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mumms-the-word · 9 months ago

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The Art of the Night

Day 27 of the BG3 Fic February Challenge

Did I already have this scene written? Yes I absolutely did. I like Gale's romance scene but I was so disappointed when the game created a mashup of the Kama Sutra and One Thousand and One Nights and DIDN'T let us read passages from it.

So made up some passages for myself.

Check out my masterlist of BG3 fics!

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27. Choose any scene in the game and write it with your headcanon

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How about the perfect night in Waterdeep? Yes…let’s imagine how it would be. The scene is this: you and I stand in the room that is the centre of my universe. The sculptures, the paintings, the walls enlivened by the spines of a thousand books. The grand piano plays the Lliirian Suites all by itself, and as we look out beyond the arches that lead to the terrace, we see the weary sun take its daily dive into the sea.

———

Dani moved to the railing of the terrace, placing her hands on the wood and leaning her weight against it. It felt as real as any she’d touched in Baldur’s Gate, worn smooth by craftsmen, time, and weather. She closed her eyes and soaked in the warmth of the setting sun and the salt of the briny sea air. Just like home…

She knew it was all illusion and fantasy, that the magic was merely tricking her mind into feeling the weight of the wood and smelling the scent of the sea. But for the moment, she wanted to exist in that illusion. After so many days surrounded by decay, the warmth and light of even a setting sun was like a balm to her spirit and body.

She felt Gale join her at the railing and she opened her eyes, turning to look at him. But his gaze was on the horizon, a deeply thoughtful, almost sorrowful expression on his face. Despite the obvious concentration it must take to make and maintain this illusion, his mind was clearly on the future and the choice he felt was all but inevitable. He gazed at the horizon like a man who knew he would never see such a sight again.

She wanted to reach out and caress his cheek, turn his face back to hers, kiss him until he forgot all his worries. But she settled, for now, with taking his hand.

He glanced down, as if surprised, and then met her gaze. He gave her a soft smile.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She gave his hand a squeeze. “I love it. I could spend every evening watching the sunset here, with you.”

“Could you?” He seemed surprised by her words, lifting his head to gaze out over the ocean again, as if looking at it a little differently than before.

“Once all of this is over, yes. I’m a sucker for a good sunset.” She tilted her head, waiting for him to smile at her little remark, but he was lost in thought once more, his eyes scanning the world around them. Memorizing, she realized, or perfecting the memory. As though this might truly be the last night his eyes beheld the scene.

She couldn’t let him stay lost in his thoughts. She tugged on his hand, leading him back to the cushioned bench that sat off to one side. There, she sat down and patted the space beside her, inviting him to join her. He smiled faintly.

“My favorite spot,” he said, gesturing toward her. He settled beside her, body close, shoulders brushing. “Many times, evening turned to night and back to daybreak once more while I sat here, lost in words.”

She raised her eyebrows playfully at him. “Oh? Up all night reading? I do love that rebellious streak of yours.”

He gave her a teasing, half-mischievous look. “Allow me to live dangerously while I still can.”

His words, though said with humor, made her smile falter. She didn’t want to think about that now. His possible death. Not while they were, for the moment, surrounded by the comforts of home, his home, far, far away from the Absolute.

“What sorts of books did you read?” she asked. “It can’t have all been spell tomes. At least, I hope not.”

He chuckled. “No, not all spell tomes or magical theory, though there was plenty of that as well. I’d read just about anything I could get my hands on, if it interested me. History, philosophy, literature, poetry…romance…”

He shifted to reveal a book on the side table behind him. “This,” he said, reaching for the book, “might just be all of that wrapped in one.”

Dani glanced at the cover and instantly recognized it. “Is that…?”

“The Art of the Night,” he said, running his hand over the cover. It depicted a man and a woman in sensual embrace, their bodies fluid and ethereal. Around the woman’s head was a round halo of divinity, like a thin crescent moon in the starry sky that surrounded them. “It details the first thousand nights of a newlywed king and queen. They turned everything they did into an art. The art of conversation. The art of taste, time-honored and newly acquired.”

His thumb idly traced the halo of divinity around the woman’s head. “The art of the body. The exploration and acceptance of the self and the other. The art of the night itself.”

“I’m familiar with this story,” Dani said, reaching for the book. He gave it willingly, watching as she traced a finger along the curving lines of the woman’s body.

She recalled what she knew…what she had memorized, back when she’d gotten her hands on a version of the king and queen’s story a couple of years ago. She hadn’t kept it long, because her troupe had to travel light and books were heavy, so she had only memorized a few pages to entertain her fancy when she could no longer read the physical copy. It wasn't much, but what she did remember was that this tale was more than fairy tale. It was sheer, poetic eroticism, beautiful and haunting, alluring and sensual.

She stood and wandered a step or two away, opening the book and flipping through the first few pages, her eyes skimming the text. It wasn’t precisely the same as the tale she’d read. In the margins of the text, on nearly every page, there were magic symbols and words. Each night was embellished with the markings for a spell or a ritual, accompanied by poetic instructions on how to recreate the experiences and lessons the noble couple gained in their first three years of marriage. And, more than occasionally, the pages contained diagrams of the couple in the various ways they experienced their pleasure, drawn in the same fluid, ephemeral style as the cover.

This copy, this version, wasn’t just the tale itself, she realized. It was both the romantic, erotic tale and a magical Quarta Sune, both poetry and sex manual, mixing in magic and making the hypothetical romance of the king and queen entirely possible, if one knew how to manipulate the spells.

She turned to a passage she knew well, almost by heart. She was quiet a moment, reconnecting with the words, before she began to speak them softly, a note of fondness in her voice.

“‘That night, the king met his beloved once more in their chambers,’” she read.

“‘Dearest one,’ said he, ‘Gold I have given thee, and jewels from my store; chains for thy neck and bands for thy wrists; and still, thine eyes shine more brilliantly than any treasure in my kingdom.

‘What gem in all the realms can be more precious than thy gaze? What more can I give to you, my beloved, so that you may know the ardent depths of my heart? What more, when thine eyes alone make all riches seem as dull iron?’

‘Tender-hearted king,’ said the queen, ‘I need neither gold nor gems; my love is not so cheaply bought nor so willingly sold. And yet, already thou possess that which I long for most. Thy steady gaze, my love, and thy faithful hand are all I ask.’”

Gale stood and joined her, brushing nearly against her back as he looked over her shoulder and spoke the next few lines softly in her ear.

“‘Come, take my hand, and look beyond this simple visage. I will bare my soul to thee, this night, and gaze boldly at thine. For more than bone and blood are we, but spirits merely housed in flesh.’”

Dani’s breath caught, her mind distracted by the way his breath stirred her hair, by how close his lips were to her neck. She turned her head slightly and found his dark eyes watching her. He hadn’t been reading the lines, but reciting them from memory.

She was at a loss for words. He was barely touching her and yet she felt like her entire body was slowly kindling aflame, warmth spreading from her core to her toes and the very tips of her horns. She clutched the book a little tighter, casting about for something to say.

“My, um…my copy didn’t have pictures,” she breathed. "Or spells."

He blinked, as if processing her words, and then chuckled, shaking his head. “You were missing out, then. Some of the later diagrams can be quite…fascinating.”

