on the rocks. I tried to read a Terry Pratchett book but couldn't get into it. It rained on and off and the wind was rough and I was so cold. And bored. I was also stressed out that the cab driver might not pick me up again and that I would miss my flight and my phone was about to die and I was trying not to think about the $200 I just blew on cab fare. Horseshit. I got to the airport at 5ish and had to wait until 7 in the open air airport until check in opened and I could get my boarding pass and get to my gate. I'm sitting in the far corner at gate 3 with my red flannel shirt drapes over my legs to keep me somewhat warm. My face is burnt from not wearing sunscreen today, thinking it would be fine because it was so overcast. I look like hell. I feel ugly. I feel ugly and so tired and lonely lonely lonely in a tiny airport by myself on an island so far from... Home. I should feel lucky I was able to go on such an amazing trip and be with my family and do some of my favorite things like snorkeling and seeing beautiful sea life. But I still cried every night into my pillow quietly so that Justine and Dexter in the bed next to mine on the loft wouldn't hear me. I don't feel like a part of my family and I don't know why because they're so good to me. I sat on the cliffs at Queens Bath today and watched the ocean bash into the rocks with a terrifying force and wished I could just jump down, crush my skull on the rocks below, and have my body smashed and torn to small bits on the rough black rocks... Disintegrate into the sea. Vacation is like life There is no difference. Distractions keep you happy.... Or just distracted. But you are still alone. I am still alone and miserable and struggling to wake up to go to the BEACH and having nightmares every night, once I'm able to fall asleep. I looked at myself in the airport bathroom and I feel ugly and alone and stressed. As usual, I have a headache. Even when I don't use technology every day, the headache persists. So there's another reason for it. My nails are bitten so far that it hurts. I peeled the skin off of the bottom of my right foot where a small callous had formed and picked at my toe nails until I had ripped a sliver off of each toe. I don't want to be here But I don't want to go home.

I want to curl into a ball of fur and roll away away warm warm warm.

I don't want to be here I don't want to be me

I am still in paradise and I still feel like shit. All of the time. I still want to die and It's so hard to hide my crying in public when the waves of misery hit.

I don't want to be anywhere I don't want to have any responsibility Nothing I can't think of anything that I want

Except to be warm Right now.

It doesn't get better for me I am getting so close to done that I can't and won't deal with anything. I wish I could disappear. I even wish I could marry some random rich fucker just so I could be left alone. I want to be yards under the glittering waves forever, floating through a silent blue life.

I want to rip my eyes out and get rid of the headache behind them I want to google how many hydrocodones it would take for my body to shut down. I want to see if my parents have that many.

I want to melt into this uncomfortable black seat that I've been sitting in for two hours and disappear into nothing. No one at this gate would notice a thing.

I want to dye my hair white and shave my head and feel beautiful.

I need a haircut.

I want to lay in my bed and watch Always Sunny in Philadelphia until my brain turns off.

I want to die. Mahalo.

My therapist asked my what getting better looked like to me. I have no idea. In some ways I don’t want to get better or maybe I can’t even fathom what better looks like. I believe that I am stuck in this body and mind and it will never get ‘better’. It may change, but there will always be the headache and the tears at those quiet times when I am crushed by an unfathomable loneliness. What is my worth?

I think about dying every single day.

I baked eclairs the other day and got an externship.

Am I better?

If I smile and laugh with friends and dress myself and go outside, my parents will think I’m better. That I have finally reached OK normal functioning girl in her twenties living out the best years of her life.

I need to move out so that I can deal with myself alone, without my parents there every day. I don’t want their help with this. I don’t want my life to be their life still.