When he looked at her again, his smile was half-apologetic and half-admiring. “You know…I must have read that passage a thousand times, but never have I heard the words expressed so beautifully as you did now. You have a gift, Dani. You are…”

He trailed off, his gaze slowly taking in the features of her face, lingering a moment on her lips before meeting her eyes again. “You are wonderful,” he breathed. “So wonderful I can scarcely believe any of this to be real.”

Dani didn’t know what to say to that. She felt lost in his brown-eyed gaze, trying to discern shades of deep amber from chestnut and mahogany, enchanted by the flecks of bronze that appeared in the light of the setting sun. She had never considered herself a fawning romantic, but staring into his eyes, she felt she could all too easily become one.

After several heartbeats, Gale dropped his gaze to the book, gently taking it from her hands. “Can I show you?” he asked, turning the pages. “What they mean? To experience love and pleasure in more ways than just the body?”

“You mean…like the gods do,” she said, turning to face him, the book between them. “Like you said before.”

“Precisely.” He smoothed flat the pages of the book, showing her two diagrams of hands, magic symbols and poetry surrounding the sketches. “Why confine ourselves to the pleasures of mortal flesh? It is but one stitch in a vast tapestry. Let me show you more.”

Something about the brightness in his eyes made her hesitate. He would know more than her what pleasures could exist outside the body, she supposed, and she trusted him. And yet…

As if sensing her hesitation, he closed his eyes in concentration. Dani felt herself grow lighter, floating apart from her body. The sky around them darkened and then shone with a million brilliant stars, draped with purple, blue, and red stardust shimmering in clouds and galaxies, appearing both within reach and endlessly far away. The more she turned her head to look, the more the structures and objects of Waterdeep fell away, leaving them in the expanse of beautiful, eternal space. Even their bodies were left behind. They existed now as spirits only, shining and translucent.

“What do you think?” he asked again. “Beautiful, is it not?”

It was, but already she missed the real Gale. As a spirit, his eyes glowed with magic and she could see the stars through his body. But while the swirling galaxies and glittering stars were stunning, she missed his rich brown eyes. When she reached out to brush his arm, she found his body simultaneously tangible and intangible, as though a mere thought could allow her to phase through him completely.

She had no doubt that if they stayed like this, Gale would reveal a hundred avenues of pleasure she had never experienced before, but her selfish little heart didn’t want to be impressed by magic. She just wanted the man himself.

“It’s our first night together, Gale,” she said. She could still sense her body, somewhere in the material plane, and focused there, reaching out to it like an anchor. Outside of the galaxy illusion, she placed her hands over his and closed the book. The visions of galaxies melted away, their spectral bodies becoming physical and visible once more, though the illusion of Waterdeep remained. “Shouldn’t we start somewhere closer to the beginning? I want to experience you first. We'll have time to try all the rest later.”

He looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Gale,” she whispered softly, pressing her hand to his chest, over his heart. Her touch silenced him in an instant, though he still looked uncertain. “I’ve never been more sure. Tonight isn’t the end for us.”

This was what she wanted, more than the beautiful illusions or spectral experiences. She felt his heart beating beneath her palm, felt the warmth of his body. She wanted more of that. More of the real, touchable Gale, with his soft brown hair and his gentle, dark eyes. She wanted to slip her hands beneath his shirt and touch his skin, feel the way his muscles twitched or tensed when her fingers grazed over them. She longed to taste his lips and feel the weight of him against her and watch his face flush and see how far that flush traveled down his neck and chest.

With her other hand, she gently slipped the book from his grip and set it on the railing. She stepped into the space between them, filling it with her body, pressing her palm more firmly against his chest. “You are what I want, Gale. The real man in front of me. Not the illusion and not the fantasy."

"But—"

"You don’t have to worry about impressing me. I’m no goddess.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, placing his hand over hers. He said it as though it were a fact, irrefutable, and with such warmth that it made her breath hitch.

She was used to admiration, entertainer that she was. She was used to praise. She was used to flattery. But the deep sincerity of his words and the way he looked at her was new. He spun poetry from mere words without even trying, and she was always caught off balance by the beauty of it.

But then his clever smile was back, and he said, “Trust me, I would know.”

She scoffed and gave him a light shove. He swayed on his heels but didn’t budge, chuckling at her feigned irritation.

“That said…" He kept ahold of her hand, threading his fingers with hers as he lowered them away from his chest. "Will you meet me halfway?”

“Halfway?”

He snapped his fingers and the balcony and sunset shifted, bookshelf-laden walls enclosing around them once more. But rather than his study, this room was a little smaller, a large canopied bed taking up the majority of the space. Stacks of books sat precariously on beside tables and spots on the floor while a fireplace burned cheerfully on one wall, a cushy armchair angled in front of it. Dani half expected to find Tara curled up in the armchair, though she hadn’t the faintest idea what Tara might look like.

“Your bedroom?” she asked, tilting her head. "In Waterdeep?"

“Indulge me,” he said. “Unless you’d like a canopy of stars once more.”

She shook her head. If this was a true, or mostly true, reflection of Gale’s room in Waterdeep, she was in no hurry to leave. She looked around with interest, but some of the details, like the words on the spines of books, shifted and blurred beneath her vision, as though Gale didn’t want her looking too closely.

Not matter. She wasn’t here to read anyway.

“I’m sure you’ll find the bed more than comfortable,” he said. “And, should I soon find myself a little too distracted to maintain the rest of the illusion, the bed will remain. For a few hours, at least.”

She arched an eyebrow at him and he shrugged, offering no further comment. She grinned and hopped onto the bed, flopping back with her arms spread. He was right. It was solid beneath her, not at all an illusion, and it was certainly comfortable. Better than the bedrolls on hard ground that she’d been sleeping on this past month or so.

“Oh, I could get use to this,” she said, settling right in. “You’ll have to teach me this little spell.” She lifted a hand and gestured like she was revealing words on a banner. “Conjure Bed. School of…er…”

“Conjuration,” he finished, the humor obvious in his voice. “As the name implies.”

“Right, I could have guessed that.” She propped herself up on one elbow to find him watching her again, that same fond, enchanted look he’d worn the last few days, especially tonight. She held out her hand to him, an open invitation for him to join her. “Well? What are you waiting for?”

He opened his mouth as though to answer, paused, and then shook his head fondly. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He reached out and took her hand, climbing onto the bed with her. She lay back, cradling his face in her hands as he rested part of his weight against her, gazing down at her with a look so filled with love she could only smile and stare.

There they were, those dark eyes she loved so much. There, too, was the oddly pleasant scratch of his beard against her palms, the softness of his hair as her fingertips sank into it, the heat and weight of his body as it pressed her into the downy mattress. Exactly as she wanted it.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His smile was gentle and loving, reflecting her words before he even spoke them. “I love you, too, Meridan Zavrai.”

He bent his head to kiss her and she let the world around her fade into a hazy blur, until at last the only thing she could see, the only thing she could hear, the only thing she could touch, was Gale himself.

#bg3 #bg3 fic #bg3ficfeb #gale #gale dekarios #my fic #oc #dani #meridan zavrai #i am not a poet don't judge me for my bad poetry #i just wanted to give 1001 nights vibes #also dani didn't vibe with the psychadelic tantric astral projection sex thing but she doesn't mind illusions so yeah #thats how we ended up here

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kali-chaotic-neutral · 10 months ago

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What you need to hear right now

Pick an outfit aesthetic and get called out by my Tarot decks

Light Academia Preppy Fairycore Coquette

Disclaimer: This tarot reading is not meant for you to make drastic choices or actions. Take this with a pinch of salt, this is just me giving advice with my sassy decks. Take the advice you want, anything that doesn't resonate, leave it.

My decks are taking turns calling you out on your bullshit, because sometimes delulu is NOT the solulu.

Light Academia:

What is your relationship with money? No, seriously. You're saving and saving money and not using it. And that's good. But there's a thin line between being frugal/not wasting your money and willingly hoarding. The former is being more smart and saving up to benefit you in the future, but the latter comes more from anxiety and fear. You don't want to buy things or spend some money in fear of loosing everything. Hoarding and having this paranoia over money will end up in you loosing it all as the universe will see you unhappy over the money you have that it will take it back and not give it. Not because you don't deserve it, but because the universe thinks that this wealth and money that you're hoarding is putting you in a bad place and it doesn't want that.

Why are you so nervous and hesitant to reveal your projects? It could be a book you're writing, poems, art, anything. Your fear of failure and eventually not letting others see your work will lead to what you fear. Failing. I was there in that place, darling. I feared people would judge me because of what I wrote, how I wrote. Then I showed a couple of my friends and teachers and they LOVED IT! People might not like it, but that doesn't they'll hate it. You'll never you know until you try.

How long are you going to hold onto the fear of failure or maybe years ago when you did fail in something that caused that fear? How long are you going to let the past drag you down? Hold you back from being the writer, the poet, the artist that you are!? The fear will always be there, but would you rather be in a a perpetual state of fear and anxiety or be someone that doesn't have regrets. Because there will be if you hold yourself back like this. Oh, why did I not just enter that poetry contest? Why did I not just show my art to others? Why did I not... Why didn't I... Regrets. Do you want a future full of regrets? No? Change.

You have a habit of being a big talker. Oh, I'll publish my book when I 'm 25. Oh, I'll go to the best art college. Oh this and that and that. But do you work hard to achieve those? I'm a big talker too, I had troubles working up as well. My 11th grade AS Level exams were a wake up call for me. I've passed and am on my way to a good college in a few months. Work hard and smart, don't keep flapping your gums dreaming big. It won't come true unless you work hard enough for it. You're also focusing too hard in perfecting your work to your detriment. Trying to perfect things almost always lead to it being even worse than before. Leave your projects as they are and let someone else, someone you trust look at it. Let them give you input and comments on your work, take those comments as ways to make your work better. Not as flaws they notices.

Once you fix all this shit up, work on yourself and your fears, fast change and movement will come. Maybe you'll finally get into that art college or college. Maybe you'll get that scholarship. But good change is coming. Don't read this and go: oh, good change is coming, I'll just relax a bit—NO!! If you do this the change will be for the worse. The universe will be sending you lessons after lessons if you slack off. Not until you're well off and in that dream house and job.

Slack off and my cards can see bad luck coming, you might lose people in your life due to conflict. Nothing good. There will be family issues that will need your attention, maybe someone is sick or just not feeling well mentally. If you actually work hard, I can see you becoming emotionally mature, and a good and loving figure to yourself and others.

Preppy:

Why are you putting more on your plate than you can eat? Why are you willingly allowing your workload to get heavier and heavier? You're overworked, on the brink of a burn out and yet you're here panicking and loosing sleep over the burden of projects and work you've put upon yourself. Put the other projects aside, do the most important one. And now, I know there is one project that is more important than the others. Evaluate the significance of the work you're doing and do the most important ones. One by one. Don't multitask darling. And stop overburdening yourself. You're letting obstacles get in the way and thus loosing discipline over yourself and loosing sight of your real goal. Take back the reins and steady yourself, focus on the path you want to take and go there.

Due to doing the exact amount of work you're supposed to be, you're able to solely focus on your projects. Cultivating it and making it better and successful. And I can see this as a time of celebration. BUT. Don't let it get to your head. Because if you do and you get cocky, fortune will not favor you. When things go downhill for you, learn from your mistakes and ensure it doesn't happen again.

You're not letting change take place. You're refusing to let this chapter of your life end, because you're afraid what the next chapter holds. LET GO!! Stop trying to extend the pages of this chapter. IT"S OVER. The more you resist, the more the situation will drag and drag. Universe has your back no matter how stubborn you are.

You're doubting yourself. This is impeding you being able to fulfil your highest potential and be your best self. Take a small break from whatever you're doing. Reflect, self evaluate. I've recently begun doing shadow work every night before bed, 3 questions max (you can find on Pinterest) and I do a gratitude journal every morning when I wake up (bullet list of what I'm grateful for). Limit and stop your inner critic, because you become what you think. If someone grows up being called an idiot they'll always think they're an idiot. It won't matter if a few teachers of peers say they're surprisingly smart. Change your mindset, be kinder to yourself. It isn't easy. But you'll get there.

If you continuously drag the past and your insecurities with you, it will lead to more stressful situations, more sadness, failure, a place where you'll be forced to choose. if you don't let these drag you down, you will become the highest version of yourself and someone who is successful and confident and powerful.

Fairycore:

You're not listening to your intuition, or your inner voice. Your intuition is important and should be heard. Maybe you're ignoring red flags in a person, or a situation. You're not listening to yourself and that is not good. You're not facing your inner world or your inner truth. Not wanting to accept or listen, not sure. But it isn't going to do you any good. Withdrawing from your inner world will lead to disbalance. Turn towards your inner self, take care of it. Focus on which part of your life is being unattended, care for it.

You're trying too hard to fit in with the crowd. Going along with the trends, doing what everyone else does, and nothing is wrong with that. There's nothing wrong with going with the flow and doing what is familiar to you, just don't put too much effort into it. Like you know the long line for Stanley Cups? (I think that's what they're called) Like don't be that desperate and plain like the others.

There will be burdens on your mind/mental health due to neglecting your inner voice and thoughts. You will end up bursting and exploding one day and it will lead to guilt and embarrassment. This will lead to you withdrawing within yourself, not wanting to go out. You'll feel tempted to give up and withdraw into yourself. Don't. Plan strategically, be aware of people around you that may not have your best interests at heart. Don't trust blindly, listen to your intuition and gut feeling. Listen and plan.

Once you begin strategically and logically planning, you will be successful (financially) and there will be better relationships in your life (platonic, romantic, etc.) You life will be more harmonious and calm and pleasant and once you've dealt with the people who don't have your best interest at heart, new better friendships will come. SO DON"T GIVE UP B*TCH!!!