I told my psychiatrist that on a scale of one to ten, I am at a three. Zero is when I truly truly want to be dead but won’t kill myself. Instead I’m immobile in bed, unshowered and in the same clothes for days at a time and take all the medicine available to sleep all of the time. Zero is when I am too depressed to cry. Or eat. Or maybe eat too much. One is when I am still unshowered and wearing the same clothes, but will get out of bed at least during the day. At One, I shift my sleep schedule so that I don’t have to interact with anyone, versus simply sleeping all the time. At One I am busy at night. One is where I feel a constant weight of dread in my stomach the entire time I am awake. I am still dependent on sleep medicine. Two is showering more than once every three days and changing my clothes. Even if I change from a white shirt and black leggings to another white shirt and black leggings. At two I will talk to people and not feel miserable in the presence of others. Two is making lists of things that I continuously put off. Three is where I function. I get dressed when I need to and am able to -- or care enough -- to make hair appointments or ask a friend in the area to hang out. Three is not following through with the friend and dreading their text message. Three is wondering what the point of going outside is. Nothing will happen. Nothing that matters will happen. Three is the frustration of having nothing to do, not being interesting in watching or reading anything. Bored. Four? Four is when I am distracted and busy with classwork that I like and have plans on the weekends to drink with friends. Four is holidays when I can dress up or when I am with a group of people with whom I am comfortable with. Four is not cancelling all my social plans because I can’t get out of bed or leave my room. Four is forgetting all the bad in my head and being the happy, bubbly, loud, crazy person that my friends know me to be. Four is having dinner conversations with my parents that matter and feeling like, for once, they are listening and able to understand me. Five is taking naps with Dan, where he is wrapped around me or softly stroking my arm or back and my eyes are closed and eventually we fall asleep and it is the middle of the day and the sun is still shining through the blinds. Five is being underwater so that all sounds of life are muffled to only a murmur and I float on the surface, calmly breathing through a tube and living in the world in water. Five is finally eating that food that I have been craving for. Six is being able to acknowledge my accomplishments. Six is the feeling after sex with Ari when he has come but is still in me and we just lay there and kiss. Six is going on a tough hike over difficult terrain and reaching the top of the mountain and looking across the landscape. Six is when Dan kisses me on the neck. Six is being so high that I am absolutely in tune with my body and sit on the floor in silence and do yoga -- stretching out each individual muscle and marveling at the movement of my body. Six is lying on the couch, high as fuck, and daydreaming. Six is being lost in a great book, unable to put it down. Six is admiring what I have built with my own hands. Six is driving in the car alone with the windows down on the highway and singing at the top of my lungs to a good song. Six is crawling into my bed, exhausted, and immediately falling asleep. Six is taking a nap in the sunlight. Seven is???

4/19

Tom and Aunt Steph & crew are here for Easter, staying over while they look for colleges with Hannah. She looks beautiful. A lot changes in two years, she seems ten years older.

I’m sleeping in the basement so I can do my own thing and be alone. Yesterday I got back from visiting Dan in Beantown… If every day felt like today, I would never leave him. I got into my bed after a dragging seven or eight hour drive and the loneliness was like a phantom limb. I wanted his arms around me in the dark, under the sheets. I wanted to share my bed and have him wrap around me first thing when he wakes up. I want to have sex with him so badly. But the frustration I had before I saw him was much worse and different. Before, I wanted to get off with someone so badly that the want and the can’t manifested itself in stirring anger in me. I want to stop watching porn though. I want to get off in my own world.

I don’t know how long Dan and I have been sleeping together but it has been a few months. At least six? Maybe it started in August? I don’t remember. But that seems to be the amount of time it takes to become comfortable sexually with one another. I would still say we are at the midpoint communication-wise, but other than that, we generally have figured each other’s bodies out.

I think that it is true that you can fall in love with anyone if you get to know their true self and accept that. Or even just glimpses into their life and why they are the way that they are. I would say that I am now over Ari and obsessed with Dan. Obsessed is a strong word, but sometimes that’s how it feels as I look through pictures of him… Pull up the picture I took of his feet with holes in his socks exposing his whole heel.

His parents brought up his fat period in high school the night we had dinner together. Was that a test? I don’t care honestly. Dan still isn’t fit. He has a small belly and every part of him I can wrap my arms around is soft. He wears the same clothes for years and buys most of his wardrobe at the thrift store and most of his clothes are really too small, which makes me crazy. He doesn’t go out of his way to spend money on things. I don’t get to complain, though, because I don’t want him to spend money on me. I want us to be on an even keel. What is that quote by the french woman banging Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction? ‘What is pleasing to the eyes is not the same as what is pleasing to the touch’ or something like that. Dan’s body is pleasing to the touch. I like the soft smoothness of his back and the hairiness of his arms. Soft soft everywhere like I could sink into him. I like the feel of his beard and the feel of his stubble.

I think you can fall in love with anyone. It is so hard to go back to being so alone.

But I don’t want to be his girlfriend. I don’t want to stress about the silences and the palpable pressure of the things we don’t say- and the things we know the other won’t say.

We are similar. Quiet thinkers, depressed stoners. I want someone who will drag me onto my feet and out of the house. I want someone who will feel comfortable talking and talking and just starting conversation. Someone who naturally wants to have conversations.

I don’t want to change Dan but I know that we will find people opposite to us that are a better fit.

I will not be Dan’s girlfriend because I don’t trust him because I don’t know what he is thinking. I will not be Dan’s girlfriend because of the time David called him and asked him to be his girlfriend and sent dirty texts and Dan went along with it. Left the room to take one of David’s calls. I will not be Dan’s girlfriend because I feel like he would be open to sleeping with guys while with me. I feel like he would be like one of Isaac’s straight boys who he drinks with and has sex with but who has a girlfriend and the girl never finds out. I can’t handle that… I will not be Dan’s girlfriend because kissing him involves too much thinking and I can’t overlook his ‘flaws’. Not flaws, but who he is that doesn’t align with what I am innately attracted and drawn to. I kind of hate the nasally sound of his voice. But I love the way he looks when he smiles real wide and looks away. He has a deflated-looking ass. I don’t think it’s cute when he sings in a weird voice. Sometimes I feel like we haven’t known each other long enough to already have so much silence between us. Or that’s just the way we are together naturally and it would be fine if I didn’t mind the silence but I do, even though half the blame is mine. I wish his dick was just a bit bigger, which totally isn’t fair of me. But I wish. And I wish that he would grab my breasts more aggressively and put his whole tongue in my mouth. I like having sex with him a lot, though. The best part of sex for me is when he first slides into me and I’m not so wet that there isn’t any friction. Skin on skin and it feels warm everywhere. I like having sex with him in the pitch dark and sucking his dick without being able to see anything. Just feel. I like the way it feels when he comes on me and it is warm and slick. I love that he will have sex with me when I’m on my period and that he cares whether or not I enjoy it. I don’t like that he doesn’t buy condoms that fit. I don’t like myself for letting him not use a condom, but when he is slightly in me and I just want to pull him closer, my sense of reason goes to shit. I like that he accepts me for who I am and seems to understand my depression. Mostly. As if anyone could completely understand. But he knows somewhat. I like his arms around me and napping next to him, warped together while the sun is still up. I like him. BUT

I feel lonely and alone and unloved, ugly in so many ways. I feel awkward and anxious and tired and restless and miserable unclean immature greasy dirty full unfriendly untalented and shitty. I always feel shitty. I feel shitty when Dan tells me he is happy that I came eight hours to stay with him in his parents house. I feel shitty when I wear my glasses or when my hair is down. Or up. I feel like my front teeth are starting to jut out and are too big. I feel like my pores are gaping and noticeable as well as the acne scars on my nose that won’t go away. I feel like I don’t have enough money. I feel rude and introverted in the worst way and deeply miserable. I don’t know how to fix that. The moments I like best are only best in hindsight. My nails look yellow. I have a little more pubic hair than I want. I want to take pictures. but I don’t want to spend my life only seeing the world through a lens. I want to tear down the sky and repaint it so that the colors can entertain me on long drives alone. I want to be able to go as fast as I want on the highway. I want to be able to kill myself. I want to care about things and people. I want a lobotomy. And liposuction. And laser hair removal on my armpits and legs and upper lip and pubic area. I want to dye my hair white. I don’t want my roots to show. I want my teeth professionally cleaned every week. I want to be able to drink like I used to. I want access to harder drugs. I want my own apartment and my own dog and plants and garden. I want to cry most of the time. Most of the time, I want to be alone. I want to go to Vegas and win millions of dollars and never go back. I want to be in a relationship and not feel that sick feeling of dread that there is nothing between the two of you and you are trapped in a mistake. I want to have things to do and live in a place with warm weather but where people aren’t crazy cunts. I want to live in a place where people don’t honk incessantly at each other and have just a shred of respect and patience for other people on the road. I want to do so many things but I don’t want to do anything and I don’t want to get up. I want to travel through time and see the Earth half a million years from now. I want to live alone in the wilderness. I want my sister to get rid of eighty percent of the things she owns. I want my parents to stop buying unnecessary shit. I want to buy unnecessary shit. I want my bangs to look nice in the morning and not always be uncomfortable trying to make my hair look fine.