Coquette:

You're frustrated because an idea for a project that you have, is not really having the breakthrough that you hoped it would. You're exasperated, tired and annoyed. I would be too. But it won't get better the more annoyed you get. Go back to the planning books/board and read over what you had planned. Proofread it, cut out a few things, add a few things, change a few things. Don't let frustration get to you here. It happens to all of us. The project simply needs a tweak. You're ambition has lead you to rush with this project, that's why it's not going the way you want it to. You've rushed the planning, so the project will be that way. Unsatisfactory. Don't rush headlong into these things, take time to prepare and plan the foundations of the project. It's almost like you're trying to grow up fast. And that's not good. Don't rush the process. Enjoy your life as it is now, before adulthood comes with its imposing responsibilities and expectations. Otherwise you'll live a life looking back into your childhood with regrets.

Because of this regret or stress from jumping into things rashly, it could lead to unhealthy addictions. You falling into darker thoughts. This could lead to times of confusion, where you're lying to yourself. Being delulu and trying to convince yourself it's not that bad. Change. Don't let your delusions get ahold of you, take a break from what you're doing and re-evaluate your work. Once re-evaluated and proper change brought, I can see you getting everything you've ever tried manifesting.

there could be a male figure (either a partner/brother or friend) will be a great help to you in financial matters. Maybe even a beginning of a romance if it is a friend and if it is a partner, maybe your love life will take a next step. ONLY if you work on the issues I've stated

#tarot spreads #free tarot reading #tarot community #pac tarot #pac reading #tarot pac #witchy vibes #baby witch #witchcraft #pick a pile #pick a photo

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laputaindefrenchgirl · 7 months ago

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and i'll forget you but i'll never forgive you.

This is love letter to Taylor's latest album, The Tortured Poets Department : The Anthology, which is an absolute masterpiece.

I don't know here I'm going exactly as I'm writing this, but I have a strong intuition that some things need to be said. I need to, at least. I spent a major part of my late teens listening to Taylor Swift's music and when Red came out in 2012, that was it for me.

The Tortured Poets Department holds the standard of greatness even higher if that was possible. It is written about all these things that we imagined, lived, went through, and survived.

Taylor is a Cancer Moon (so am I), and it is in her 8th which is linked to transformation, sex and legacy. As I studied astrology (still do), I realized that the power of a Cancer Moon is linked to feeling the absolute truth, even more as an artist. It's a powerful placement, which might seem petty to some idiots, but it is not because it's coming straight from the heart. If there's thing one thing that I love the most about Taylor, that is her powerful writing. It's incandescent, it's pure, it is real.

I'm writing poetry in my bedroom everyday, and it's both inked with my tears and drops of my blood straight from my heartbeat. I'm passionate about all that lived, am living and what the future holds for me. The words are pouring and my strong solar powerful self cannot keep it bottled up. This is selfish. This is selfless.

Back to TTPD, the fact that she wrote Guilty As Sin? is so important to me. The ? is soooo relevant because it's asking for validation. When she writes

He's a paradox I'm seeing visions, am I bad? Or mad? Or wise?

I cannot help but absolutely get it. What is imagined can be created, so am I guilty for it? It's a daily thing of what am I to do with all these fucking feelings. Sometimes I'm feeling even more culpable for not having lived any of these things, what I felt in my dreams, but it's so intense, so I question further, are they visions?

I keep recalling things we never did Messy top lip kiss How I long for our trysts Without ever touching his skin How can I be guilty as sin?

It always felt funny to me how as women we can barely articulate our fantasy without feeling a hint of shame. For men, it's different. Their obvious sexual needs uphold the eventual shame that could come with the act of imagining something that never did or will never happen. It's not to be questioned. I never truly understood why unless the fact that we are living under a patriarchy? Yet that never stopped my subconscious to be feeling the ghosts of his fingers and how they can be my salvation, I know it in a deep intricate way. It's a soul connection, it's a pretty sight, it's more and it's getting difficult to speak about it without sounding like a poetess from the 1700s or Maria Callas.

The song that instantly stood out to me in this album is Who's Afraid of Little Old Me? and every verse, oh my.

So tell me everything is not about me But what if it is? Then say they didn't do it to hurt me But what if they did?

Each time someone did hurt me, they somehow always end up using that line "everything is not about you" but what if it is, in the most heart-wrenching way? Some of us just are in the spotlight for whatever reason, and it is truly not up to us to change the intensity of the lightning. It's shameful to make us wear that burden. So yes, it is about me, it always was, and now, you want me to go away? Once you get that, there's nothing to fight for anymore.

"Who's afraid of little old me?" I was tame, I was gentle 'til the circus life made me mean

It's a thing that I feel in my heart of my heart. I don't wish anyone wrong but I have to fight back so many times, in the end they have to own the fact they made me this monster they judge. I won't let you get away with it. It's not bitter, this is justice. It's too easy for them to just break my heart time after time and then to come back as if I was what I acting the way I was for no reason. No, no, no.

You wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me So all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs I'm always drunk on my own tears, isn't that what they all said?

These lines hit a little too close. I always cry in silence when I'm bleeding, figuratively or not, or/and when i cry out of pure rage they look at me as if it was a fucking play. Slurring "she's crying, playing the victim, begging to be the center of attention" and I can't help but feel theirs arrows piercing my skin once more.

Who's afraid of little old me? Well, you should be.

I have been doing multiples therapies, and I always feel stuck with the concept of forgiveness. Maybe it's so hard for me to forgive others because I have never been forgiven. My insecurities make it hard for me to really know, but all I can say is that I don't want to forgive someone who's done me dirty and who will again. Fuck you.

The Prophecy is so beautiful. Sad, sorrowful and yet filled with the purest of light. You can't help but project yourself your very own prophecy. I know mine, I know mine. And how many times did I wish to change it for the curse of my strength to dim a little.

Gathered with a coven round a sorceress' table A greater woman has faith But even statues crumble if they're made to wait I'm so afraid I sealed my fate

That faith, we're taught about in churches or any temples you'll grow with, a greater woman must have it but what comes when you can't find it? And I waited and waited and waited. I used to be afraid that I might have become the statue instead of finding the one that will make me believe in the magic of the universe.

Hand on the throttle Thought I caught lightning in a bottle Oh, but it's gone again And it was written I got cursed like Eve got bitten Oh, was it punishment?

The feminist subtext is powerful. Why is it always a woman who sins before a man could ever think of it? Silly. You think you wrapped your mind around the truth, and no, it's gone again. Pardon me sir, we are sinners, this is why we can't access to that holy view. Unless we are virgin and pure, obviously. Obviously.

I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope A greater woman wouldn't beg But I looked to the sky and said Please.

The in-between. Neither a sinner, neither the saint. Too much yet not enough. Begging is the last straw but it is human. My Cancer Moon understands that ; it is in my 9th house in my chart which the house of philosophy and wisdom. So when any sort of strong kind of emotion penetrates me, I tend to interpret it as the truth. I fight very often that idea, because it feels as if I would go mad if I do. I try to rely on others things than my emotions, but my instinct and my truth are often screaming in pairs. Please.

Down Bad is another song that hits the right spot. It caught me right on time on the already iconic "fuck it if i can't have him" because there is nothing more to say after that. Fuck it, really.

All your indecent exposures How dare you say that it's— I'll build you a fort on some planet Where they can all understand it

I think strongly that when you're in love, you don't have and don't want to anyway, justify this love to anyone but your lover (eventually). It's a sort of bonding that have been depicted, sung, written about and played, yet, when it happens to you, it feels like the very first time in the whole universe.

Tell me I was the chosen one Showed me that this world is bigger than us Then sent me back where I came from

Loneliness. So many things in the world are lonely, and love should not be one of them. Gods, could you believe that I have never been in love? I'm scaring myself. Imagine when I will be. I'm too intense.

The beats of I Can Fix Him (I Really Can) are so sexy. I felt the drums under my skin and it made insert myself into the story.

His hand so calloused from his pistol Softly traces hearts on my face

The perfect opposition, fantasy that a tough man can soften for you when he caresses your face. For some reason, I linked this to Wildest Dreams because if you know he's bad, you still want him in that golden age romantic scenario.

He had a halo of the highest grade He just hadn't met me yet

To be honest, this probably the trope that I dislike the most. The whole "let me heal him, he's bad but he will be good". If I take him bad then I don't want him to change. But I absolutely sunk into the whole vibe, the whole "what if" that I never let myself indulge in.

TTPD is about all the heartbreaks which we went through, and also the ones ahead of us. There's beauty in what is wrecked. There is truth into our secrets fantasy. There's nothing fair in being hurt for free. There's no forgiveness and yet there is healing. When you write your own story, you take back the narrative, and it doesn't have to be pretty or soft or fucking fun. It's your story and it is the greatest power of any poet or writer. You take back your power and you close the bloody seal, for now at least.

And also, let's speak about My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys because it is so sad how well Taylor spells what feeling used is like. How when they have what they want, they throw you away. So easily.

Cause he took me out of my box Stole my tortured heart Left all these broken parts Told me I'm better off But I'm not

Sometimes people eviscerate you so well that you seem to be empty after the affair. It can be a clean cut, or a messier one, but once what they took or worse, what I gave, is gone, it feels like the world is over for real. Nobody really stole my heart, but I gave it a time or two, and when they leave you empty handed, it's so ugly.

Once I fix me, he's gonna miss me Once I fix me, he's gonna miss me

Ain't that the only road to be headed on? When you try by all measures to fix yourself and when they can't grab drink your soul or eat your heart anymore, it's over. The utopian desire that this man was healing too as you are healing yourself, but if he's not? He will miss me. For sure he will. Of course he will.

I am a creative, a burning sparkling little thing, and how could you I not realize sooner that my whole life is rooted in feelings? I have been so tough on myself. Listening to TTPD is the kind of process that reminds you that it's not only you that take all these invisible bullets. We all someway do. To be able to write about is freeing. This is the only act of letting go that I know.

am i allowed to cry ?

All these emotions, made up scenarios, really love stories, the laugh of your past lovers and the mistakes done in the middle, they are the beauty of the joy and despair you can find in The Tortured Poets Department. And more.

Thank you @taylorswift for making me shine, sing, cry, heal, and for inspiring me to write my own little stories as well. They wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where I've been raised neither. I'm inspired forever. Thank you for reading if you did. Until then. xx

-Audrey

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bettsfic · 2 years ago

Text

craft essay a day #6

a good craft essay is hard to find.

(this one is less a summary as it is me using the essay as an example of a specific craft term i like to teach.)

"The King of the Birds" by Flannery O'Connor, Mystery and Manners

beginner | intermediate | advanced | masterclass

filed under: cnf, prompts, objective correlative/magical objects

content warning for discussions of cancer, death, and abuse.

summary & my thoughts

this one is not actually a craft essay, but i didn't know that until i read it, and it's in a craft book, and i've got some Thoughts, so here we go.

Mystery and Manners is Flannery O'Connor's book of collected essays and lectures. i've taught some of these essays in intro to cw, not because i agree with them, but because i disagree with them, and generally like students to disagree with them also, to introduce what it means to have a dialogue with what you're reading. to be an active participant in what you're reading and not a passive recipient of it.

don't get me wrong; i love Flannery O'Connor. my thesis was largely inspired by her. her short stories are some of my favorites ever written. but, uh. she's got some bad writing opinions. generally speaking, the better the writer, the worse the teacher, and vice versa. O'Connor is a great writer and iirc was never really a teacher, only a guest speaker/visiting writer, and so we cannot really judge her on the sanctity of her pedagogy. no matter how infuriating i sometimes find it, i do try to listen to bad writing opinions, because they better inform my own (awesome and totally correct) opinions. hence the point of teaching O'Connor's essays.

this book starts off with a relatively dry foreword in which the editors admit they had a heck of a time putting the thing together. a very similar foreword exists in O'Connor's complete story collection. apparently, O'Connor had hundreds of manuscripts of essays and lectures, many with overlapping content, and so the editors had to face whether they wanted to publish all of the content, redundancies included, or none of it.

they decided, thankfully and with the permission of the estate, to do some cutting and pasting to pare out the redundant information and still try to get a complete recording of O'Connor's essays.

the first essay is not about writing. it's about peacocks.

"The peacock I had bought had nothing whatsoever in the way of a tail, but he carried himself as if he not only had a train behind him but a retinue to attend it."

because this is not a craft essay, i'm going to use it as an example of a craft concept: the objective correlative.

The objective correlative was coined by T.S. Eliot in 1919. He defined it as "a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion." this concept is more relevant to poetry, and more of an analytical tool than a craft tool, and honestly i probably take the term too literally for what it actually is (and potentially flatten it in the process [sorry, poets]), but i use it as a prompt in a lesson plan i call "magical objects."

for this class, i host show & tell. yes, show & tell, from kindergarten. one thing i've learned about teaching college is that college students--being overworked, underpaid, and blasted with constant brain-changing information--generally love elementary school activities. they also love talking about themselves, which is great considering i am a better listener than i am a speaker.

so i have everyone bring in an object that holds meaning for them, and we go around the room and talk about what the thing is, how it was acquired, its history and why it's important to them. (i also bring something, usually my dad's briefcase, and tell the story of how my dad taught me how to nail job interviews because he himself had so many of them, and quit the jobs almost as soon as he got them.)

my favorite thing is when students forget to bring something, and they have to take a turn anyway, at which point they pull out a highlighter or their shoe or something and have to wing a response. (and they get credit for it, because they're still being creative thinking things up on the fly, and being creative is the point of the class.)

the second half of the class is freewriting time. i ask them to write their magical object as an objective correlative. the goal is to tell the story of the object to invoke a particular emotion. for example, the story of my dad's briefcase, for me, invokes an emotion i can't otherwise define: the bizarre grief-regret-empathy-anger of losing someone close to you, who treated you poorly and neglected your needs and whom you loved anyway, and miss.

a simpler example is bringing in an old video game, and conjuring childhood nostalgia. or a piece of jewelry your partner bought you on your anniversary, and conjuring love.

students are often confused by this. i tell them not to think too hard about it. write about the object and the emotion will naturally come with it, because the object itself holds meaning. describe what the object looks like, how you acquired it, and memories that involve it. for example, i have a memory of being maybe four or five, and i was playing with the combination locking mechanism on my dad's briefcase, and he went, "what are you doing? i don't know the combination! i'll never be able to open it again!"

naturally i burst into tears. my dad laughed, and apologized, and told me he was just kidding. the combination was 000 because he hadn't changed it from when he bought it and didn't know how.