4/21

I live between worlds. The world on a suburban neighborhood within a maze of similar-looking streets The house my mother bought because it was within walking distance of Wooton High School. The house that never felt like home Where there is no escape except out the front door, running And the garden is beautiful and multitudes of birds surround the feeder And a young orange tree with cherry-sized fruits sits in the sunlight of the kitchen. The world where I look at where I come from and feel sick. Skinny, healthy, surgically enhanced people spewing venom and trying to tame raging storms. Where Maggie is a bad dog because she watches the birds and barks too much Where any flaw is a weakness to be picked apart and spread out on the sparkling granite islands while the TV plays a romantic comedy on mute. But don’t take it personally. That one crooked tooth and the glint in her eyes when she casually drops stinging insults The jokes she makes that are so thinly veiled they make me wince The constant commentary throughout television shows and commercials That make you wonder if anything is good in this world.

I went to Easter dinner at my mother’s house While my brother stayed at my father’s house, having told her that he was too busy to go. I resent him for it. I resented him when I came back home and he was still on the couch watching ice hockey While I had to suffer each crashing wave alone while trying to keep my feet on the ground.

I live in the world between worlds when there is no one around but me and the misery drains all the energy and positivity out of me Where I am stuck spinning like a top through the murky haze in my mind, Watching flickering screens until my body aches and my head throbs and I can finally fall asleep

I live in the world on Mass Ave where the cars peel by, horns blaring The attic and basement are filled with enough toys to entertain several schools of children For one little girl And we stay in our corners, in our own little unmolested worlds Unless it is dinner time and we all emerge.

I watched Wolf of Wall Street tonight. I watched as the wife said ‘No’ ‘no’ no and the husband fucked her anyway

I feel sick and tired and alone. It is six thirty AM now and I should sleep but I don’t care. I peeled off the nail of my right pinky toe last night as we sat on the couch on our phones as the ice hockey game played on the enormous television. I didn’t realize how much had peeled off until I clipped the rough edges later..

My meringue pies didn’t set. They ran like soup. I feel useless and stupid and pathetic and embarassed. I feel wasted

I took two naps in the basement after all the eggs had been found and the kids were outside. One nap before lunch and one thirty minute nap before I drove to my mother’s.

I hate my hair I look so ugly and strange without make up

I am still tired. I am always tired.

I feel like a dumb, quiet female around others. I watch as girls sit silent in groups of people and the boys drink their beer and tell stories about their adventures. I want to cry and eat everything I crave until it hurts and I don’t crave it anymore. I want to tell someone how badly I feel and have them understand. I don’t want them to understand, though, because I don’t want them to feel that badly.

I want to fall into a hole in the earth and sink into the silt and shit and fossils I don’t want to go back to New York I don’t want to stage or live in that apartment or be in that town or always be so alone and alone and alone I want to sleep and stay in my mixed up dreams

I want to lock myself in a tall tower with no doors and shave off all of my hair I want to quit taking up space and writing such stupid shit all of the time and one day later I still need to get my shit out of the dryer

4/23 An Honest Obituary

Chloe was born January 2nd, 1993 in Portland, Oregon. She was an older sister to Julien and Katie Nguyen. She was a daughter to Tung, Monika, Dominique, and Chris. Chloe was talented, artistic, thoughtful, empathetic. With her friends she was lively, engaging and full of laughter. She was also quiet, nihilistic, perpetually exhausted, insecure, guarded, awkward, antisocial and dealing with major depression, which eventually drained her of any excitement or will to live. She was selfish. She was twenty-one. She made beautiful things and was capable of creating much more, but she was an artist, not an engineer, and never made anything useful. She put forth no effort and made it through three semesters of college and experimented with culinary school. She was described as ‘exotic’. When she laughed, you could see the uneven dimples on her cheeks. She lived in her dreamworld. Death can’t be too different from sleep. If there is a heaven, she won’t be there. Maybe she wouldn’t want to be. In a universe where there is reincarnation, she would come back as a sloth, mole… sea turtle. Maybe even a bird. Life is short. Hers was shorter than most. But it goes on.

I spent the night watching movies and crying. I looked over the packet my therapist gave me and then took an online depression test. It seems like my main problem is worrying about the judgement of others and my daily stress level is above a 5 almost always if I have to leave the house, even for a walk with the dog or getting food through a drive thru.

Get associate’s degree Move somewhere warm Night classes for photography Plant a garden Live in Vegas for a while

4/25/13

A day in the life:

The day after I drove down to see Dan, a Monday, I spent the day alone because he wasn’t able to get work off. I went to the BC library to try and do a transcription on one of their computers because I had forgotten my laptop charger in my room at home and doubted the battery would last the five or more hours it would take to transcribe something. It took me over a dozen u-turns and ventures down random side streets to find the parking garage and I had to wait at the top level, while the rain let up, until someone left and I could take their spot. I checked the campus map to find the library; roundabout, stairs, stairs. It seemed obvious that I did not go here. Girls in their timberlands. I missed that. I sat at a four person computer station in the library diagonal to some girl. I tried to plug my phone in to charge it but there were no outlets on the computer so I plugged it into the socket on the floor. As soon as I did, the girl across from me told me that I had shut off her computer. I hadn’t turned off the extended outlet or unplugged anything so I was confused and felt bad. I asked her if she had lost any work and she said, “Not really”, in a drawn out, frustrated way that you talk to kids when they’ve done something wrong. I apologized and tried to log on to my computer but it required a BC username and passcode, which I did not have. Three minutes after sitting down and wreaking havoc, I left, apologized again to the girl, and asked the front desk where the guest computers were. I had to wait for one to open up and sat at a long table for two minutes as two BC girls eyed me. I don’t belong I don’t belong. I felt stupid pulling out my soundproof headphones and putting them on and the keyboard was incredibly loud. If I were to do a transcription, it would drive everyone in this quiet library crazy. I instead tried to take an online qualification test but the server would not take me to the site. The site was new, or being updated, and still had some issues, I think. Not having gotten much done but having passed an hour or two, I decided to leave. I wouldn’t have to pay as much for parking either. I went back the way I thought that I had come but nothing seemed familiar. It started to rain and I was wearing an already somewhat seethrough white shirt so I stopped under an awning and pulled another shirt over it. Luckily, everything I had brought was in my backpack. As usual, I packed terribly for the weather, having left MD when it was 84 degrees out and expecting the same in Boston. But the temperature in Beantown was half that. I ended up at a parking garage that seemed taller than I remembered. The parking machine wouldn’t accept my ticket. I put my iced coffee on top of the ticket machine and forgot it there and took the elevator up to the fifth floor, but here the fifth floor was not the top. Finally at this point I figured out that I was at the wrong parking garage and took the elevator back down, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I had just been in the elevator with. I got so lost that I ended up walking on the outskirts of campus, past a graveyard, under a steady light rain. It probably took me forty minutes to get to my car. Truly, I amaze myself. My gladiators were soaked and uncomfortably slippery against my feet and I was so happy to get back to my car. I paid the nine dollar parking fee and then found as I exited that the machine wouldn’t accept tickets and would lift if you pressed the button for help. At this point I was hungry, so I crept through traffic in a heavy construction area to get to Five Guys. I put enough in the meter for two minutes and went in to order. In the bathroom, I saw that my eye makeup had run and there were black smudges under my eyes. I looked a little crazy. I got my food, at some fries while I sat in the warmth, then went out to my car to find a $25 parking ticket because the meter had run out. Amazing. I went to the Newton Library and stayed there until it closed at 9 and Dan was out of work. I did a seven dollar transcription in several hours and then tried to read Fire in the Lake but it is like reading a two hundred page essay and I had to continuously reread after my mind wandered.

I’m annoyed because I haven’t gotten my period yet and I always get stressed that I am pregnant when it’s late, even if I haven’t been having sex.

I took Sasha for a walk today and she pulled me to Little Falls Parkway, where I puked twice because I had just eaten two burger patties and drank too much water. It hurt. I probably threw up my pills too. I let Sasha off of the leash twice and both times she was very difficult to get back on the leash. But I didn’t want to deal with her dragging me through the woods and around trees at a sprint. I brought a cheese stick with me but she wasn’t at all interested- she was too busy harassing the wildlife. It was a short walk but felt much too long. As per usual, I got lost on the way home and guessed my way up steep streets until I ended up at the church across from my house.

Tomorrow I drive down to NY and Sunday I have a stage at Dani’s restaurant. I’m so done.

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