when i took the briefcase after he died, it had in it old road maps, a clipboard with a legal pad on it and a coffee stain on the legal pad, a union dues register, and some kind of millwright apprenticeship licensure.

it's worth noting that working at a steel mill in the 70s is what gave him cancer 35 years later.

i've spent hours inspecting the road maps. he had routes highlighted all through ohio, indiana, and kentucky. after being a millwright, he was a salesman, and he sold truck beds, apparently driving all over to do so. he was a great salesman but a bad employee. he couldn't stand having a boss, and tended to quit jobs the second anyone tried to tell him what to do. this trait always annoyed me--why couldn't he just buckle down and deal with it, so we could eat more than campbell's soup and toast? and yet, here i am twenty years later in the exact same boat, genetically predisposed to finding authority of any kind unbearable, quitting everything because of it, and wondering how the hell i'm going to keep making enough money to live. i wish i could say i have new sympathy for him, but i don't. it's a trait i hated in him; it's a trait i hate in me. it's something i had to accept then, and continue having to accept now.

that was one objective correlative. now back to the other: peacocks.

i felt this essay was a great example of the objective correlative because as i was reading it, i had absolutely no idea why it existed or what i was supposed to get out of it. it's written factually, in some parts like a research paper, describing the behavior and needs of peacocks, but the only evidence or citation is O'Connor's personal experience.

and yet, i was still feeling something as i was reading it. some undercurrent that elevated it from "Flannery O'Connor talking about peacocks" to an essay, a creative work with artistic merit.

"Those [peacocks] that withstand illnesses and predators (the hawk, the fox, and the opossum) over the winter seem impossible to destroy, except by violence."

what i get out of this essay, given the context of its placement in a book on the craft of writing, is another example of the obsessive tendencies of writers. i'm reminded of a lecture i attended during which Jamaica Kincaid spoke for an hour in intimate detail about her garden. she showed us pictures and went over each individual plant. i enjoyed it, even though it took me a while to figure out what she was saying.

that too was an objective correlative. what she was trying to invoke, and which she made clear at the end, is that a writer cannot only write. a writer must have something to write about. and so a writer must be obsessive, and love something so much they can speak to it in myopic detail. an object of fixation, a magical object, must always anchor the work.

craft essay a day tag | cross-posted on AO3 | ask me something

#cead #magical objects #prompts #note that if you write fanfic #canon is your magical object

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claire-de-lune-poetry · 4 years ago

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The judges & counsel-

Im aware im weak and farther off

Painfully so more than most

Which is probably a big reason i cant

Seem to work the courage to physically escape

Heaven forbid i try to deal with this in my way

I suppose you think higher thoughts

For youre much better off

Keeping all suspecting nobodies at bay

Yet i dont even know your name

But im judged by you just the same

My show of vulnerability was an expression

An outlet for myself encouraged

By someone i looked up to

So here i am raw being told its a fallacy

Thinking what the fucks the point in humility

When most are all the same

Most just play stupid fucking games

Talking indirectly and im the coward?

If it bothers you so

Please feel free to not react

Or is that something you cant control..

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hownottopoetry · 6 years ago

Text

Realization

I never realized how dead I felt

Before I saw the ground a hundred feet below

And I realized maybe life just isn't for me

~AL

#poetry #poetic #slam poem #why #poets on tumblr #deppression #bad poetry #poem #depressing things #my poem #suicide #death #im dead #dead inside #why am i like this #city life #don't judge me

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dreamiesdotcom · 4 years ago

Text

shooting star | n.jm

Summary: You take a pen, resting your cheeks on your palms as you lazily think of words to write — now and then, you lock gazes with Jaemin and you pretend that the red in your cheeks is just of the cold.

Word Count : 3.9k

The rooftop is big, but it feels a little crowded.

The addition of people is not bad, you think, especially since those people make your friends happy. By tradition, you welcome the New Year in this rooftop, playing music and games just like the other days but this time, with more food and... well, New Year stuff — fireworks, things to make noise with. The addition of people is not bad. If you're observant enough, it can even be entertaining.

As an example, if you look close enough, you'll see that Renjun and Jisung have been just friends for too long. That, in the sense of Renjun watching Jisung playfully ride the beat, a smile that tips over the line of finding his carelessness unbearable in a growing-more-in-love kind of way.

He looks lost, maybe even intoxicated in the other's laughter, admiring the way Jeno can make his best friend easily drop his shyness. Renjun looks like he wants to know how. If you look close enough, you'll see the regretful heart behind his faux scowl.

Renjun looks at Jeno and Jisung with longing, the kind you're familiar with. He turns to you, and you avert your gaze a little too late because he's giggling as he walks over to your direction.

"So, you saw me, huh?" He asks, handing you a glass of whatever drink he first laid his hands on, no 'happy new year' or any appropriate first greeting. He leans against the railings and sighs wistfully, "Look, do you ever just fall in love with your best friend's boyfriend?"

"Out of random?"

"You don't fall for people at random." Bewilderment crosses his face, and he turns to you the same time you look at him. You shrug, and he arches a brow, "You let that build up and wait for it to destroy you."

You let that build up — the words echo inside your head as you break eye contact. Right across, Donghyuck pulls away from hugging Jaemin with a bright smile, handing him a gift. Jaemin sets it down, and probably feels your gaze on him because he looks up and beams at you. Red flushes your cheeks. — and wait for it to destroy you.

"Toast to that, I guess," you smile, watching him pretend to judge you and fail. Chenle calls out his name for a picture before they set up the fireworks, and before Renjun detaches himself from you, he bumps the rim of his glass to yours. You sigh.

"To the love we wished deserved and didn't."

Shock engulfs his features, then he laughs and he repeats the words before he leaves. The sudden lack of company feels a little cold.

You look at the candle one of them randomly lit, looking at it in stupor before picking it up. The wax trickles and scorches your skin, but you don't wince like you probably would any other feeling day. You hold onto it firmly until its golden glow is close enough to your hands, warm enough that you could pretend it's about to set you on fire.

All so suddenly Jaemin is beside you, blowing off the flame. You watch at him in question until he smiles.

"That'll burn."

"That's alright," you fake a laugh. "I want for a lot of things to burn."

###

It all starts on a Wednesday, a fine afternoon spent sitting at a cafe, waiting for Donghyuck. Your notebook remains open at your side, empty and waiting to be filled with unabashed emotions. The past eight months were spent uninspired, and you decided to look around the place in search of something — maybe the vintage items, the ivory wallpapers, the beautiful chairs — anything.

Something comes in the form of nervous eyes and flushed cheeks, a boy sitting at the far right of the place. He sits alone, fingers tapping on the table, sunlight grazing his skin. You almost hated how cliche everything had been — a boy, an uninspired poet, hands that so desperately itch to write about faded pink hair and a lost angel.

Your gazes meet, and everything unfolds way too softly for it to not be love at first sight.

At that moment, you knew nothing that good should be real. At that moment, you knew nothing that good could be yours.

You were right.

Donghyuck comes in, and he waves at you excitedly before furrowing his brows. Your best friend had always been adorably one of a kind, but none of his weirdness could have prepared you for when he walks straight to the boy's table, and you were almost certain he caught you two staring at each other and is waiting to set you two up, until he's walking back to your table with the brightest grin, the boy beside him.

Their hands entwined.

"He's my boyfriend!" He squeals, "Oh hell, should've said his name first. He's Jaemin, and he's my boyfriend."

"Oh..." you nodded, hands subtly moving to close your notebook. "Uh. Hi."

They both stand in silence before they start cracking up, inevitably making you smile. You excuse your awkwardness, and Donghyuck introduces you two again, and you shake hands this time. You pretend you don't feel shivers run down your spine.

The day passed in blurs of sugar smiles, a love story, a dull throb in your heart. The poetry being written in your head never got finished.

###

The first time you realize it, the world seems to forget you were even born, Donghyuck's across the world with his parents, and solitude is eating you alive. You find yourself stumbling back to the same rooftop, plucking rose petals with a sad face.

It's probably petty — honestly, it is, but it's not just that. It's not that you wanted gifts, or you wanted attention; you wanted to just feel special, to know that someone is glad that once upon a time on this very day, you were born. To belong. To feel wanted. To be told "Happy Birthday" because you are important and should be celebrated.

And maybe it's also because you grew used to it, waking up to several different ways of saying 'Happy Birthday'. Maybe you were used to midnight greetings, to people forcing you out of bed at 6 am, to eating breakfast and lunch and dinner together. Your home had been so empty and to have your friends fill that gap even just for a day is something you look forward to every year — the mournful feeling is there again.

8 pm glares at you on your lock screen, and it reminds you that you can't do any of that now. You tip your head back and let your back hit the floor. Maybe if you look hard enough, you'll see a shooting star and it'll give you a little something.

"What're you doing?"

You look up, surprised but not alarmed. Jaemin's soft smile greets your sight.

"I'm laying down and waiting for a comet to strike me."

The sound of his camera constantly breaks the static, and you realize that he'd been taking pictures of the nightlife. He makes a noise that tells you he isn't convinced with your answer, but you don't entertain him anymore. You just watch him take as many polaroids as he can, and you laugh because suddenly, the only thoughts in your mind becomes 'pretty, pretty, pretty'.

You force a laugh, "It's my birthday."

"Is today your birthday!? Nobody told me!"

"It's not important. I mean, who celebrates birthdays these days, righ— Hey!" The familiar snap sounds again and you stand up from where you're laying down, ready to hit him, but then he gives you the film. You look at his hands and back up, "What's this?"

"My gift." He shrugs as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. You take the picture from his hands, hesitant but relieved that it seemed to look nice, anyway. Jaemin smiles, "It's the image of an angel."

The world stops.

It's ridiculous and cheesy, even he knew that; the two of you laugh uncontrollably. It wasn't the kind of laughter that fades after a minute, but rather the kind that stops for a while only to start up again. The sound grows louder with each passing moment, and your eyes meet, but you don't stop until you both become embarrassed enough to blush; neither of you look away.

Maybe you are in love.

Maybe you are in love, and maybe he is too — except this time, it's not with Donghyuck, who it should be.

###

"It's you I meet again," Jaemin chimes. "What's up, buttercup? What are you doing here, a coffee shop, at 3 am?"

You look around the cafe, the tables empty. You briefly wonder about when Jaemin started working here before you realize you're unnecessarily curious. You press your lips into a thin line, looking for someone.

"I'd like to assume you already know." Your forehead creased when you noticed the unusual absence, "Where's my favorite boy?"

"Am I not your favorite boy?"

Jaemin pouts, and heaven, how it made your heart skip. You blink, spending the moment in silence, waiting for him to give up. "You are, indeed, not my favorite boy," You smile sweetly. "Where's Renjun?"

"I'm here because he's not. Do I seem like I work here? I was drinking coffee before he passed me an apron and left."

You roll your eyes, a poor attempt at keeping in the words of agreement — you kind of do, you look pretty, I could write so much about you — and you pretend to want nothing but get your drink. It takes an eternity before he lets you go, but once he does, you get comfortable on a table and whip out your notebook.

You look down on the first page, tracing the neatly written words — a confession if anybody who knows you gets to read it. A confession more than a dedication.

To the boy I shouldn't have loved.

The very same shooting star who gifted me a lifetime of heartbreak.

You heave a heavy sigh. You take a pen, resting your cheeks on your palms as you lazily think of words to write — now and then, you lock gazes with Jaemin and you pretend that the red in your cheeks is just of the cold. From that moment, every word you write is either about lights so bright you don't forget how beautiful he was under them, or something so strong it erases every trace of him from your system.

Jaemin leaves the counter and takes the chair across you. You look at him in confusion.

"I don't think you can do that?"

"I just did so I suppose, I can definitely do that." He smiles brightly. "So, what're we doing?"

You eye your notebook before quickly closing it, and then your half-finished cup of coffee. It's still dark outside with only some cars and people passing by, none of them interested in coming inside the cozy place. You say something about just being about to leave, and you look at him as if to say whatever's inside your head. Then, you stand up and walk away.

"Stay," he whispers, light enough that you'd think you weren't supposed to hear.

You swallow the lump in your throat when you feel his hand wrap around your wrist, cold against warm, and you don't have to look at his face to know of the begging stare he has directed for you at the moment. You try to look away but you feel weak, so weak that you could only manage a thin, shivering voice.

"Let me go."

"I can't."

Then don't, the voice in your head whispers, the selfish one; the greedy one, the desperate one. In reality, you close your eyes and tug your hands back because what's wrong is wrong, and what's wrong can never be right.

###

The rain clouds come one of the many times Jaemin asks for you to accompany him, and the storm looms darker above you with each genuine 'yes'.

The way this set up started had been pretty simple — hanging out together as friends, getting closer for Donghyuck's comfort; best friend-boyfriend bonding as he called it. For a while, it was everything. It's just your best friend trying to get you to trust his boyfriend, getting to know each other, and that's all — that's the truth.

It was friendship until it wasn't, and that was the truth until it was not anymore.

The night was peaceful so you didn't expect anything to go wrong, but expectations aren't always accurate. The sea looks calm, the moon brighter than all the other days. Jaemin's playing a somber song, something magical that just fits right for him and bittersweet love. His eyelashes flutter in a way gentle enough to drive you crazy, his perfume mingling with the cold night sea breeze, and it's too much that it drives you insane.

"What's wrong?" He asks as if he already knows the answer. "You're not telling me something."

It's been three months and a year since you and Jaemin started hanging out alone, and the swirling guilt in your gut is unnecessary because you're not even doing anything wrong.

It's the fleeting moments, you think, those lingering touches whenever you try to take from him the keys — "I'll drive," you'd whisper when you see yet again that look. Jaemin would smile, "What, scared I'll crash? I'm not stupid." — and when he doesn't give them, you sigh heavily with a hopeful look in your eyes. "Where to?" You'd ask even if you didn't care, and he would let himself forget the world as he opens the door for you, whispering words only a dreamer would say: "Stars."

And maybe it's where everything goes wrong. He shouldn't dream much for hopeless cases.

"Hey, shooting star," you call. He arches a brow at the nickname, but you ignore him. "Do you love me?"

"Would you hate me if I do?"

"You're dating my best friend, so of course, fuck you." You chuckle, shaking your head. "I hate myself more, so don't take it personally."

You meet his gaze, and the world shifts yet again just like at that moment in the coffee shop — angel boy, uninspired poet. He looked at you the same way he did weeks ago at the New Year's Party, that in the way his eyes are saying so many words for him to not be in love with you. Except now, he's much closer. Except now, in the confinements of his car, nobody to witness but the sea and the stars, he's leaning in and his breath is tickling your skin.

Except now, he's about to kiss you and you're not stopping him.

I can't, the rational part of you whispered. You say that you can't, but you're almost always on the edge of something and you're brave enough to consider through the guilt; you hate to admit it but that's the truth. You say that you can't, but at the same time, you don't draw yourself away from him — why?

Because in each and every one of this I can't's is the nasty truth that reads I want to.

You look at the water, and you chase your thoughts out with a dive. Jaemin's lips are still hovering above yours, and maybe if you weren't so numb you'd feel his heartbeat. You want to tear away, you want to run home and make a call and cry a litany of apologies. You want so much. You want so much, but what you want the most at the moment is for him to do what you can't and just kiss you already — you'd rather break yourself than not have this.

You close your eyes and decide that whatever will come tomorrow is something you deserve. You'll break your heart and ruin your world just for a kiss, and he'll leave — but you'll know that for a while he loved you and everything else is forgotten. You choose him and you forget all the consequences.

Just for once, just tonight. Just right now you'll let yourself indulge. Just this time he can have everything.

Right before your lips crash, you catch yourself and swim.

"Would you give me what I want, because you love me?"

Your words come out raspy, your eyes glistening with tears. Jaemin smiles in a manner just as heartbreaking, "What do you want?"

Not him — dear moon, I want him so bad, but I can't — definitely not him.

"I want fire so hot it burns away all the bad thoughts in my head." You suppress a sob as you move away, leaning back on the seat, clutching the fabric of your clothes as if to search for any semblance of sanity. "I want light so bright I forget you."

"What… what?"

You look at him with pure misery, "I think we should stop seeing each other."

Jaemin doesn't reply, but he starts up the car and makes a turn. You close your eyes hoping that everything could just be washed away by the rain, and you don't look at him for the rest of the drive.

###

Never in your life did you even think of living life without your best friend. That just can't happen, and so, why give it a thought, right? You're with him all the time, and he's been there since you can remember, and it wouldn't make sense if one day you wake up and he's all too suddenly not there anymore. You're certain that he's not going anywhere, and even if you're unsure of what the future holds, you aren't so worried.

If you knew, maybe you should have been.

"Hyuck?"

"Are you gonna remind me of the time I almost drowned and you told me you'll kill me if I die?"

"I'm leaving."

The traces of his previous chuckles disappear, and it seems like a movie scene with the way yours bloom tragically as you watch colored lights reflect on his skin. Then, as if sunrise, a slow smile etches on his face. A brief moment of regret and pain crosses his eyes before love overtakes it.

"You don't have to." He murmurs, sight still cast at the sea. Both his hands are tucked in his pockets in such a leisure way, and then he casually peers at you, "You don't have to leave because I'm not mad."

The sea makes the wind blowing even colder, and suddenly, the docks that used to warm you with sunlight feels cold as snow.

He knows... of course, he knows. Donghyuck saw your iridescence from every side and he knew how everything looked by heart; of course, he knew, he's your best friend, after all. Oh, how evil you are. How evil you are for loving the boy who belongs with him. How evil you are that even after that, Donghyuck reaches for your hands and you let him hold you; you let him smile at you sweetly, you let him calm you still.

"How can I even get mad at you? I love you more than anything in this world," he chuckles, and it breaks your heart. "You're my best friend and I'll give Jaemin up if I have to, if that will make you happy."

If that will make you happy... if it will make me happy... why did I do that to you, love? How did I manage to... oh, sweet heavens.

"You're all I need forever," you answer weakly, breathless and breathing all the same in his hug. It's your way of saying no, absolutely no, your sadness would never make me happy. You thank the high heavens that he couldn't see your face and the pain in it when you whisper, "But at the moment, this is what I need. Distance."

The first tear falls from Donghyuck's eyes, and the sudden drizzle of rain washes it off him. You look up to him and see longing, wondering just why it had to be this way, almost begging you you stay. He looked like he's about to send the world away if it meant that you won't have to leave, but the truth burns down to your determination, that he always admired: you have made your mind and there's no stopping you. You know what is best for yourself, and Donghyuck trusts you.

Set yourself free, Donghyuck whispers before he walks home. After that, please come back to me.

###

When you meet Jaemin ten hours before you leave, he's standing at the very same place Donghyuck was the day before. He's wearing a similar jacket, standing in a similar manner, looking just as beautiful against the water. The only thoughts running inside your head is how perfect they are.

"Jaemin."

Not even 'shooting star' anymore.

He turns at the call of his name, and you're still standing on both of your feet, but it feels like diving deep. His skin reflects the very same lights Donghyuck's did, but it looked kind of different — be it red or yellow, white or the shadows; everything looked midnight blue. It feels like standing on a cliff and almost tipping over, eternally almost tipping over and falling into blue nothingness.

Jaemin smiles, not happy but breaking. It makes you hold your breath.

He laughs, "Don't break my heart."

"In the next life." Because it's all that you could have. You return his smile, "I hope I deserve you in the next life."

His laughter rings in your ear, but it doesn't make you laugh at all; instead, it makes you want to sob or scream or just hurt, yet again, to savor the pain because he doesn't want you to but it's all he could give. It feels claustrophobic to align in a way that's everything meeting with your soulmate should be, with someone who's not your soulmate. Or you are indeed soulmates, but not the ones destined to be together like that. Just two wholes that compliment each other but are meant to be torn apart.

"I just said don't break my heart, what did you do?" He tries to crack a joke, walking the last step to be closer to you. He tilts his head in that charming way, "Why did I fall in love with you?"

"Hey, Jaem... you're not. Forget that. Love him." You shake your head, fixing the collar of his shirt, an excuse for one last guiltless touch. Your voice breaks, "He's my best friend. I love him more than the world."

And just as he is to me, I would rather let you go and make him happy, you smiled at yourself. I'd rather you make each other happy.

"I know." he croaks out, a fragile smile on his face. "In the next life?"

You try to imagine a life where Jaemin isn't haunting your thoughts; you can't. For a moment, you fear meeting someone else and not being able to love them because they're not him. You fear that they'd be kinder, softer, gentler than Jaemin and you won't be able to love them back because oh, Jaemin was just right; he was too much but in a way where it's just enough — Jaemin who looks at you like you hold galaxies, Jaemin who would risk the world, Jaemin who is with your best friend. The doomed play goes on and you think again of a life where he isn't what you desperately love, and realize that indeed, hopefully, in the next life.

In the next life, because this love feels right but it's not. In the next life, because it's painful but you'll love him still again and again and again until your stars finally agree.

"In the next life." You nod, fingers clenching on the straps of your bag. You look at the ocean ahead of you, and the lights it reflects, and then you close your eyes as you feel the wind.

"Until then, shooting star."

—

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